A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
By Adrian P. Spidle, Jr.
It was three P.M. Wednesday, August 24, 1988. Bobby and I were taking a break shooting some eight ball in the billiard room in the Boston Federal Reserve Bank Building where we worked. Christina, my secretary, found us there and said, "So this is what you big shots do all day..." Christina's smile left her face. She looked me in the eye and said, "Your brother called. He wants you to call him at your parent’s home right away. It's an emergency."
My breath left me as if I had been punched in the stomach, my heart started to race. Mirth became near panic. My Dad had had a stroke three years ago, and I have been dreading this kind of call ever since.
As Christina and I rode the elevator to the thirtieth floor, nothing was said (Bobby later told me he didn't have the nerve to ride up with me.) My mind raced through endless terrible possibilities as waves of emotions ebbed and flowed within me.
At the reception desk, Pam looked concerned as she handed me the written message with the word EMERGENCY printed in large letters on its face. I couldn't talk to anyone as I raced to my office to make the call I had to make.
My mother answered the phone, "Hello". I said, "Mom, this is Adrian."
She passed the phone to my brother Alfred who said, "Roddy is dead!"
I started to choke up. Al choked up. "How could that be?" I said. "Heart attack," he said.
“I'm not ready for him to die." said I. " Me neither", said Al.
At the same time I felt a strange sense of relief that my father was still alive.
"How are Dad and Mom?" I asked.
Al said, "Mom's strong, Dad's real upset. We need you to come home now. Take a plane and I'll meet you at Newark."
I hesitated only a moment and said, "O.K.. Let me make the reservations and I'll get back to you."
I hung up the phone and started to cry softly. Roddy was my baby brother, ten years my junior. He was the last one I expected to die, as well as the first close relative to die in my then forty three years on this planet. We had not gotten along too well since I’d married Laura, who had not gotten along too well with Roddy. I was truly not ready for him to die without reconciliation first.
Memories came flooding back of Roddy as a baby. He was a beautiful baby, a delight to my whole family, especially my father. He was the only one of us boys for whom Dad was home during our early childhood years. Dad was a merchant marine captain, and mostly at sea during my early years. I remembered Al and I taking Roddy's plastic formula bottle and squeezing the milk into his face when Mom wasn't looking. He would make sour faces and squirm around trying to avoid his brother’s shenanigans. I wonder who made the rule that brothers must torture each other. In later years, Roddy would frequently seek my protection from an enraged Alfred, after Roddy had destroyed some carefully crafted plastic airplane, or something. I used to love protecting Roddy from Al's wrath, no matter what the perceived offense.
At his death, Roddy was five feet eleven inches tall, 180 pounds, and thirty four years, four months, and twenty three days into a very exciting life. It was the kind of life that most boys dream about. He had traveled all over the world, had loved many women, and was on his way to becoming a captain, like his father. He was strong and apparently healthy. With no warning, his heart stopped, and he died instantly while getting ready for work.
Pam entered my office and asked how I was doing. I told her the news, and she asked what she could do as she hugged me. I told her I needed reservations on a flight; my appointments cancelled; and a ride home to get some things as my car was in the shop. Thank God Pam was there to arrange everything for me.
As I waited for my ride, I called home to see how things were going and to communicate my travel arrangements. Al told me how Roddy had just asked Dad how he was feeling (he was always so concerned about Dad's health), and went up to his room to get ready for work. Mom sent Dad to check on Roddy when she didn't hear his shower at the appropriate time. Dad went upstairs and found his son lying dead on the bathroom floor. Dad checked Roddy's pulse and called out for Mom to come. Mom called 911 and followed their instructions trying to resuscitate her son to no avail. Throughout this whole period, I have been amazed at my mother's strength and presence of mind.
My emotions were hard to control as I listened to my parents relating this experience. It seems that being a parent almost guarantees heartbreak at some time in your life. I will never forget Dad's voice as he told this story to me. Something important was gone from his life forever, never to return.
Greg, a coworker, was kind enough to give me a ride home, and he tried to cheer me up as best he could. The time since first hearing of Roddy's death has been awkward and difficult in many ways. I kept thinking that the world and everyone in it was going along as usual. Didn't they care that my brother was dead at such a tragically early age? I didn’t know how to be with people. Business as usual? If someone said "How are you," I didn't know how to answer. I couldn't get Roddy out of my mind. For the past twenty years Roddy was a very peripheral part of my life. Now, after his death, I couldn't get him out of my mind.
A cute college girl sat next to me on the plane. She looked so serious as she perused a copy of ANTIQUES magazine. Boston was gray and clouded in as we took off. As the plane cleared the murk and burst into a sparkling blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, I thought that Roddy would never fly again, never see the blue sky, and never see a cute girl again. I started to share my feelings and thoughts with Catherine. She appeared very concerned as I told her about Roddy, and his death that morning. She had a philosophical bent and it actually felt very good to talk with someone who could sympathize with my situation.
Al was waiting for me when I reached the waiting area in Newark Airport. We put our arms around each other and cried a bit. Al said he had Dad waiting in the car and that I should hug him and, "be strong for him..." This was to be the beginning of a sub rosa conflict about how to be in these circumstances. Al, Rosie (his wife), and Mom seemed to think that it was important not to let Dad see how upset we were, hence the idea, "Be strong for Dad." I thought that was silly; that Dad was already profoundly grieving; and that I didn't see any value in pretending otherwise.
As we approached the car, I caught a glimpse of Dad, standing in the parking lot leaning against the car door. My heart raced and I fought back tears at the sight of this once powerful, always magnificent man who was so devastated at the loss of his youngest son. We hugged and he choked out, "I only have two sons now!"
I felt like I was in a dream as Dad and I held hands while Al drove us through the back streets of Newark taking a short cut to Staten Island. Dad recounted the details of finding Roddy's body. This was the first time I ever saw my father cry. When Dad had his stroke, he behaved as John Wayne would have behaved. This experience was more than he could handle.
Dad was a captain in the United States Merchant Marine. He was in convoy on the North Atlantic the day I was born. He was aboard ship supporting the invasions of islands in the Pacific. He commanded freighters, tankers, even a huge passenger ship. As operations vice president for Prudential-Grace Lines he was directly in charge of scores of ships and their officers and men. At sixty seven he had been laid low by a stroke, and now, at seventy, the death of his youngest son.
One of Roddy and Dad’s greatest experiences occurred just after Dad had been fired by Prudential Steamship Lines. The US Ambassador to Austria hired Dad to sail his yacht from Vienna; down the Danube; through the Black Sea and the Dardanelles to Piraeus, Greece where it was to be loaded on a ship for transport back to the USA. Dad took Roddy along as his “crew” and they thoroughly enjoyed the trip - please see the pictures nearby. You can actually see the love, Dad had for his son, in his eyes in one of those pictures. Roddy especially enjoyed the couple weeks Dad left his sixteen year-old son on the yacht in Piraeus harbor to watch it ‘till the designated ship arrived to load it. Rumor has it that Roddy was busy showing lovely young things all over the harbor while claiming the yacht was “his.”
Dad had always been my hero, and I just didn't know how to deal with this. I wanted, so badly, to make it all better for him, but I knew I couldn't. I wanted to tell him how important he was to me, but I knew he already knew it. All we could do now was grieve for Roddy, together, as a family.
7
Mom was matter-of-factly attending to whatever details needed to be handled when we got there. Rosie was her complete partner in planning and implementation. As we talked about Roddy, Mom's eyes would frequently moisten, but she would never lose control. Ever since Dad's stroke, I have been in awe of Mom's devotion and purposefulness. Keeping my father alive and happy seems to be the driving force in her life. She was trying so hard to control things so that Dad wouldn't get upset.
The next morning, Al and I had to go identify the body at the medical examiner's office in the Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn. As we drove there, we got so lost in conversation, talking about Roddy, that we missed our turn and took an unscheduled tour of Brooklyn. We still disagreed about, "being strong", or being emotional. I pointed out that Italians and other Latin people have very emotional funerals to no apparent detriment. We finally agreed to call Dad's Doctor to see what he thought.
The medical examiners office is next to an office that has the word "HOMICIDE" lettered on the door. The dingy little waiting room already had two other forlorn people in it when we arrived. The medical examiner asked us several questions about Roddy (apparently to determine if there was foul play, or drugs, or something) and then lead us into the bowels of the building to a little room with a glass wall covered by a curtain.
All the while I was a bit taken aback by the routine, business as usual, attitude displayed by the workers there. He then said, "I will open the curtain and you will see the body." He opened the curtain and Al and I gasped as we saw Roddy's face sticking out of a plastic body bag. It looked like he was in the bag face first and someone had just ripped a hole in the bag just large enough to allow us to see his face. Roddy's eyes were closed, his lips looked chapped, and he definitely looked at peace. He even seemed to have a slight smile on his face. Al put his arm around my shoulder as we looked at our brother, all the time our bodies trembling with emotion.
As we drove back to Staten Island over the Verazzano Bridge, I thought out loud, "Roddy will cross this bridge one more time." Al responded, "He'll never go under it again."
Roddy, as a New York seafaring man, must have headed out to sea hundreds of times, passing under this bridge. Our father is very proud of the exploits of his sons, and he can recount them all in detail.
The next job for Al and I was to pick out the clothes with which to bury Roddy in and bring them to the funeral home. We also had to sort through Roddy's possessions to find any important papers he might have had. We took our time as we rummaged through Roddy's clothes, photographs, souvenirs, papers, etc. We were both profoundly moved, from time to time, and were amazed at how little he had accumulated in his life. We couldn't decide what to do with all the minutiae that was, apparently, so important to Roddy. What should we do with his photos, high school diploma, third mates license, and numerous other papers and items that were obviously important to him? I couldn't see throwing them out, or putting them in the attic. We just sorted his things out and picked a suit, shirt, tie, underwear, shoes and socks to bury him in.
After we dropped Roddy's clothes off at the funeral home, our next task was to go to the Moravian Cemetery and pick out a plot. The Moravian Church and cemetery bring back many happy memories to me. I went to YMCA day camp there when I was four or five years old. We used to bicycle and sled through its grounds depending on the season. I used to park there with my old girlfriend Luann. It seemed to be the perfect place to bury the first Spidle to be buried on Staten Island. We picked a plot that could hold four people… Roddy, Mom, Dad, and Al or I. I thought, "We are all destined to die". Up until now, I had felt pretty immortal. Somehow, it was comforting to know I had a place to park my mortal remains.
My favorite aunt, Auntie Bernie, among others, visited us that evening. Her husband, Uncle Cecil, was extremely upset at Roddy's loss. We spent the evening sharing memories of Roddy, and getting choked up and moist eyed. I slept Thursday evening in the room that was mine when I was twelve years old.
Friday, we were waking Roddy from three to five, and, seven to nine at the Harmon Funeral Home on Forest Avenue. In the past, I had thought that a wake was a bizarre, weird tradition that I didn't want any part of. It turned out, however, to be an immensely satisfying and even rewarding experience for my family. Numerous friends of Roddy's, whom we didn't even know, paid their respects, and told us countless stories from Roddy's life that illustrated many aspects of his life that we never knew about. My mother kept saying, "I didn't know if anyone would come." Well over a hundred people attended.
Roddy was, among other things, a lady's man, and several attractive young women were among his visitors. In fact, when we first arrived at the funeral home, there were two young women leaning over his body, crying profusely, squeezing his arm, and messing his hair (Roddy never kept his hair neat.)
All the while, since I first heard of his death, I knew that I would have to speak at his service, and I couldn't figure out what I would say. Everyone said I didn't have to, but I was determined to pay tribute to my brother and honor my parents. During the wake I couldn't take my attention off my father and mother. The people I love the most were suffering as much as a human being could suffer. Dad sat in a large wing chair at the head of his son's casket periodically pointing his cane at Roddy as he choked out story after story about Roddy to countless visitors. Mom sat nearby surrounded by friends and family. I will never forget her introducing one of her garden club ladies to her sons.
"This is my son Alfred, this is my son Adrian, and that is our baby (pointing at Roddy)" That was when I decided that whatever I would say in Roddy's eulogy would honor my mother and father. I was desperate to do something to comfort them.
Dad kept asking me, "Is Caryl (my girlfriend) coming?" Each time I said, "She is driving down after her last patient, and she should be here before midnight." Dad would then say, "She will cheer us up!" followed by his assessment of how wonderful he thinks she is. He said, among other things, that she has the best legs he has ever seen (Caryl likes to wear shorts when she's not being a Doctor)
Sure enough, Caryl arrived just before midnight. Dad wanted her to sit right next to him. For me, Caryl was a sponge for my grief and sadness. I could talk to Caryl. I could say anything to her. What we talked about that night was the distinction, "family." Roddy and I weren't close. In fact, Roddy, Alfred, and I are a text book case of sibling rivalry, yet I'm clear that I love them, and they love me. A Family is an iceberg. You only pay attention to all the jagged edges that show above the surface, and almost ignore the huge invisible mass that supports it beneath the surface, the shared history, blood, love, and commitment.
The limousine picked us up at 10:00 AM.., Saturday to take us to the funeral home. At this time I feel compelled to acknowledge the Harmon Funeral Home on Staten Island, and all other funeral homes and directors by extension. They took care of us. They really took care of us! I strongly feel that they are a much maligned profession.
The actual funeral service seemed almost like a dream. How could Roddy be dead at only thirty four years old? How could he do this to my parents? For my part of the eulogy, I was going to read a citation for heroism that Roddy received for putting out a fire on a ship at sea, while escorting passengers to safety (Roddy was definitely brave.) and then acknowledge him for living in the maritime tradition of the Spidles, and Marchands.
Al and I agreed that I would speak first. So we both stepped up to the podium by Roddy's casket at the minister’s signal. The room was filled with the people we loved the most, and many good friends. As I looked around the room from my father, and mother, and face by face at our friends, and relatives, I was momentarily too choked up to speak. Al stepped up and related a story told us by one of Roddy's classmates from high school. This young man suffered from epilepsy, and Roddy would take care of him whenever he had a seizure, and then follow that with a joke, to make him laugh, as soon as it was appropriate. Al then had the unmitigated gall to reach for the citation. I grabbed it from his hand and started to speak. What a truly wonderful time for sibling rivalry to reassert itself. My feelings toward Al at that time were a mixture of outrage, and love. How typical!
After reading the stirringly written commendation, I said
"Our brother, Roddy, lived his life following in the tradition of courage, and adventure of the Spidle, and Marchand families. His very life honored his mother, and his father, and all his family. Roddy circumnavigated the globe many times, and visited every continent but Antarctica. Roddy visited many parts of the world when it was dangerous for Americans to be there. Roddy chose the sea as his profession as our father did before him.
When United States Lines went bankrupt, it looked like Roddy had lost his dream. The U. S. merchant marine was all but dead in the water. Celestial navigation and seamanship are not very useful on dry land. But Roddy never gave up. The last day of Roddy's life on this earth was probably his happiest. He had just been accepted for a job on the Staten Island Ferry, and with his credentials and experience he would have been a captain within a year. Another Captain Spidle! We can only imagine how proud he would have been! We will all continue to love and miss him for the rest of our lives."
Mom and Dad each motioned us to stop with them for a moment on the way back to our chairs. Dad said, "That was wonderful. You should be a public speaker. Mom said, " Roddy would have really liked that!" We each kissed them both and took our chairs.
As everyone filed out to drive to the cemetery, Dad asked Mom to help him because he wanted to kiss Roddy on the cheek (as he had done countless times during Roddy's childhood.) She did, and then she kissed his cheek and patted his head with her eyes full of tears. I placed one of my business cards in his pocket, and Al had the funeral director place his watch on Roddy's wrist. (Dad had Roddy's big black watch on his wrist.)
The one true love of Roddy's life was Robin Kelleher. They went out, off and on, for years. They were engaged, disengaged, reengaged, etc.,etc. I remember pretty Robin looking in my fathers eyes, both of them crying, and saying, "I really loved your son." Robin had sent a basket of a dozen red roses, and my mother had placed it right on the casket. At the request of my family, Robin placed one of the roses in Roddy's hands.
The casket was closed, and the pall bearers took their places. Myself, Alfred, Cousin Wayne, Cousin Bobby, Todd Ettlinger, and Dougie MacKenzie carried Roddy to the hearse.
Wayne recalled going, "to the city," with Roddy to pick out an engagement ring for Robin. He said, "Roddy asked me, 'Do you think she will llllike this? "' Roddy stuttered when he was excited. How incongruous. We were all laughing as we carried Roddy on his last trip on the earth’s surface.
As we walked to the graveside, I noticed an open grave next to Roddy's. The minister said, "That grave is for a seventeen year old boy who's father gave him a car in the morning, and the boy died in an accident in the afternoon." Dad said," That's twice as bad as Roddy."
The minister said his words and the close family members each placed a rose on Roddy's casket. As we walked back to the limousine, I was holding Caryl's hand and Dad's hand. I was struck by the beauty, serenity, and permanence of the Moravian Cemetery. I thought that Mom, Dad, and maybe I would someday join Roddy in that small patch of ground, forever. Our blood was in the ground now on Staten Island. Staten Island is, somehow, consecrated by this act.
After we arrived at my parent’s home, I got the idea to create a scrapbook to contain Roddy's photos, papers, and important memorabilia. Caryl and I bought the album, and then spent several hours in Roddy's room sorting and organizing Roddy's things and placing them in the album. I also completed the "MEMORIES" book given to us by the funeral home, and signed by all of Roddy's visitors. I put a few significant photos in it and presented them to Mom and Dad. Mom devoured those books with her eyes, as if she could recreate Roddy's life through these few material objects. I felt very proud of my efforts as I watched Mom and Dad leaf through those pages. The minister had said in his service, "Memories are a gift of God that we can never lose as long as we live."
It was September 15 as I was writing this. I got my haircut that day and the experience triggered some memories, as seemed to happen so frequently then. I got my first haircut forty three years before then from "Joe the barber." He has cut my fathers hair ever since, as well as my brothers and I whenever we were around. He is a handsome, proud man, who still cuts hair in his own shop, even though he is well into his eighties. I remembered Joe sitting in the funeral home looking at Roddy, and then Dad, and back and forth muttering to himself," I can't believe it. "It felt so good to see people I hadn't seen for decades. Even Luann, my first love in high school, came by. She looked great and showed me pictures of her husband and children. Al's old girlfriend Linda, and Cousin Ronnie's old girlfriend Pattie also dropped by.
I remember having dinner with my friend Lorna a few months before Roddy's death. She said at the time, "Anyone who is really in touch with the risk that life is must live in terror. Life is so exquisitely fragile and can end at any instant without warning."
I barely thought about this then; just conversational philosophy which I had heard before. Trivial. I never thought this passing dixie cup quote would serve as the maxim which now directs most of what I now do. We must live our life as if this moment is the only moment we have left, while, at the same time, planning for our lives to work in the future, if we are lucky enough to have a future.
Just today, two different friends of mine, unaware of my brother’s death, said that I seemed unusually relaxed and serene. I have found that facing the inevitability of my death and coming to terms with it can actually be a liberating experience. Since Roddy's death I have made the final plans for my own funeral and have provided for the funding of it by adjusting the beneficiary on my life insurance policy. I actually felt very good at completing my own final arrangements.
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