Author: Tess Enterline

It was the first week of January 2018, and my father lay dying 2,400 miles away. I was desperate to see him, a desire complicated by the fact that, as my dad grew weaker at home with my mom in Scottsdale, Arizona, an historic bomb cyclone storm (I had never even heard of such a thing until that week) formed as an area of low pressure off the Southeast coast of the United States and was rapidly gaining strength.

            I couldn’t believe that something called a “bomb cyclone” was going to keep me from saying goodbye to my dad.

            My dad, Nicholas Joseph Corsi, born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1926, nine days after and around the block from my mom, Matilda Josephine Troise, was stoic and stubborn as he battled Myelodysplastic Syndrome (MDS) over the last dozen years of his life. MDS is a disease that slowly depletes the body of healthy blood cells, especially in bone marrow. Gradually, organs in the body—heart, lungs, and kidneys—weaken. Compromised oxygen to the brain can lead to confusion and memory loss. The WebMD site states: “most people who get MDS are 65 or older, but it can happen to younger people too. And it is more common in men.”

            Progression of a disease like myelodysplastic syndrome can be quite slow, even in an older individual like my dad (he had just turned ninety-one on December 28, 2017) who had not escaped other serious ailments. He was already down to one kidney after a malignant tumor robbed him of the other in 1995; he had gone through radiation treatment for prostate cancer in 2000; and in 2014 he suffered a heart attack due to a blockage in the artery referred to as “the widow maker.” A stent took care of that.

            But by New Year’s Day 2018, my dad was sleeping through most of the day and eating very little. We were all aware of his end-of-life wishes to not have any extreme measures taken to prolong his life, knowledge which didn’t make the burden of my mother’s next decision any lighter, but she could feel comfortable with it: to stop treatment and request care from one of the hospice chapters in the Phoenix/Scottsdale area—Hospice of the Valley. The paperwork had already been taken care of in anticipation of the day when hospice would be needed. Carrie made a call to my dad’s doctor on January 2^nd to set the process in motion; I got online and booked a flight into Phoenix for Saturday, January 6^th, which allowed time to get to the other side of the impending storm.

            We had grown accustomed to the process of a very long, slow decline in my dad. We were all used to dad being sick. Now we had to face a new reality—dad being gone. Sooner than any of us expected. During the second visit by the hospice team, on January 3^rd, two loving-as-could-be women gently shared with my mom and sister that my dad probably only had days to live.

            I wanted … needed … to get to Arizona right away and not have to wait for Saturday. The winter cyclone, which was wreaking havoc at every airport within a 100-mile radius of my home in central Pennsylvania, stood in the way. My dad was sick for so long. What are the freaking chances that his final days and a bomb cyclone would collide?

            As I watched The Weather Channel and endlessly repeated images of the storm—a pinwheel-shaped, spinning mass in shades of gray and white, covering huge swaths of the East Coast—I felt jealous.

            I envied the storm’s freedom as it boldly shimmied, shifted, and swirled wherever it pleased, while those of us living miles under its path were held captive in our homes. Damn you, winter, I thought. You have no right to deny me a goodbye. 

            I felt like both of my feet had been plunged into buckets of fast-drying cement. I wasn’t going anywhere. If the planes were grounded, so was I.

            And there was a part of me that was relieved by that fact.

            I’m a nervous flyer in the best of conditions, relying on Ativan to quiet my nerves. Just a small dose … it’s enough to “take the edge off.” But the thought of flying in the immediate aftermath of a bomb cyclone storm, with temperatures well below freezing and de-icing trucks sitting on many runways at the ready, didn’t sit well. And then there was the larger issue—the one that really mattered, the one that made me feel like a selfish child: Did I truly want to be next to my dad when he took his final breath? I did so want to be there to join with my sister in supporting our mother, who was about to lose her husband of sixty-seven years. 

            My sister, who, as the only sibling living in Scottsdale or anywhere in the West (my brother and I both live on the East coast), had shouldered most of the responsibility of helping our parents. I didn’t want Carrie to also have to shoulder the burden of grief that would come at the end. I wanted to be brave and selfless. I wanted to be a hospital chaplain again—comforting the dying … consoling their loved ones. But, even ten years after walking away from hospital chaplaincy, some memories of the trauma cases I was involved in still live very close to the surface. When a trigger sets off the tripwire in my emotions, my immediate impulse is often to flee the situation. So, I had to ask myself: Would I be able to handle the sight of my dad’s passing? I was unsure. But I was willing to find out. My place was there.
 
            My cell phone rang at 7:15 the next morning. It was only 5:15 a.m. in Scottsdale when Carrie called, but she needed to talk and cry. Dad was fading quickly, she said.

            “I don’t think you’re going to make it here in time, Tess.”

            Her words were like a thrown stone striking the center of a sheet of glass. My heart broke, from its center, the pain then rippling outward. My hopes of seeing my dad one last time were shattered.

            I wanted to say, “Carrie, you have to tell dad that he has to wait for me. Tell him that he has to be stubborn like he always is.” Yet, can a dying man be convinced to stay alive if his soul has other intentions? How could I ask more of my father than Our Father apparently had? Together, they were setting the schedule.

            That Thursday afternoon—with my dad failing and planes still grounded—I placed a call to Carrie’s cell phone. She held it up to my dad’s ear. I could barely get the words out … words I hadn’t said to him nearly enough.

            “I love you, dad.”

            I can only hope what Carrie said next was true, that he reacted to the sound of my voice.

            “It looked like dad was listening,” she said.

            I choked out a goodbye to my sister. I sat and sobbed and cursed nature for being so cruel.
 
            Friday morning arrived, and with it, God’s indulgence—my dad had made it through another night. Improved weather was also finally allowing planes to take-off from Philadelphia International Airport again. A limited number of flights to Phoenix were available.

            Could I actually make it to my dad’s side in time? I knew that I had to try, or risk regret for the rest of my days. I quickly placed two phone calls—to my husband, Rick (“I’m going!”) and to my sister (“I’m coming!”). And then a mad dash to pack before Rick picked me up for the short ride to the train station, for the first leg of a trip that would have me in Scottsdale that evening.

            As I sprinted through my morning with a boosted sense of hope in seeing my dad, the journey of another winter traveler was already in progress aboard an Amtrak train headed from Pittsburgh to Harrisburg. Once there it would pick up additional passengers—some (including me) headed to Philadelphia, a number to New York City, and others to points along the way.

That other winter traveler … I thank God for him to this day.

(Photo Credit: Todd Diemer on Unsplash)

Please read Part 2 for the continuation of this story.

January 5, 2018:
The frigid cold that Friday morning made every second outside a second too long. Everyone moved quickly down along the train platform, and, one-by-one, disappeared into their chosen car, traces of exhaled breath disappearing in the air right behind them.

            I typically choose a seat in one of the middle cars of the train. My rationale: It’s a safer location than one of the front cars in the event of a head-on collision, and, I felt, provided a smoother, more anchored, ride than a car in the rear of the train. On that particular day, I’m sure I made a beeline for the closest car, collisions and anchors be damned.

            After hoisting my suitcase onto the luggage rack, I made my way to a forward-facing window seat near the front of the car (interesting fact: forward-facing seats out of Harrisburg become rear-facing seats—and vice versa—when the train pulls out of 30^th Street Station in Philadelphia and switches tracks before continuing on to New York City.)

            Settled into my seat, I sent a text message to my sister. “I’m on the train. Tell mom and dad I’m on my way!”

            My cell phone rang only seconds after I hit “send.” It was Carrie calling with wonderful news—she and one of the aides had gotten dad freshened up. “He’s ready for company!” she said.

            My muscles relaxed with relief at the news. I could feel myself settle deeper into my seat. I had made the right decision about hopping on a flight and would get to see my dad one last time.

            The train started a slow roll out of the station. We had no sooner cleared the platform when I became aware (it was impossible not to) of a cell phone conversation going on one row behind me, in the aisle to my right. An older gentleman, looking tired and rumpled as he held the phone to his ear, was obviously not happy, and was spelling it all out for the party on the other end as to why and who was to blame (besides the bomb cyclone). He didn’t seem to care whether all of the forward- or rear-facing passengers heard him. It went on like that until we arrived at the next stop, in Middletown, about a ten-minute ride. And then, finally, quiet.

            What happened next, I can’t fully explain.

            I turned around in my seat, looked up at this stranger and said, “Sounds like you’ve had a rough day so far.”

            He looked a bit startled by a voice being directed at him, and embarrassed by the realization that he hadn’t been speaking in his “quiet voice.” Then, the corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile. It was a look that said, “Busted.”

             “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation (might as well own it). You sound upset,” I said to the loud-talker. Then, patting the empty seat next to me, I added: “Would you like to sit down and talk about it? I bet it’ll help.”

            Whoa … where the heck did that come from?

            I have to make something absolutely clear: Although I do consider myself a nice person, I am notusually the assertive type who will be so out-front and offer help so publicly. I’m quiet and low-key. The person who had just uttered those words to the loud-talker … that’s not generally who I am. So I was startled, too, by the words that came spilling out of my mouth.

            “No … thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry I was so loud. I’m fine.”

            “Are you sure? Why don’t you sit down. I’d really love to talk, and it’ll make the trip go by faster for both of us.”

            And he did. And we talked … for about forty-five minutes.

            His name was Tony. Looked to be in his late seventies. He had been traveling by rail (his flights canceled by the storm) since the day before, working his way home to New Jersey following a visit with family in Texas. He was diabetic, so traveling by train and through train stations made meals a challenge. Had some heart problems, too.

            “Where are you headed?” he asked.

            “I’m going to Scottsdale, Arizona, to visit my parents and sister.” No need to get into the whole story.

            When Tony said that he going back to his seat—he had already taken up too much of my time, he said—it was so that he could eat something, he was hungry. The only food in his bag, he said, was a piece of chocolate cake that he had picked up at Union Station in Pittsburgh.

            Chocolate cake! I imagined Tony finishing half the slice and then starting to shake or fall unconscious from diabetic shock in the seat right behind me.

            “You can’t eat that! You’re diabetic. Here … take this banana.” The ease with which I pushed food on Tony was a sure sign that we had become friends.

            He gratefully accepted my offering and returned to his seat. I turned back around in mine and gazed out the window at the passing fields, strip malls, and gas stations. I guess that’s my mitzvah (good deed) for today, I thought.

            Being able to listen to Tony and see him relax had relaxed me as well. Yet, there was also something unsettling about the randomness of my interaction with him. We were two people trying to get to opposite coasts. He was heading East; I was heading West. But, for a two-and-a-half-hour pocket of time on January 5, 2018, coincidence, or fate, brought us together aboard an Amtrak train bound for Philadelphia. Why, I wondered.

As I stared out the window, I heard a ping sound from my cell phone, alerting me to a new text message. An hour before, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone so quickly, fearing a dire message regarding my father; Carrie’s earlier call had soothed those concerns. Which made her text message all the more jolting.

            “Tess, dad passed about ten minutes ago. He went very peacefully. I’m so sorry you weren’t here. I just can’t talk right now. I’ll call you soon.”

What? Was I really sitting alone on a train and being told that my father had just died? I was stunned by how quickly everything had changed. Wasn’t he “ready for company” just an hour ago? It was his time, I tearfully told myself. His soul did have other intentions.

            And then I remembered Tony, my new friend, sitting right behind me, and having the same name as my father’s lifetime friend and the Best Man at his wedding. Although not a blood relative, we kids called him “Uncle Tony.” Maybe it was my father who had given me a nudge to say something to my new Tony. Maybe that’s how dad wanted me to remember that day … by helping Tony.

            The train continued rolling toward Philly, and I sat in awe of God’s designs.

             I had not been alone when my dad took his final breaths; Tony was sitting right beside me. When my dad was in his final moments on this earth—moments that I couldn’t share in—I could listen to Tony. I could be present to him and try to comfort him. I could be a chaplain again.

Today, as I send this storyletter out to you, I’m back in Scottsdale with family to mark the one-year anniversary of my dad’s passing. I can think back to January 5, 2018 and not be overcome with sadness, because I also think of my friend, Tony, and how he came into my life at just the right time. That is the joy and wonder of God’s ways.

There are many more “Tonys” out there. Let us always be open to the gentle spirit who nudges us to welcome them into our life.

(I never did tell Tony or anyone else on the train that my dad had passed away. I just wanted to hold that close.)