Twenty-six years ago my father celebrated St. Patrick’s Day at a dinner and party hosted by the local women’s club in the little town where I grew up, Pewee Valley. My mother had died, after an extended illness, just two months before, in January of that year. Mom’s college sorority sister and our family friend, Betty Stoess called Dad and invited him to that community event. Betty likely saw it as a good opportunity to get Dad out and around old friends for an evening of fun. I’m sure that when she called, she made her invitation sound to Dad like he would be doing her the favor. Betty’s husband, Clayton, could not go and she had two tickets that shouldn’t go to waste. Small places are often like that, with people looking out for each other, and Betty Stoess had certainly been a perfect example of that kind of hospitality in our community. In my family, just the mention of the name Betty Stoess evokes images of casseroles (called “hot dishes” by my North Dakota in-laws). This was because Betty always kept us supplied with various casseroles during my mother’s illnesses over the years.
I imagine that my father was looking forward to this outing. He would have known everyone in attendance, as my parents had lived in and been active volunteers in this little community for many years. I suspect that he searched through his closet to find something green to wear and I know that wore a special St. Patrick’s Day button pinned to his shirt pocket that night. Later, that button would be the topic of much discussion, speculation and wonderment.
The Pewee Valley Women’s Club “clubhouse” and meeting place was small stone building on the north side of the railroad tracks. Originally the building was a bank and if you saw it you wouldn’t be surprised at that, because it looks like a bank, solid and strong, with an entrance framed by white columns. My mother had been a member of this club for many years. I remember the year she was appointed or elected vice president of foreign affairs, largely because of the fact that she had taken me on a whirlwind tour of Europe the previous year. There weren’t many “world travelers” back then in our little town. I can’t imagine what that position was supposed to encompass, but it brought her much amusement, as she joked about her “important” role as the foreign affairs (wink, wink) officer for the club.
Anyway, that evening would be my father’s last evening, because sometime that night, after returning from the party, he died at home and alone. He was 57 years old. And, although my siblings and I would have given anything for more time with him, I think we would all agree that it seemed fitting that he spent his last evening in the way that he did, surround by the community, which he loved.
Science, medicine, and the death certificate would tell you that my father died of congestive heart failure, a deteriorating condition that he’d had for several years. His heart was weak, causing fluid built up in his lungs, eventually leading to death. But everyone who knew him believed with certainty that was not the reason he died. Some truths are like that; they go against logic, science and reason. If you ask anyone who knew my father, they would likely tell you that he died of a broken heart. It is a phrase we have heard before and you might wonder if it is a mythical concept. An extensive scientific study from Finland tells us that it isn’t a myth. That study showed that those most vulnerable to die, after the death of a spouse, were men, under the age of 65, whose spouse had died during the previous six months. My father fit the profile completely. He had been married to my mother for 35 years and they had known each other since their high school days. I can’t say that my parents had a flawless marriage, if such a thing exists. They had their difficult moments, misunderstandings, and occasional fights. But, anyone who knew them had no doubts that they were completely devoted to each other. Their bond went far beyond the surface, and had that kind of deepness that others sense but can’t really describe.
A few days before that St. Patrick’s Day my father sent me a funny St. Patty’s Day card. He had tucked into the card a small white piece of note paper with letters “YDLY” written in the center, an acronym he used that stood for “your daddy loves you.” I still have that card and the piece of note paper. I also have the button that he wore to the St. Patrick’s party that night, the one that caused such an interest following his death. Many had laughed about it at the party that night and all would remember it afterward. The button has a cartoonish picture of a dancing leprechaun and says simply, “March the 17th, Rest the 18th.” He did just that. And somehow I know that my mother was there to take his hand as he moved from one realm to the next, another of my “unscientific” but certain “truths” that gives me great comfort.
-Mary
See: “Mortality after the Death of a Spouse: Rates and Causes of Death in a Large Finnish Cohort”, Pekka Martikainen and Tapani Valkonen. American Journal of Public Health, August 1996, Vol. 86, No.8
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