Lost Brother

17. From the time I was a toddler until I turned twelve, my mother spent about four years of her life pregnant. During the 1950s, pregnant women didn't worry about smoking, caffeine, eating certain fish or taking Lamaze classes. And when it was time to deliver, they were pretty much knocked out, and woke up with their babies sleeping off the same anesthesia down the hall in the nursery. For the most part, Mom did a pretty good job having her babies. Each labor and delivery got quicker with each kid, so much so that when her last child, Amy, was born, Mom barely made it into the delivery room before my sister made her presence known.

But it was while we were living on Cortland street that my mother suffered a miscarriage during the early days of 1959. It was a cold and wintry day. I was playing with my sisters in the living room and Daddy was shoveling snow out in front. Mom suddenly called me from the bathroom. It was a loud call at first and I reluctantly got up from what I was doing and walked through the dining room, following her voice. She continued to loudly whisper my name, obviously not wanting my younger sisters to hear or see her.

She was crying, clutching my father’s old tan terry cloth bathrobe around her and even though she tried to stay as much behind the door as she could, I still saw that the robe, her hands and the floor were all stained with blood.

“Go get Daddy,” she pleaded, “and tell him I’m hemorraghing!”

I was eight years old and very scared at what I saw. I froze for a second, frightened by her bloody hands and the fear in her face.

“Mom, what happened?” I started to say, but she quickly cut me off.

“Nancy, hurry, I need him!”

Racing for the stairway I kept repeating her words - words I could not totally understand, but knew their seriousness - with each leap on the steps.

"Hem-rah-jing, hem-rah-jing, hem-rah-jing," frantically whispering it over and over to myself as I jumped down the three flights of stairs so I wouldn't forget, wouldn't get the big, strange word wrong and not be able to communicate the seriousness of the situation to Dad. I opened the front door and ran up to my father. Before he could question why I had run out of the house into the snow without a jacket, he saw the look of fear on my face.

“Mommy said she’s hemorraghing,” I told him as loudly and as carefully as I could. Without a word, he threw the shovel in the snow and took the stairs two or three at a time. By the time I got back upstairs, he was carrying her out of the apartment; she was still wearing his robe. They disappeared down the stairway, into the car and drove away down snow-encrusted Long Avenue.

I don’t remember who stayed with us while they went to the hospital or even how long she was gone, but I do remember later asking my father if Mom would be coming home with the new baby. He looked and me, then away, running his hand through his short, dark brown hair. Slowly and sadly he shook his head, “I don’t think so, honey.”

Many years later, my mother told me about the miscarriage. She was nearly seven months along when she stopped feeling movement. As it was her fourth pregnancy, she knew something was wrong. The doctors confirmed that the fetus was dead, but she had to continue to carry it. Finally, weeks later, her body rejected what would have been my parents’ first son. Of course, they knew it was a boy when she delivered it at the hospital but they didn’t tell my dad - not until after my brother was born in 1960.

Dona eis requiem

16. Third grade class photo

Events of tragedy have the impact of making people remember exactly where they were, and what they were doing when the news hit. For all Chicagoans, December 1, 1958 was a day of such sadness that the memory floats on like a horrible nightmare, a dream with impacting pictures frozen forever, yet awakened again at the simple mention of the words, Our Lady of the Angels.

It's a cold December afternoon. Susie and I have walked home from school with Joyce and Michelle and their big sister Janice. We climb the stairs to the apartment on Courtland and walk in the front door which is in the hallway between the living room and the dining room. Judy is playing on the floor with her doll and my mother welcomes us home. We go to our room, take off our uniforms and come back to turn on the television. American Bandstand and the Mickey Mouse Club are favorites. We don’t have homework and can play or watch tv until dinner.

Before the evening news is on, the programming is interrupted by a news bulletin. The words travel across the bottom of the screen, but I’m not paying enough attention to understand the message. Finally, after a few more bulletins, I call my mother into the living room to tell her something is going on. She stands there, a dish towel in her hand, staring at the tv. Her hand goes to her lips and she silently whispers, “oh my God, no...”

It should be obvious to her that Susie and I are home, we are safe, we are playing right in front of her. But the news is so disturbing, she draws us closer and holds on tight without taking her eyes off the television. When we question, she seems to waken from a trance, and answers vaguely, changing the channel and not ready to let us know what has happened.

By December 2, I understand. I see the pictures of the dozens of children, kids my own age, plastered across the front page of the newspaper. A fire at Our Lady of the Angels School, a few miles south of St. Pete’s, has taken the lives of 93 children and three nuns. The blaze started only minutes before the dismissal bell was to ring. The fire alarm malfunctioned and there was no direct connection to the fire department. The fire was reported by people in the neighborhood who saw the smoke. Before it was all over, entire classrooms succumbed to smoke inhalation - with students still sitting at their desks. Children jumped from second floor windows to escape the blaze; firemen frantically plucked kids from ledges and tossed them down to adults from the neighborhood who tried to catch them or break their falls. The old building was engulfed quickly and lives were lost in seconds.

My mother has pretty much given up her effort to keep the information about the tragedy from us - even as a third grader, I will read anything that I can get my hands on - and the newspaper reports every tragic detail it can drain from hospital personnel, firefighters, parents, children, priests, the archdiocese - anyone who will say anything. All the kids were taken to St. Anne’s Hospital - where I just had my tonsils taken out. I read all that I can before school. The paper is on the floor in the bathroom where my father left it and if I don’t put it down, I’ll be late for school. I get a nervous feeling in my stomach as I look into the faces of the kids who are dead - they look so much like the kids at St. Pete’s. That night I dream of being in a fire and looking frantically for Susie.

At school, the teachers are all buzzing with news of the fire. The closeness of our parishes insures that there are some who have lost friends or relatives - it becomes one of those school days where not a whole lot gets done. Over the intercom, Sister Superior asks us to pray for the souls of the children and teachers who have died. We go to mass, teachers are in and out of the classrooms, papers are brought in and out by students relaying messages, and we go home knowing that our school, too, has been affected by fire and things will never be the same again.
The fire continues to dominate newspapers and local television. A photo of a fireman emerging from the rubble with a dead child in his arms will haunt everyone in Chicago for years and years to come. The image of the small white coffins at a combined funeral for the victims will last in my mind forever.

By the time we come back from Christmas vacation, things have drastically changed at St. Pete’s. Over break, the school - along with almost every other school in the city- has been inspected for fire safety. Our school does not do well in the inspection. Classes will no longer being held in the basement because of the glass block windows. This cuts the number of classrooms back by at least six and a need to reallocate almost 300 students. Additionally, students from Our Lady of the Angels (which enrolled 1200 students) are being taken in by neighboring parishes. With our loss of classrooms, how can we possibly help?

We go on half-day shifts. The entire school day lasts a bit longer for the administrators but we attend school for the rest of the year only during the morning while others attend in the afternoon. We have to share our desks. My room is on the second floor and the desks are the black, old fashioned kind on wooden runners. The inside space in the desk for our books is split exactly in half and we are restricted to one side or the other. Mrs. Higgins explains to us how important it is now to be neat and orderly - even moreso than before - and to respect the property of the student who comes in the afternoon. Everything feels tight in the classroom because there is twice as much “stuff” from both students and teachers - not to mention additional supplies being stored upstairs while the renovations are being completed in the basement.

St. Peter Canisius was at capacity before the fire. Now, plans to add a new building to the school have to pick up speed and a fund raising effort begins. Since the school sits right on North Avenue, with the church and rectory to the west, homes to the south and the convent to the east, the parish must look further east for any available land. The new building will be constructed a block away, right next to the CTA bus yard, and ready for occupancy by fall of 1960.

The opening of the new school would be special event to the parish and the neighborhood. It had a modern look - only one level - and the school did its best to make sure every student spent at least a year in a building with new desks, bright windows and no stairways.

But by 1975, urban flight has hit the neighborhood and before long, the new school is empty. The building was sold and taken over by the State of Illinois Welfare Administration. By 1990, that is gone, too. The property sat abandoned, windows broken, weeds growing high in front, sidewalk cracked and an empty sadness enveloped the building.

You could still see the holes in the bricks on the outside wall, where they removed the crucifix.

Tonsils

15. My parents seemed to have more than their share of sick kids. Thank goodness, the illnesses were mostly normal childhood diseases, but either Sue or I seemed to come down with sore throats and colds every month. Finally, our doctor suggested to my mother that we both have our tonsils taken out. We were quickly scheduled for a weekday morning in November at St. Anne’s Hospital, where we were born, and repeatedly assured that the whole procedure would be painless, ending with a dish of vanilla ice cream.

Sue and I were scared out of our minds as Mom and Dad brought us into the hospital. We were directed to a children’s ward and put in beds next to one another. The first thing the nurses did was inform us both that we had to have a shot but they knew we were big brave girls and wouldn’t cry. I made a fist and as much of a muscle in my arm as I could - only to find out the injection was much more painful when I did it. Word of the shot was about the last thing Sue could handle. She was so scared she became belligerent, much to my mother’s dismay. The nurse tried to talk sweetly to her but she made it obvious she wanted to go home and didn’t appreciate anyone touching her. We had some time before the operations so the nurse suggested that we go down to the children’s room at the end of the hall.

“These are baby toys,” Sue said as she looked disdainfully at the sad assortment of books and toys.

“Come on, Susie, want to read a book?” My father was trying to get the smallest of smiles out of her but she stubbornly held on to her fear and her displeasure at being in the hospital. Dad’s efforts were short-lived, however, as the nurse came in and announced, “we’re ready for you Susan.”

She looked at all of us as if we had betrayed her. Mom went to take her hand but she folded her arms and stood firm. I stood there, coloring book in hand, feeling a bit embarrassed that they didn’t take me first, since I was the older girl, the bigger girl. She had hardly had a minute in this playroom and already they were taking her to the operating room. She had to be brave and be first. I was older and should have gone first so maybe she wouldn’t be so scared.

By the time they did come for me, I was anxious to get it over with - complacently letting them put me on the gurney, strap me down, wheel me into the operating room and put a smelly rubber mask that reminded me of the end of a toilet plunger over my face. I closed my eyes and saw rockets blasting off, fireworks against the night sky, then - darkness. Before I knew it, I was waking up in a bed next to Sue, feeling like my throat was on fire. Waking up from the anesthetic, we were both whiny, miserable and upset. Talking was a major effort. Before the whole procedure, we had been assured that ultimate treat of a dish of vanilla ice cream would make up for whatever we had to endure. When the nurse arrived with it, along with the expected fanfare from my father, we both turned our faces into the pillows turning the treat down cold.

“Hey you two, this is great ice cream,” my dad was saying, trying to coax us. He hated seeing us in such sad shape. “MMMM...if you don’t want it, it will be gone in a second....how about just a little taste?”

We both gave the ice cream a try, but swallowing was nearly impossible, despite the intended cold, soothing effect. We continued to whine - crying hurt too much. After letting us rest for a few hours, the doctor released us. Our parents bundled us up in blankets and took us home.

Tonsillectomies were routine for most children in the ‘50s. The doctor who removed mine and Sue’s was the same man who delivered me - Dr. George. He was pretty much considered a saint by anyone who worked at St. Anne’s Hospital. He probably didn’t expect that within 48 hours, I - and then Sue - would be return visitors to St. Anne’s.

Not much interested in eating, we soon fell asleep for the night. Hours later, I found myself coughing into the pillow because it seemed like saliva or some liquid kept accumulating in my mouth. By the dim glow of the nightlight in the hallway, I could see that there were dark streaks staining my pillowcase. I was not sure what it was, but it obviously came from me and as I sat up, a sudden surge of nausea overtook me.

Nightmares, tummy aches and fevers usually brought us running into our parents room, to my mother’s side of the bed, waking her with a “Mom, I had a bad dream!” or “Mom, I don’t feel so good,” or - as on this night - “Mom, I feel like throwing UPPPP!!!” and then depositing the contents of my stomach on her side of the bed. This, of course, caused my father to leap out of bed, but my slower moving mother caught the brunt. Once my father flipped on the light, it became apparent that I had vomited blood and that my throat was bleeding from the operation.

My mother’s “Ohmigod!” woke up my sister Judy, asleep in the crib, who began crying. Both of them were running around between the bedroom, the bathroom and my bedroom, looking for towels, another nightgown, a glass of water - anything to remedy the situation. Judy is now screaming, my mother is yelling directions at my father about taking me to the emergency room, she and I are both wearing blood soaked nightgowns that make us look like victims of a massacre, my father is trying to dress as fast as he can, and I am about to faint between my parents’ bed and Judy’s crib.

Despite all the mayhem, Mom managed to clean me up, bundle me back up in the blankets, and tearfully send me off to the hospital with my dad. In the ten minutes it took to reach St. Anne’s, I rode with my head against the side window and white as a ghost. My father did his best to keep up the conversation while driving like a madman.

“How ya doin’ there, Skeezix?” He wanted to make sure I was conscious and I responded with feeble answers.

I can still see the black wrought iron fence surrounding the hospital flying past us as we headed for the emergency room. Dad carried me in and the nurses quickly put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the e.r. Fear suddenly gave me a tremendous amount of energy as I tried to sit up, watching my father disappear behind the doors of the waiting room.

“DADDY!” I shouted, only to be firmly pushed back down on the gurney. “I want my dad!” I told the nurse.

“We have to take care of you first - you’ll see him in a little while,” she said, but I was having none of it. I stayed down, trying to look around to see what they were planning to do to me. Apparently, my father was giving information to the doctor on call, who, when he came into the area where they kept me, looked like he had just been awakened from a sound sleep. He did a quick check of my throat then talked to another doctor. He ran one hand through his thick, dark hair and scratched his butt with the other. He looked too sleepy and out of place to be taking care of me - he didn’t look like kindly, older Dr. George. I kept looking to see if I could catch a glimpse of my dad.

Before I knew it, I was surrounded by nurses and this sleepy doctor. They spoke to one another, not to me, and the doctor had something behind his back.

“I want my dad!” I told them, but they ignored me as the doctor explained the procedure to those all around. He then brought out a huge hypodermic needle, filled with some brownish fluid, that caused me to scream for my father.

“Now, now, just lay back, this won’t hurt,” one of the nurses said. Seeing the needle in the doctor’s hands as he began to get closer to me, I knew she was lying.

“NO! STOP! WHERE’S MY DAD??!!! DADDY!!!”

The doctor held the needle above my head as I lay on the gurney. He was inching it close to my nose, trying to hold my head still. I could not understand what he was doing - only that he wanted to give me a giant shot in the face. I covered my face with my hands and rolled over on my stomach, screaming and crying for my father. They kept talking to one another over me and then I heard someone count, “1-2-3...”

Before I could fight it, I was flipped over on my back and strapped down to the gurney; I probably weighed all of 50 pounds. A nurse was holding my head straight and tipping up my chin. The doctor approached when they got me still and proceeded to empty the contents of the syringe into my nose and it then dripped down into my throat. It was painless in that I did not get pinched by the needle, but the fluid made me feel as if I was drowning. Crying only made it worse and I figured that the quieter I stayed, the sooner it would be over. When it was, they took me up to the children’s ward where I eventually fell back asleep, scared but too exhausted to cry. My father had to leave without seeing me.

I awoke in the morning to see my mother coming into the room with a new coloring book and crayons. The emergency room nightmare was far from my thoughts as I cracked open a fresh pack of Crayolas and started in on the book filled with pictures of Santa and his elves.

My hospital stay was only three days; but I couldn’t wait to go home. The worst part was the food. The main staple seemed to be jello - not one of my favorites - and my request for coffee and toast at breakfast was literally laughed at:

“Children don’t drink coffee, and besides, toast is too rough for your throat. Do you want it to bleed again?” said the nurse.

“I drink coffee every morning,” I told her, “with milk and sugar and I can dunk the toast so it won’t be so rough.”

She smiled sweetly, “Here’s your jello.”

Eventually, Sue suffered the same setback from her tonsillectomy, but only had to stay for a day and we both went back home together. Over the years since, my mother constantly swore that the colds, sore throats or bouts of flu went down dramatically after getting our tonsils out.

But to this day, I still hate jello.