Day 9 - January 28
Another dialysis day, but thinking back…
Last of twelve children, the baby of the family, father probably enjoyed a good place in line waiting for his mother’s potato pancakes. As she fried them atop her wood burning stove the children held their plates in line. Once served at the stove, each one walked back to the end of the line again, eating along the way. Grandma Gretz could not make the "Placki" fast enough for anyone to ever get to the table.
Grandmother's first husband, her first love and love of her life, was carted to her front porch in a wheelbarrow one morning. His surviving fellow coal miners made the delivery after the mine incident that day. His two oldest brothers quit school and went to work in the mines to help the family. In addition to the injustices of incredibly painful working conditions, they suffered at work under the cruelty of her second husband, father’s father—unfortunately, a ne’er-do-well who drank too much.
Grandmother rose early each day, donned her babushka which hung on a hook against the stairway wall, walked through the dining room into the kitchen, and began her work. She did not rest until late into the evening, rocking next to the wood stove, sometimes reading her Bible for a few precious minutes. Along with her children, she raised the vegetables and grapes in her garden, their cow, and their chickens. She sent the brothers and sisters into the hills to gather whatever fruit or berry was in season. Upon return, they sold their pickings in town. In the Christmas season they cut down trees.
The local general store owner always saved crumbs and broken pieces from the bottom of his huge cookie barrels, for the Gretz kids. Father’s all-time favorite treat was taking a handful of broken cookies through the door behind the wood stove, downstairs into the dark, cool cellar where they stored bottles of milk from their cow. He knelt on the hard floor and dipped cookie fragments into layers of fresh cream along the top of each bottle.
After grandmother died, Aunt Julia stayed on in the family home. Whenever I make quick decisions or scurry swiftly through my tasks at hand, father says, “You are just like your Aunt Julia.” I imagine, as one of the older sisters, she learned to take matters into her own hands many times as she helped grandmother care for her younger siblings.
When father decided to say yes to dialysis last year, I went into “Aunt Julia” mode. I was determined to find drivers to take father into the city and bring him home again, three days a week, forever! In addition, I was going to manage all of it from Chicago. I began calling his friends. Many wanted to help. As I filled one month on the calendar with names in the Monday, Wednesday and Friday squares, I realized that month number two was getting a little trickier. But, like Julia I’m sure, I bull-dozed ahead, kept calling and almost filled up month two. Month three loomed before me…and four, and five, and six…and of course I needed back-ups for the times when one couldn't do it…I mailed them all my phone numbers in Chicago…
…when, in walked Tine! A friend of father’s, she saw my attempts and offered, “Would you like me to do that? You can’t possibly manage this from Chicago. I’d be willing to take care of your father’s schedule for you.” And she did.
One week in January before I arrived from Chicago, in the middle of a dialysis session father began to crave ice cream. Though high in phosphorus, the nurse practitioner cleared his request, supplying an absorption inhibitor. He asked his friend who drove him that day, “Randy, do you think you could go and get some ice cream for me?” Randy returned with a pint of Haagen-Dazs Butter Pecan.
When father called me that night, he was giddy with the memory, “Cher, something came over me and I couldn't stop eating it. It was so delicious I had to keep taking mouthful after mouthful. My lips were numb. I ate the whole thing! It was the best treat.”
I will forever be grateful for Tine and her husband’s faithful gift, along with the gifts of each driver who walked father down the stairs, loaded his gear into their cars, drove the thirty minute route, set him up at dialysis, and many times stayed with him or returned four hours later to befriend him on the uncomfortable ride back home.
Three times a week for a year, he enjoyed the company of his friends--his brothers and sisters now.
He shared his thoughts and stories as they journeyed, in this line, by his side.
Last of twelve children, the baby of the family, father probably enjoyed a good place in line waiting for his mother’s potato pancakes. As she fried them atop her wood burning stove the children held their plates in line. Once served at the stove, each one walked back to the end of the line again, eating along the way. Grandma Gretz could not make the "Placki" fast enough for anyone to ever get to the table.
Grandmother's first husband, her first love and love of her life, was carted to her front porch in a wheelbarrow one morning. His surviving fellow coal miners made the delivery after the mine incident that day. His two oldest brothers quit school and went to work in the mines to help the family. In addition to the injustices of incredibly painful working conditions, they suffered at work under the cruelty of her second husband, father’s father—unfortunately, a ne’er-do-well who drank too much.
Grandmother rose early each day, donned her babushka which hung on a hook against the stairway wall, walked through the dining room into the kitchen, and began her work. She did not rest until late into the evening, rocking next to the wood stove, sometimes reading her Bible for a few precious minutes. Along with her children, she raised the vegetables and grapes in her garden, their cow, and their chickens. She sent the brothers and sisters into the hills to gather whatever fruit or berry was in season. Upon return, they sold their pickings in town. In the Christmas season they cut down trees.
The local general store owner always saved crumbs and broken pieces from the bottom of his huge cookie barrels, for the Gretz kids. Father’s all-time favorite treat was taking a handful of broken cookies through the door behind the wood stove, downstairs into the dark, cool cellar where they stored bottles of milk from their cow. He knelt on the hard floor and dipped cookie fragments into layers of fresh cream along the top of each bottle.
After grandmother died, Aunt Julia stayed on in the family home. Whenever I make quick decisions or scurry swiftly through my tasks at hand, father says, “You are just like your Aunt Julia.” I imagine, as one of the older sisters, she learned to take matters into her own hands many times as she helped grandmother care for her younger siblings.
When father decided to say yes to dialysis last year, I went into “Aunt Julia” mode. I was determined to find drivers to take father into the city and bring him home again, three days a week, forever! In addition, I was going to manage all of it from Chicago. I began calling his friends. Many wanted to help. As I filled one month on the calendar with names in the Monday, Wednesday and Friday squares, I realized that month number two was getting a little trickier. But, like Julia I’m sure, I bull-dozed ahead, kept calling and almost filled up month two. Month three loomed before me…and four, and five, and six…and of course I needed back-ups for the times when one couldn't do it…I mailed them all my phone numbers in Chicago…
…when, in walked Tine! A friend of father’s, she saw my attempts and offered, “Would you like me to do that? You can’t possibly manage this from Chicago. I’d be willing to take care of your father’s schedule for you.” And she did.
One week in January before I arrived from Chicago, in the middle of a dialysis session father began to crave ice cream. Though high in phosphorus, the nurse practitioner cleared his request, supplying an absorption inhibitor. He asked his friend who drove him that day, “Randy, do you think you could go and get some ice cream for me?” Randy returned with a pint of Haagen-Dazs Butter Pecan.
When father called me that night, he was giddy with the memory, “Cher, something came over me and I couldn't stop eating it. It was so delicious I had to keep taking mouthful after mouthful. My lips were numb. I ate the whole thing! It was the best treat.”
I will forever be grateful for Tine and her husband’s faithful gift, along with the gifts of each driver who walked father down the stairs, loaded his gear into their cars, drove the thirty minute route, set him up at dialysis, and many times stayed with him or returned four hours later to befriend him on the uncomfortable ride back home.
Three times a week for a year, he enjoyed the company of his friends--his brothers and sisters now.
He shared his thoughts and stories as they journeyed, in this line, by his side.
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