Grief

When A Blessing Doesn’t Feel Complete

May the road rise up to meet you

St. Patrick’s Day is one of my favorite holidays. Not so much for the raucous debauchery that occurs throughout the city, but because it has always been a family celebration. The Irish roots on my maternal side are deep and strong. They certainly have a strong hold on my psyche.

My dad, whose family hails from the north of Spain, became used to the shenanigans after a while. Certain things did drive him over the edge. Green potatoes or green milk did not sit well with him. Nor did green hair, as I found out one year after being suspended from school for “improper school dress”.

We always gathered the clan for a corned beef and cabbage dinner. It became a tradition to invite family and friends. Our German neighbors and our Italian neighbors joined us singing Danny Boy and Wearin’ of the Green. My mom would fix the dinner while my dad drove her crazy helping in the kitchen. Irish coffee was always served in glasses reserved for the occasion. The house was filled to overflowing with love and affection.

One year, I lost a good friend on St. Patrick’s Day. We worked together for ten years, through strikes and parties and day-to-day dramas. Davey was born with cystic fibrosis. Most days were a struggle for him, but you would never know it. His sense of humor was razor-sharp and on the money. I would dissolve in tears of laughter at his comments. Sometimes, just a look was enough to get the giggles going. He listened when I had my trials and tribulations. I did the same for him. All his coworkers came to love him dearly.

The morning he died, he tried to say goodbye, but sometimes we don’t want to hear it. Dave had been hospitalized many times. Although he was thirty-two he still was placed in the Adolescent Unit because, at that time, most cystic fibrosis patients did not live much longer than their teens. Dave was a fighter. He raised his younger brother after their father died during open-heart surgery. He walked the picket line with us. When I became management, he would call to ask how things were going, make disparaging remarks about the bosses, and leave me laughing even though I had crossed the line every day.

When Kris and I went into his room he told us he was too tired to fight. These were words we never heard from him before, so we made some inane comments, told him we’d be up to see him soon, and went back to work. A few hours later we got the call. “Come quick, it’s Davey. Hurry!” I was seven months pregnant, but I outran Kris up the stairs. “He’s gone, girls. I’m so sorry.”

His brother was with him at the end. There is no easy way to say farewell.

I think of Dave when someone makes just the right comment about a politician or authority figure that has it all wrong. There are so many. His dry humor and acerbic wit still echo. The thing that still touches my heart is his affection for all of us, especially his brother and his family. So, on St. Patrick’s Day, this one’s for you, Davey…with a little scotch on the side.

May the road rise to meet you May the wind be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, May the rain fall soft upon your fields, And, until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

~Irish Blessing

Originally published at http://shrineonvickie.blogspot.com.