In 1985 my father began complaining of headaches. Since he was a man who was of rather extraordinary health,and never in my mother's married experience complained of a headache, they allowed a week or two to pass. When he continued to have the headaches and began to complain of distorted vision-even with his glasses. My mother began to notice behavior reminiscent of her father before he died of what had been diagnosed as "stroke",but in fact had been brain cancer. They went to the G.P. who had been treating our family for about seventeen (17) years. After a series of tests, Dr. Kester took my parents into his office and near tears (most extraordinary for this particular man) gave them the findings of the tests:sarcoma. A fancy term for the near three centimeter (3 cm) rot which was eating at his brain cells. My mother was shocked to tears. My father's response was "We were lucky.This could've happened to us when the kids were still home."

Over the next few months, chemotherapy was administered with all of the attendant horrors. However,a short time after completion showed that the aberrant cells behind the left eye had in fact disappeared. To say we were jubilant would be to understate the case. It was,horribly premature.

Within a few weeks,the cells and symptoms had returned.Again,he
underwent the pain and trial of cancer treatment-I believe this time, radiation was the supposed "silver bullet". This too offered temporary relief with the cells diminishing then disappearing etc.etc.etc. And, as may be expected in this real life nightmare, they returned. By this time some years had passed,and a new combination of chemotherapy had evolved with all of medical science's hopes attached to it etc.etc.etc. He tried it,with the same results.

By now, his body was seemingly as weakened by "the cure", as the cause. Eventually,the chemotherapy did its worst. It worked as it should; the shotgun of the chemicals killing everything in sight.  Soon my dad's treatment and disease reached a point where a "permanent port" was implanted in his skull for the "chemo"to be poured into the
brain.  He referred to this as "time to change my oil again".

In 1992,on the 10th of May, we all gathered at my parents home for Mothers Day. My dad's health had been "slipping" and on this day was unable to lift himself from the recliner in which he now spent his days and nights. My mother slept on the couch, no more than three feet from him. He had lost all independent mobility and indeed was being fed by hand. My fiancée, her youngest daughter and I spent time talking to him,but there was little or no real indication that he comprehended what was being said to him.

Early the next morning (4am) I was in my squad car patrolling the town as were my duties. Over the radio, I heard the McHenry City Fire Dept. dispatched to my parents home. I didn't need to ask,I knew why. I left work and went to my parents home.

He was still in the recliner,eyes half lidded, mouth partially open. My dad was dead. He had died quietly,in the night, with the same kind of quiet dignity with which he had lived.

At no time during this ordeal, had my dad ever given any indication
that he had been treated unfairly by life. If pressed on the subject, he would state that "this wasn't what I had had in mind for us", but that would be the extent of it. He never complained of the pain of the disease, which by now had grown to seven (7) cms.and had pretty much destroyed everything within him. That was his way, he was not trying to be macho in the John Wayne tradition; he was not trying to be a hero. He was simply being Dominic.
                                    
The back yard in Mc Henry was always filled with flowers and trees. Among the most beautiful of trees was the Crabapple which had provided us with almost painfully beautiful flowers,and intoxicating aroma every year since 1977 when it had been planted. Roses, which grew like weeds,flowers of every sort imaginable, were present along the sides of the yard. Tomato plants grew in the garden near the rear of the yard. In 1992, despite ideal weather conditions, nothing grew. The tree never budded, the tomato plants withered and produced no fruit, the flowers never rose above the ground level, the roses died. The following year,everything was back and in full bloom.

It has been six years since the man, who,for all my life represented
stability and constant love without qualification, even for his first
born and most prodigal son, left us. I can no longer look into the strength of his face and eyes,no longer hear him singing-at which he was actually pretty good-or see him working like a mule in the yard. In dreams, I see him walking around the corner of our home, even
though he was not alive for our wedding, much less for when we had this home built. I've seen him sitting at the table in the kitchen when I get up in the morning and sitting at the end of our bed in the middle of the night. Always, that big infectious grin of his was there. I think he's trying to tell me that it's alright. I prefer to believe that.

                               

Pauline's notes: Daniel F. Giallombardo is an internet friend: interested in the Civil War and retired from the Cary Illinois Police Dept.  Dan professes not to be a religious man but I believe Dan believes in God and saw His Wonder in 1992 when nothing bloomed.