Chris and Miss

Bittersweet

Well it happened…Chris has arrived home after another deployment, to Iraq; his second in five years.  I wish that I had a fascinating tale to tell of watching him stand in formation with his fellow soldiers, at an official ceremony, as our children waved flags and held Daddy’s our Hero signs.  In truth- the signs are hanging in various locations of our house, and we didn’t quite make it to the welcome home ceremony.  Rather, he arrived home a few days early on a direct flight into Seatac Airport, following a Red Cross Alert, which I issued.  His coming home was exciting…his early arrival amid a massive amount of sadness…it was a bittersweet end to a year of ups, downs, twists and turns.  I am happy that my husband is finally home, yet I am currently grieving the loss of two very special family members, who passed away within ten days of one another.  This is my tribute to them.

Don’t Stop Believing…In Memory of Patrick “Chops” Driscoll

St. Patrick’s Day has always held significant meaning for me, being that I am Irish and from Butte, MT.  If you’ve never celebrated March 17 in Butte, you have no idea how special the holiday is, for us natives.  Not only is the holiday important, in itself- it is also the birthday of my younger sister, Erin, and my uncle, Pat.  Pat celebrated his forty-second birthday two and a half years ago, and he was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lung Cancer less than two weeks later.  The day the call came from my mom, I immediately burst into tears and said what any rational person would, “how can it be…he’s never smoked?  He’s healthy, I just don’t understand.”  In truth, no one did.  He was a nonsmoker, young, healthy man who found out at the age of 42, that he not only had cancer in both lungs, but it had also spread to his bones.  I would learn later that, at his diagnosis, the doctor gave him six months.  We were fortunate to have him for two years longer than expected, by the medical industry.

My uncle Pat was an amazing person.  He was one of the funniest men you would ever meet and a born tease, who showed his affection toward you by giving you a hard time.  I had the privilege of speaking at his Vigil, along with my brother and sisters.  We shared memories of Pat, and the crazy things he did; we cried, and talked about how much we would miss him, and we hugged him goodbye, as he laid still and silent in his casket- it was the only time we ever saw him silent, a reminder that a great man would no longer gather with the rest of our family.

I talked about the time he chased me into a shower and then turned on the water, running away as I screamed after him, soaking wet.  I shared about the water fight- all of the kids against Pat, and how he stood in the middle of the kiddie pool, with the hose, therefore confiscating all of the water supply, and completely obliterating us.  I, along with my brother Jeremy, talked about playing Truth or Dare, with Chops…how I was scared to pick dare, always choosing truth, as Jeremy, braved the dares- and was forced to lick used Speed Stick tubes, eat doggie biscuits, and wear jock straps over his face.  Yes, Jeremy was brave…Pat was brutal…and we loved every minute of it.  I think my cousin, Conor, summed it up perfectly when he said, “Pat was just awesome.”  That he was…

Pat’s theme was Don’t Stop Believing.  The song was played at the beginning of his Vigil and before his funeral.  He wore a gray band on his wrist inscribed with those very words, Don’t Stop Believing, before his death, and in his casket.  He was a man who fought cancer, and it’s insidious effects, until his last day on earth.  He worked up until two days before his eyes closed, for the final time.  He died in the arms of his seventeen-year-old daughter and wife, of twenty-two years.  He was a man who wanted to be a bone marrow donor to save someone else’s life, and after cancer ravaged him, still wanted to donate his organs, in death.  Although cancer took hold of his body, he still achieved his goal- and donated his corneas, the only part he could.  His final gift was to give his eyes to someone else, so that they could see a world he so loved and would miss.  He was a man who never stopped believing, not even at the end of his life, and his legacy will stay with me always.

The Brown Recliner…In Memory of William A. “Bill” Driscoll

My grandpa took his final breath, just four days after I returned from Pat’s funeral.  His official death was attributed to Renal Failure; but his body had battled Parkinson’s Disease and the after effects of Prostate Cancer, for years.  He was a proud man who never said how sick he really was, and who held onto his independence, until he was too weak to even ask for help.  He was the head of our family, the patriarch who made the decisions, the man we looked to for advice and respect, and the father who was wheeled over to his second youngest son’s casket in a wheelchair, and then sobbed over his lost child.

The minute I received the call that Grandpa had died, I picked up the phone and alerted the Red Cross.  I knew that Chris was en route from Kuwait, and therefore hoped he could be there to say goodbye to the man who he referred to as, Grandpa Bill.  It didn’t really hit me until later that night that my grandpa- the only grandpa I’ve ever known- was gone.  I spent the entire afternoon caring for my kids and dealing with my dog, I made phone calls and began doing laundry to prepare for another drive back to Montana.  It was later, when I sat down and looked at a photo of Grandpa and I dancing at my wedding, that it really hit me…my Grandpa was gone.  I would never again see him sitting in his recliner, or watch him smile at my kids (he loved the grand-babies).  I would never hear him call my Grandma, “Nor,” or watch him drink a Guinness at 4pm, what he referred to as Guinness Time.  That was when I began to sob…to cry for the man who I respected, loved, and looked up to.  Although part of me was relieved that he would no longer be in pain, and he was- for quite some time.  Most of me just felt sad, that I would no longer kiss his cheek, and feel the bristle of his five o’clock shadow.

My Grandpa loved Ireland…and anything Irish.  His personal book shelf was filled with books on Ireland, his CD collection mostly Gaelic music, his house filled with not only family pictures and memories, but little Irish knickknacks.  He was a man who was proud of his heritage, a husband who was married to his wife for 59 years, a man who fathered eight children, was the grandfather of 21, and a great-grandfather of 10.

Some may think of Billy Joel as the Piano Man; but when I hear music, I think of my Grandpa.  When I was a child- he always played either his piano or organ.  Music was a huge part of who he was.  Everytime I close my eyes I can envision him sitting at his piano and playing.  He was also an amazing craftsman- building anything from dollhouses, to carved carousel horses, to wooden name signs, like the one I still have which reads, “Missy’s Room.”  He was a perfectionist who took time planning his creations, and a great amount of pride, in the final product.  

I arrived in Butte, the night before my Grandpa’s funeral, with Chris and the kids.  I walked into the familiar house, the same house my grandparents have lived for my mom’s entire life, and therefore mine.  The door sounded the same as it opened, and the familiar voices and smells filled the air, upon our arrival.  I greeted my Grandma, and the rest of our family, who gathered to say goodbye, to Grandpa.  I looked at the familiar surroundings, not much of which had changed, in several years.  The piano still stood in the same spot, my Grandma’s reading machine was exactly where it was when I last visited, the hallway was filled with pictures.  In the corner sat his brown recliner…exactly as I remembered it…but without him.  Grandpa was what was now missing; the man who I would normal walk over and give a hug and kiss to- no longer sat in his vacated chair.  The chair sat empty.  

My insides lurched, as I struggled to hold back an onslaught of tears.  I cradled my youngest daughter, Allison, just two-and-a-half-years-old and walked over to Grandpa’s Ireland books.  As we walked past his recliner, Allison cupped my face into her hands and asked, “Mommy- where’d Grandpa go?”

“He went to Heaven, with Uncle Pat.” I told her, through my silent sobs.

I loved my Grandpa, I always will.  I will never see a dark brown recliner, or a book on Ireland, or hear the sound of piano music, and not think of him.  Whenever I see a person drinking a Guinness or hear an Irish Jig, I will remember how it felt to get a hug from him, and how he accepted my husband, and loved my children.  He was a great man, and I was lucky to know him for thirty-five-years.

May the road rise to greet you, may the wind be always at your back, and until we meet again, may God hold you in the hallow of His hand.” – An Irish Blessing