Dorothy's Diary
Epilogue, part 5

Part:. 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • Whatever became of...?

As before, memoirs from my father:

“On a warm, humid Sunday in June of 1963, we walked the five blocks from our house to Dave's school, for his elementary graduation ceremony.

For years, Dorothy had been seeing her doctor about hip pain. He diagnosed it as arthritis.

On that day, the pain had finally become too much for her. We scheduled a visit to St. Luke's Hospital. There, it was revealed that the pain was caused by a very slow-growing cancer of the bone in her hip.

Surgery and radiation treatments followed over the next couple of months. She came home, and things seemed better for awhile. But then another cancerous growth was found— this time in her shoulder.

We met with the doctors. Dorothy started the conversation by saying that she wanted the truth about her condition. They told her that the cancer was widespread, and that she would not benefit from any further treatment, including radiation and surgery. They said she would live for about six months.

Dorothy accepted all of this in a very calm, stoic, matter of fact manner.

In the time that remained to us, we did the best that we could. So that she wouldn't have to climb stairs to the bedroom, the new addition that we'd built was made into a room for her. We took small, short trips in the car while she was still able. I quit going to work. My business partner was understanding, and continued to send weekly checks for my share.”

* * *

There were bad days and good days. I had just started my freshman year in high school. I was a shy kid, and so I was reluctant about joining a club and going to its roller skating party. I ended up going, and having a great time. And it was due to my mother's persuasion. I think she told me about her Englewood High School days, to try and have fun, that life was short, and not to worry. —D.

* * *

“As Dorothy got worse, we hired a nurse to come in and attend her while I caught up on sleep.

Late one fall night, Dorothy took a turn for the worse, and passed out. Her doctor came in his robe and slippers, and gave me a supply of morphine, and said it was only a matter of days now. A priest came. I sat by her bed all night.

Early the next morning, I felt her hand on my arm. I had dozed off. In the soft, raspy voice that she had by then, she asked if a priest had been there. I told her no. She went on to say she had a dream in which a priest stood over her, giving her last rites.

Despite being given only a few days, Dorothy went on to live another six months, much of it spent in and out of a coma.

During this period, Dorothy's mother, Pauline, became gravely ill due to breast cancer. She passed away suddenly in December of 1963. Dorothy, in her worsening condition, was unable to comprehend things, and so she never knew of her mom's death.”

Dot's brother, Lou, told me that my mother knew her mom had passed away, despite the efforts to keep the news from her. —D.

“Dot's sister and brother helped out a lot in the last few months. Sis took Dave in as part of her family, and Son spent many hours helping me take care of his sister, until the end, in March, 1964. [One month away from her 36th birthday.]

Dorothy's physicians, Dr. Hark and his son, repeatedly declined to be compensated, saying that they had never met a braver person.

I loved Dorothy with all my being. There had never been a time in my imagination when we would not be together.”

* * *

Us kids, me included, had been told that gramma was recovering from a broken arm. Back in those days, as I understand it, it was more common to spare the children the truth, out of concern for their well-being. This was true for my father, who, although he explained certain things about my mom's health to me, did not prepare me, or didn't know how to, for what was coming.

Perhaps it was both his and my mother's decision to keep me in the dark, to have me as unaffected as possible during her illness so that I would go on with my life. But I do wish I could've understood that my mom's life would be taken. It was not within my comprehension at the time, and so it had a devastating impact on me, as it would on any child who loves a parent.

Turning the pages of my mother's diaries, in the way that I have these past two years, is, in a way, part of a lifelong wish to come to terms with never having gotten to know my mother as an adult, and never having the chance, the maturity or the wherewithall to say to her that I loved her. —D.

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