by Gwendolyn M Plano

     Two years ago, my husband and I traveled to Ireland, the country of my ancestors. Though brief, the visit was memorable, and one day in particular, unforgettable.
​
     We took a bus tour to the ruins of Glendalough, a 6th century village tucked within the Wicklow mountains. As the tour group meandered between one structure and the next, I decided to walk alone through the ancient graveyard. Rather than Halloween’s witches and goblins, there was just a quiet breeze and extraordinary beauty.

     Caught in my own tearful reverie, I did not notice the gentleman standing behind me, until he began to speak.

     I’ve been watching you, as you’ve walked among the graves.

     Startled, I turned and was met with soft eyes of gray.
 
     You love it here, don’t you? Where are you from?

     The United States, wiping away the tears from my face. 

     I thought so. I live just down the road and visit every day.

     Together we stood before the field of tombstones and trees, this nameless gentleman and me, admiring the history at our feet, but otherwise not saying anything - until I took my leave.
​

     The hospital had grown accustomed to my visits, a mother for the motherless in the middle of the night. As the Dean of Students at a Connecticut university, I was responsible for the well-being of students. Sometimes this role took me to the hospital.

     I hadn’t met Rick before the police called early one Friday morning. Like many students, he had been drinking at a local bar. His buddies returned to campus, but Rick refused to leave and continued drinking until he finally collapsed unresponsive on the floor.

     When I arrived at the hospital, I was told that Rick’s blood alcohol level was higher than any they had ever recorded. The doctor did not expect him to live.  

     I held this once robust nineteen-year-old’s hand for hours that night, listening to his every breath. I told him he had to live; I told him firmly – repeatedly. His parents needed him, I said. His friends needed him. He was too young to die; there were things he needed to do. He had to survive.

     As morning light began to flood the room, his parents arrived. They had driven from Massachusetts, knowing that they might never have a conversation with their son again. We spoke briefly, and I left to get my own sons ready for school.

     Two days later, I received word that Rick had regained consciousness. I went to the hospital to see him and talk with the parents. Rick did not know me and was perplexed when he saw me in the room. But as soon as I said, “Hello Rick, how are you feeling?” he responded. “I know who you are. I know your voice. You are the one who told me I had to live.”

     Because of Rick, I talk with those who cannot speak.  

     I mention this because earlier this month, my dad passed away. As he lay in a coma, I said my final goodbyes while holding his arm – the arm which prior to an accident had had a hand. Dad heard me through the weight of deep sleep and moved this arm. But, it was when I told him that all of his children would take care of mom, that his breathing changed. Slower and slower, it became – until it was no more. I could hear the I love you, as times past and dreams future embraced.

     If you are blessed to be bedside with someone who cannot speak, remember Rick and know that you might have the words that this person needs to be at peace.
​

A few years ago, I retired from a career in education. I’ve worked with students all my professional life, teaching in colleges on both coastlines. Like so many others, I created programs, counseled hundreds, and financially helped those who struggled to make ends meet.

Today I share a story about one of those students.

Just before resigning my post, a veteran who had served as Special Forces in the Marines came to my office.  Other veterans had directed him to me. This young man, whom I’ll call Mark, had served multiple missions in the Middle East. He had returned physically whole, but mentally desperate. He wanted to secure an education, so that he could find a job in the civilian world.

California’s residency laws determined that Mark was “out-of-State,” which meant, he would need to pay extraordinarily high tuition to attend the college – money he did not have.

Mark explained that he had been promised an education, and the only State that he had residency in was California, because it was there that he entered the service, and there that he returned. He had no other home.

I promised Mark that I would do what I could to help. When he left, I made a number of phone calls, contacted elected officials about the situation, and established a scholarship fund for him (donor unknown).

Mark and I met again. He had decided to leave the college, because he did not have the means to stay – no place to live, no way to pay the tuition. As we talked, I asked for more time; he was non-committal. Finally I asked, “What will you do if you leave?”

This extraordinary young man explained that he had termed out of Special Forces with the Marines, but he would enlist in Special Forces in the Army. I gasped and reminded him of the danger, to which he responded, “Yes, but this is something I know I can do.”

I think of Mark almost every day. I don’t know if he is alive or not. But, I do know we failed him – the system failed him, the State of California failed him, those of us who imagine robots are in the line of fire failed him. Yes, we all failed him.
​
So why do I share this story now?

In the United States we are caught in the treachery of the Presidential elections. The worst of human nature is exposed. And yet, it is the best among us who risk everything so that this drama can unfold.

I originally posted this blog in May, as my dad began his decline. His ​goodbye ​is now real, and so I honor him with this re-posting.

​      I’ve been on the road for a while, crisscrossing the United States to be with family on both the East and West Coasts. Children, grandchildren, siblings and parents -- it was wonderful seeing them all. The little ones warmed my heart with their imaginary kingdoms - and puppies and kittens. Their parents, my sons and daughter, talked about home and security – and maybe travel. The contrast between young dreamers and older dreamers brought me into my own.

Most poignant was being with my father, who now remembers little and says only a few words. About eight decades ago when he was young and adventuresome, dad’s dreams took him to California, where he served in the Navy and later met my mother. Eventually his dreams drew him to the vast stretches of land known as the Imperial Valley. It was there that he toiled into the night and began a family.

When dad was 34, though, his dreams left him – for a while. A farming accident took his arm and with it, his hopes for building a future for his children. Eventually, time helped him realize that he could learn to use one hand when two were needed. And with that, he began to dream again.

Being with my father brought back so many memories, but more than the images that surfaced, I understood differently. As a child, dad was bigger than life; he could do anything and would do anything to help his family. I did not see his dreams then; I did not know his worries. It was only later when I had my own family that I saw both – through my own dreams and worries.

Dad now rests in a hospital bed, where life is quietly leaving him. He is between worlds, and I wonder, does he dream of either? Sometimes he calls out to a brother or sister who has predeceased him, and I think, yes, he is dreaming of the life that awaits him.

When I visited this time, I asked mom for something of dad’s that I could hold near. Together we searched through his dresser and found, to her surprise and mine, the watch dad was wearing when his dreams were taken. Like my father’s arm, it did not survive the blades of the combine. But, broken and battered, it honors dreams – the before and after dreams of tragedies.

And so it is that this forgotten timepiece, now encased and displayed, is a reminder for me of a life well lived, of the power of dreams, of the resilience of the human spirit.

                                                            Thank you Dad!