Jill's Stories

PROLOGUE

“The way I look at it, I saw young, talented men on my ship who were buried at sea.  I was given 40 more years. That is really something to be grateful for.” These are words spoken to me by my father, Charles Pfau who chose life when given the diagnosis of lung cancer.  Throughout the 15 months of his courageous struggle, he consistently chose full living and maximum effort at self-sufficiency, metaphorically spitting at despair.  As the months unfolded, his true character emerged not hidden by triviality and masks so often worn by long lifers.  This treasured pearl is one father’s gift to his offspring.

IN THE HARBOR OF EACH OTHERS ARMS

Every once in a while families unite for a reasonable time to refresh memories.  In this particular springtime, our family regrouped to find strength in the collective reserves of each other.

Family members nervously gathered in the waiting area of the surgical wing.  This hospital was to be the recipient of my  Father’s consistent efforts t overcome the cancer that usurped his lungs.  We were left alone in that mauve and gray appointed room; you know the kind,  a room delicately dashed with soft draperies and stuffed sofas, one table and a lamp, floral paintings and no magazines.  We were left to our own resources to accommodate fear and anxiety or light humor and insignificant chatter.  Neither display seemed appropriate.  The silence was even more unwelcome.  We were uncomfortable  at the prospect of hearing the results of my father’s biopsy.

Just glancing at the surgeon’s face answered the first question. He found cancer, small cell, oat cell cancer in the bronchial area. My Father did not tolerate the invasive procedure well, and the searching ceased.  The assumption included malignancy of the the tumor found in the lung.  The second question was answered unasked….”three months at best. No chance for surgery.  If it was me,  would not choose chemotherapy.” I learned early on that surgeons have a matter of fact demeanor.  There was a stiffening silence. I felt an overwhelming need to say something, anything meaningful.  My communication to my Mother, two brothers, one brother-in-law, my sister and a friend was in the form of a small , timidly spoken and verbal gesture of grateful acceptance that flatly asserted that as bad as the news sounded, at least he was not taken from us abruptly, coldly stolen away.  Little did I realize that statement would be a mental argument to deal with countless times over.  There was no response to the statement, as if silence was the loudest of speech. Stunned, confused, desperate, we boldly inquired about chemotherapy and radiation options.  Hope propelled us forward, and so began the journey.

As I visited my Dad in the hospital room where it all was to begin, I remember one comment so clearly stated by him, ” didn’t know how much everyone cared about me. “  Such an obvious notion..the caring.  Even though I felt it, so often it must have been hidden from him.  During the ensuing months,  I did everything that I could to reinforce the concept of caring.  It became an obsession that would perhaps save him and make all the difference regarding his recovery and triumph over this monster.

Diagnostic testing and evaluations began abruptly.  The luxury of time to spare was surely absent.  Questions darted all over the place.  “How invasive was the cancer? Did it appear in the bones, the liver, the brain?” The answer was the embodiment of hope. The disease was localized in the bronchi and lungs. The oncologist emphasized that my Dad’s body was strong and his heart was in extremely good condition.  He was indeed a candidate for chemotherapy.

The initial prognosis faded away so quickly buried, so feverishly released as if flying away inside of a balloon.  Readiness for healing was the only prognosis I would accept.

Administered on an outpatient basis, the radiation treatments were done twice a day for 20 long, consecutive days. That was no small accomplishment considering the fact that my parents lived 20 miles away from the hospital that provided the treatments.  The radiation sessions were draining his strength but not his determination.  They trekked to and from the hospital, lunching between treatment times, holding up so well.  The closeness began to draw them toward each other in a way that, I having been their daughter for many years, had not truly witnessed.  What I was witnessing was a definite second chance at romance, a commitment so unspoken bonding tightly a married couple of 49 years.  One of my Mother’s first jarring comments upon sorting out the news of the cancer was, “Oh we’ll never celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary. ” The sadness of that reality slipped in and out at moments told and untold.  But for the most most part, my parents’ acceptance of the situation pervaded and thus inspired the entire family.  I particularly recall watching the two of them sitting closely opposite each other while playing card games and grinning at who was winning at what.  Real love is so ordinary.  Ordinary is so precious when tragedy spurts at you.

Once the radiation treatments concluded, a cycle of intensely strong chemotherapy sessions routinely began at three-week intervals.  The first plan was to give my Dad a combination of chemotherapy drugs every three weeks intravenously.  Admission to the hospital occurred.  The seventh floor assumed an entirely new image in my mind as I glanced around at the intravenous drip equipment endlessly clicking as the toxic liquid trickled from tube to arm to course its route to the cells of each patient, Dad being one of the many. The annoying, shrill beeps that alerted the staff that the infusion was complete, bounced from doorway to hall, sometimes quieted by a passing nurse, always interrupting any attempt to pretend that all was well.  There we were, my Dad, my Mom and myself camped out, so to speak, in room 7003.  We were ready to fight for all it was worth.  We requested a cot for sleeping.  We didn’t do much of that.  I thought we were supporting my Dad with even an awkward presence there, only discovering after the third month of this, he probably would have preferred to go it alone.  The sheltering from worry began just about then.  We didn’t want him to know how ominous things seemed, he didn’t want us to know that he already knew that.  After the fourth set of chemotherapy, the oncologist told us that the cancer was still present.  The radiation treatment shrunk the tumor and 60% of it was gone.  We were elated. The cancer was almost gone!The plan was that the chemotherapy would continue to shrink the tumor and stop the spreading of cells.  Half of the plan worked.

As for the side effects of all of this toxicity,  can only relate that my Dad said he had just a little bit of nausea.  His hair did fall out.  This was an unfortunate occurrence as my Dad had beautiful, thick hair.  One day an old friend of his greeted him in the hardware store with the comment “Well, Charlie,  haven’t seen you for a while, is everything all right?” My Dad just grinned and tipped his golf hat revealing his baldness and said, “What do you think of my new look?” He covered the subject with light humor helping to make everyone else comfortable.

One of the troubling and almost haunting thoughts that surfaced at the treatment phase was the drifting question of whether or not he would survive….and if not, what would the final days be like?  Only hind sight gives that delicate answer.  The sharing of the phase somehow builds tolerance for the recollection of the events that unfolded.

In the midst of the sickening reality of my Dad’s disease, my Mother related to us that she was having difficulty walking with stability.  She began losing balance and experienced unusual weakness.  Surely, the shock and stress of the last three months were the obvious reasons, or so we thought.

Fresh anxiety and unidentified  fear once again surfaced to be dealt with.  The diagnostic testing was completed.  She learned that there was a tumor on her spinal cord causing early symptoms of paralysis.  This development initiated a role reversal of such proportion that jolted the entire family who witnessed the care giving relinquished by one spouse, embraced by another seriously ill partner.  In essence, my Mother faced helplessness and shock bordering on despair, while my Father gathered strength and purpose living life to take care of his dependent wife.  After two spinal surgeries, my Mother was left hemiplegic and in pain.

Struggling for breath and napping for strength, my Father carried on.  The sparkling romance resurfaced in the late evenings in the form of gentle hand holding and compassionate glances and brushed away tear drops.  The struggling with the unfolding events doubled, sometimes tripled.  He greeted every morning with a sunrise smile…she barely had the will to face another day of pain and dependency.

Ten, eleven, twelve months had bolted and slithered by, all in the same unfold of events.  Questions of what was really happening  with regard to my Dad’s health began to arise daily.  Sometimes I found the courage to ask, at other times I quietly looked away, blocking the questions, refusing to entertain the obvious answers.

I noticed unusual lengthy naps and the tiredness that could be mistaken for a side effect of chemotherapy.  My own confusion and uncertainty as to what was really happening sometimes numbed me for what was about to happen.

The effort for my Dad to breathe was becoming so noticeable. The walk from the family room to the kitchen was becoming slower and more difficult.  Those rooms were adjacent, but the intrinsic length seemed yards apart to his mobile capacity.  Dressing meant short intervals of resting between layers of clothing and a nice hot shower became a frightening endeavor, so much so as to warrant someone remaining right outside the door just in case he was unable to breathe sufficiently. These episodes of shortness of breath as the doctors called it, happened every day, causing my Dad to panic and gasp for oxygen that simply did not fill his lungs as they were so diseased.  The end result was a call for help.  I gave help in the form of reassurance and breathing technique exercises that almost always normalized his breath pattern.  A co-dependency evolved.  I was his breath.  He was mine.

Difficulty eating was an indication to me that something very grave was beginning to happen to my Dad.  Small portions made him feel full.  Even drinking water satiated his stomach.  Just about this time, pains began appearing, the unexplainable kind that we tried to blame on muscle strain or eating the wrong things.  The uncertainty, the confusion, the wondering all matched the highest of hopes that these obstacles could be overcome along with the disease.

The time frame for these symptoms was in the vicinity of one month before the final time.  Wishing for the knowledge of the plan,for the glimpse of just one answer at a time was never satisfied.  I relied on faith, the strength to know blindly that whatever happened would happen inevitably at the appointed time.

Then there were those endless nights of sitting in the dark in the family room, the ocean of emotion rolling over me.  I was listening to his breathing and to too lengthy pauses between the breaths.  There were the times that only by careful observation, could I realize the intensity of the pain that he endured, catching a glimpse of it only by seeing his hand touch the area of his abdomen or shoulder…never a grimace, never a moan, always a concerned concentration of focus on the reality of this new sensation, uncomfortable as it must have been.  I recall my Dad telling a friend some time ago, that he never experienced “pain” so this was all new to him.  This statement came from a man who endured chronic back pain for much of his life.  He never allowed pain to interfere.  This time the intensity of the pain could not be overlooked.  So began the administering of Morphine.  At first, I was alarmed to see the drug was chosen so early on or so I perceived it to be early on.  The absence of hurting reassured us.  Only when we realized more and more of the drug was needed, did we begin the fearful journey.

In the final week the Morphine was not dulling the pain, so the last visit to the hospital was met with little resistance.  We made arrangements for a pain control session to begin.  There in the hallway leading from his bedroom, dressed in his blue pajamas, my Dad hugged me goodbye and I sensed his relief that someone was going to help him deal with this.  I remember how warm his cheek brushing against mine felt.  His gentle pat that everything would be all right, his request that I take good care of my Mother.  “Good bye, Honey.” The familiar farewell whispered and said thousands of times over the years from husband to wife, parent to child, meant so much more this time.  He walked outside, his oxygen tank trailing behind him jostling and clicking.  He was whistling, gingerly stepping, if Dads can do that, into the car that would provide the last ride he would take down the street that led him away.

Once inside the hospital, he rode effortlessly to the seventh floor and he settled into a peaceful and comforting awareness that the pain would go away.  The increased dosage of Morphine sedated my Father in a manner that was frightening yet safely tolerated.  He slipped in and out of coherence but he was still able to recognize and talk.  Eating became optional.  Selective communication nourished his spirit and became a substitute for our own meals.

After an afternoon of bone scans and chest films, he awoke to relate something of an urgent nature to me.  “Please don’t let them give me any more Morphine, something is very wrong. Go ask the doctor to explain what is happening to me.”  I told him that I would ask, and I left the room.  I approached his doctor, who just happened to be on call that evening.  I asked him how my Dad was doing.  The doctor looked directly at me and said, “I don’t know for sure, but tonight might be the night that he…….” and he stopped talking.  I was puzzled by his response and hoped that he did not mean what I thought he meant.  Subtly, clumsily he was confirming my Father’s suspicion, “what if?” He told me just that afternoon my Dad’s condition had worsened to such an extent that he was dying.

Alone, I realized what he had said. I tried to think of what to tell my Dad to answer his plea for an explanation.  The doctor warned me not to frighten him with the news that his lungs were failing.  He instructed me to call the family members in.  I called my husband, my brothers, my sister, trying desperately to explain and insisting that the doctor was somehow mistaken.  Denial meant that I could cope for a few more minutes.  So I denied what was happening as an exaggeration of a critical state.  Darting back to the truth, I told my brother to bring our Mother to the hospital.  I asked him not to alarm her.  At this point she was bed ridden and the call to bring her in to be with our Dad was self-explanatory.

Once again all of us gathered.  He breathed slower, shallow wisps of air passed through his still lips.  We talked him through one breathing pattern after another, desperately trying to lengthen his being ours.  Four days and four nights elapsed.  He struggled to remain. He whispered in his sleep.  He told each one of us that he loved us.  He received the sacrament of Baptism. He told my brothers that he made a good choice by doing that.  His lingering looks into our Mother’s eyes said the goodbye that was secretly felt. At the final moment my eyes caressed his face, he opened his azure eyes moistened with emotion and returned the kiss.

I cling to the memory of the tight grip that he held onto any one of his children’s hands for four days and four nights while we waited and watched our strong Father bravely go where we had never gone.  I told him softly that it was a Dad’s job to show his children the way through the tunnel and chart the journey with his bravery, known to all of us.  He held strongly.  He entered boldly.  I look forward to holding that tight grip of his hand when it is my turn to arrive.  Until then, we will rest in the harbor of each others’ arms.

(This story was written one week after my Father’s passing…The narrative account has a copyright obtained in the year 1991). Seems like yesterday.

As I was editing my story about Georgie, I lost the entire post.  This is extremely sad as I was ready to share the unusual occurrences that took place whenever I lost something, I would enlist Georgie to find it, and she always did just that.  Well, I lost the story of the lost items, and then two words appeared on my empty post.  The words were “Happy Birthday”.  Interestingly enough, my own birthday is just around the corner.   I must begin again.

The answer to the question is Georgetta Haven.  She lived on 13th Street in downtown Cincinnati. Now, that was the poorest part of the city, and because of her frugality and her husband’s hard work, she was able to move to the suburbs right next door to my parents’  house.  Georgie and Joe (that is her husband, built their home right next to my parents’ new home). I was only two years old at the time, so I don’t remember much of that.  Georgie loved to snoop around and look in drawers and closets and nooks and crannies.  So whenever we lost something, and that happened quite a bit, we would enlist Georgie’s fine talents and she would come over and start the looking.  Then there would be the moving around of things, then the putting back of things and eventually finding the lost item.  This could be keys, papers, rings, hair brushes and just about anything a family could misplace. One of my favorite sayings from Georgie was “For the simply reason.”  I never was sure just what that meant, but I can assure you that I nodded as if I did.  So there you have it.  Simple searches always finding the item.  During the four decades or so that these normal seek and find activities occurred no one thought much about it.  Well, after Georgie’s death, the finding continued.  Rings were still lost and still found.  A 50 dollar bill was lost and the earnest prayers began.  “Please, dear Georgie if you can hear me, help me find the 50 dollar bill.  It belonged to a friend. He gave up on his search.  I told him to keep looking and asking for Georgie’s help. Of course he thought I had lost my mind but he took my advice and it occurred to him that it might have ended up in the dumpster at the apartment where I lived at that time.  He climbed into that awful container, and sure enough, there was the 50 dollar bill.  There have been literally hundreds of items that I cannot recall individually, but time and time again, I will beseech my good friend Georgie to enlist her talent for finding treasured belongings.  Each and every time, I am able to relocate the lost things.  The most unusual detail is that the items are  found sometimes in a place where I have already looked and it was surely not there.  One of her gifts was the art of organization.  Her home was perfectly ordered and tidy. She knew where everything was.  This was the opposite of what the house next door displayed.  Therein lies the secret.  In her effort to organize my parents’ home, she developed her own gift of  detective expertise carried on for eternity.  Every once in a while she drifts back to our plane of existence and exercises her talent, smiling away at the desperate attempts at trying to find things.  She already knows where the “lost things are”.  For the simply reason.

66 years ago a 2 pound infant came into the world for a visit.  Would he stay?  Would he just look around and choose the better? Indeed, he stayed. He struggled. He thrived.  He grew up to be 6 feet tall and invincible. He worked and studied.  He played a lot.  He brought others into the world….three to be exact.  We are so glad he stayed.  Now let’s see what happens next! You know who you are.  Have fun!!

Tonight  I am in LasVegas and I am finding it to be unbelievably beautiful.  Palm trees, warm weather, people everywhere.  My adventure began at the airport in Knoxville, when the pilot announced that the plane would back up to another area and get de-iced. That procedure was supposed to take 10 minutes.  After about 15 minutes we taxied along and ascended toward Dallas. Now that might seem uneventful, but the connection to LasVegas was tight.  On top of that, the pilot announced that he was flying the aircraft into a head wind, and we would be running (flying) a little behind schedule.  So there.  I proceeded to finish my latest best seller, My Stroke of Insight, by a neuroanatomist whom had suffered a stroke and told the story of how our brains do indeed work for us.  It was appropriately added to my schedule, as I learned through reading those pages that my right brain hemisphere has the choice of reacting positively to stressful events. Voila!  Not only were things a little testy, the passenger sitting next to me decided to use one and a half seats for his body and arms, and the half part was my arm rest.  Oh well.  You probably guessed the rest.  Upon landing in Dallas, the attendant, asked who was the passenger going to LasVegas. She said there was just one person. I had to identify myself….she allowed me to leave the plane first in an attempt to “try” and make my connection.  So embarassing.  I had all of 15 minutes to a) find the Sky Link  b) board the train  c) hope with all that was in me that A-29 was the right gate. I ran with rolling luggage behind me. Quite the site.  A young lady said “LasVegas?”  I said of course, “yes” and I boarded the aircraft.  Everyone looked at me again because I was “holding up” the departure.  With all of that behind me…I am hoping my luck has changed for the better….as before this adventure began I had a little mishap with my Miata to the tune of 2200.00.  Vegas couldn’t come soon enough!

The little girl hummed as she ate her morning bowl of cherrios breakfast cereal.  Her grandfather grinned.  One spoonful at a time, she ate the luscious morsels.  Then both of them hummed.  Pappa and Mary Jane were joining in melody as the meal went on. Mother and Grandmother buzzed all around the kitchen, preparing things, washing things, frying things, mixing things, drying things, cleaning up things, returning things, flitting around doing all of the important things.  And all of the while this was going on, the two most important things were going on in the breakfast room: sharing the cherrios, sharing the love between spoonfuls of song.

Speaking to the progeny, to the many that arrived, I would like to list the treasures that came from another continent to rest in the hearts of the aforementioned ones.  There are the creative minds, the work ethic, the artistic slant, the introspection, the inherent beautiful faces, the strong muscles, the kind gestures, the endurance edge, the dry humor, the silent voices, the hearty laughter and of course, the eyes…the deep, gazing eyes.  These gifts came in the form of the gene pool, given to the progeny with gusto.  Now, the tactile treasures would be the wood carvings created by Grandpa, the needle point and craftiness of Grandma.  The collection of clocks, the fine jewelry, the designer clothes, the landscaping and garden creations, the fine linens and tapestries were so uniquely Deutch.  Red cabbage, rouladin, blood sausage, potato pancakes, streussel, plum cake, butter cream torte were some of the delicacies available for the tasting.  Plentiful treasures.  Who would have imagined that a family from Orbke, Germany would cross the Atlantic ocean in a boat, arrive in two weeks’ time, begin a new life in a new land, establish a career and family enduring for generations to come? Who would imagine that families would blend and new lives would flourish becoming the future that began over 60 years ago? And so the progeny continue to create dreams of their own….unfolding with the ribbons of the past.

My Grandmother, Katie Murphy, whom I called Mom Murphy, repeatedly said:  “Show me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you what you are.”

My Grandfather, John Murphy, whom I called, Pop, never said an unkind thing about anyone in my presence and in anyone else’ presence as he would comment when negativity entered the conversation:  “Do you think it will rain, Katie?”  We all knew we had better change the subject quickly or Pop would quietly leave the room, thus detaching himself from any gossip.

My own mother, Mary, said many times, “Remember who you are and where you came from.”  Thus, the admonition to act in good character where ever you are.

My own dad, Charlie, spoke not a word when it came to witnessing gossip of the unkind variety. He would stand up, leave the room and distance himself from such talk.  I believe that one of his most admirable traits is that he never spoke an unkind word about anyone, and he would not tolerate participating in gossip.    I remember that one thing he always told me was that “girls aren’t supposed to do everything” with regard to fixing up things. He was referring to auto repairs, tire changing, heavy work etc.  He also told me that there are two things that people should not lend.  One is the car, and the other is the lawn mower.  Isn’t that funny that I recalled those items? Wisdom.  He also told me that the age of 50 through 60 are the best years of one’s life.  I am beginning to see that is true.

One final car ride from his house to the hospital, was uneventful and quiet.  The hope was there that comfort would come shortly.  It did.  The room that beckoned was freshly cleaned. The bed was crisp and white covered. He undressed with the assistance of nurses, he climbed up into the resting place.  Three days and two nights shuffled by.  He talked.  He smiled. He laughed.  He cried.  He laughed again.  He talked to his granddaughter,  during his last afternoon of alertness.  He said the love words.  He smiled the love look.  He whispered his wishes.  He did not eat.  He did prove bravery.  He breathed his last.  Father, Grandfather, Husband, Child….he was all of these.  Rest easy, Dad.

Finding the hill is the first order of business as soon as the snow falls.  Thinking back, the hill was located in “the woods”.  Whenever my Mom said to me and my brothers and sister, “where are you going?” we would always say to “the woods”.  Now, that phrase really meant, we are going into the garage, then into the attic, then grabbing the sleds, the ones that have metal rudders, and trudging down Pinewell Drive, home of the Pfau Family, and enter the “woods”.  All of the neighborhood kids would race to the hill.  We had to cross over the barbed wire fence.  Throw the sleds over first.  Then look down into the uncovered well (if my Mom had known that detail, we would have been banned from “the woods”.) I always shivered when I looked down into that well.  Wondered what would I do if I had fallen in.  The shiver turned to chuckles as we raced again up the hill.  This was old farm land at the end of our street.  Of course my brothers Dave and Jack got there first.  My sister, Janie and myself got there eventually.  Since we didn’t have four sleds, we had to take turns.  We had two sleds and some garbage can lids without the handles.  Guess who got the garbage can lids.  Then flying down the hill. Then trying to steer with our legs.  Then trying really hard not to hit the tree stump at the bottom.  I hit it too many times to tell.  I’m sure we had eaten breakfast on those sledding mornings, and I am just as sure we did not eat any lunch. … except for snow balls.  We got wet but didn’t care.  Our gloves would have ice crystals on them.  Too bad. We stayed all day.  Eventually, we walked back home and brought all of our gear with us for tomorrow’s fun.  When I think back to that time many years ago, I can’t help but wonder who dried all of those snowy clothes.  Probably the person who said “Where are you going?”

Later in my life when I had my own family of five children, we repeated some of that history: all of us went to “the hill” behind Fort West Subdivision where we lived.  This was a long, probably one mile walk and then some to reach the highest of hills covered with snow unpacked but so inviting. This was farm land.  There was a fence to cross, sleds to pull, the plastic kind that looked like saucers and oblong plastic sleds that carried two or more sledders.  We wore the coats,  the scarves, the dunsil caps,(  I heard they call them toboggans here in Tennessee. ) I had as much fun as the kids displayed.  They didn’t seem to mind my tagging along as the youngest sledder was just a toddler.  We flew down the “hill”.  We stayed all day.  We didn’t eat lunch.  We ate an early dinner.  I dried the clothes.  What goes around come around.  We did it all again on the next day.

And now for the story of Mom Murphy’s last day…..so happy, so sad, so mysterious… so fitting.  A cold, chilly winter day in December brought my Mom, myself and two of my children,  Susan and baby Michael to my Grandmother’s house for this special event.  We were told that the doctor expected Mom Murphy not to live through the day.  As  I approached my grandmother’s bedside, which by the way was now situated in what used to be her dining room [as she became unable to walk upstairs, she was 93 years old and becoming frail] her children created a new bedroom on the first floor of her home, I touched her hand and whispered “hi Mom”.  Her eyes were gently closed, her breathing was indeed faint.  The room was dark.  Now, my Grandmother had a collection of dolls that were of the newborn variety and she always arranged them on her bed.  Even into her 90’s she enjoyed looking at those dolls.  Part of her joy was in the holding of newborn and young infants, much like our own joy over the years.  Since she had “grown up” children now, the great grandchildren were the likely candidates for the cuddling.  My Mom told me to take my son, Michael over to my Grandmother.  He was just four months old.  He was sleeping in my arms, wrapped up snuggly in a warm blanket, when my Mom asked me to do this.  I kissed him on the forehead.  He stayed asleep.  I carefully laid him into my Grandmother’s arms.  She held him closely, the best that she could, as weak as she was.  It was a beautiful sight to see this aged and accomplished woman gently hold this new child.  The breath sounds were so peaceful.  Michael was the last infant that “Katie” held in her experienced arms.  I reached over and took him again into my own arms.  My Mom dropped a few tears onto the blanket as she watched.  She looked at me and said, I cannot watch Mom take her last breaths, would you stay by her?  I nodded yes.  I stayed.  Susan, my little girl who was then eight years old, held Mom Murphy’s hand and then went to the solarium to look at plants.  The doctor came.  He listened to the sounds.  My Grandmother died.   December 23, 1981.