Saying Goodby to Wayne

 A mother shouldn't have to face the death of any of her children, especially her first born. But 2020 has brought another sadness to Nana's life. Only a little more than 2 months after losing her last living sibling, my Uncle Ben, I had to tell Nana that Wayne - her oldest son and my older brother - was gone. An unimaginable task. 

Wayne had Parkinson's for more than four years. Nana has known his health wasn't good. Lately, all of us tried to tuck messages in our phone calls that Wayne's condition was deteriorating. Even at that, it was a shock to lose Wayne - for all of us and for Nana. When I told Nana, she cried so much it broke my heart. I tried to be strong and hold it together for her. I didn't totally succeed. She kept asking, "What can I do?" Sadly, the answer was nothing. Of course, she wanted to go to the service and I knew that wasn't possible. I just told her we didn't know about the service because of the Covid virus. 

The next hurdle was when the obituary was in the Sun Gazette. I alerted her nurses in hopes they could give her some extra comfort if needed. As it turned out, they didn't see her read the obituary or have any reaction. Of course, that doesn't mean she didn't read it and cry alone. 

Dementia has stolen Nana's memory. Even events that happen hours before aren't available for her to recall. With Wayne's death, that's a small blessing. She hasn't mentioned him since I told her he passed and I'm not reminding her. It would only mean she would have to experience that sadness like it was the first time. 

Looking back, Nana was pregnant with Wayne when Daddy was shipped overseas for World War II in 1944. In the family photo albums, there were tons of pictures of Wayne as a baby. Pictures to send to Daddy in Italy so he could see his first born son. Nana and Wayne lived with Grandpa and Grandma Tilburg until the war ended and Daddy returned home in the fall of 1945.

As kids, Wayne and Sharon and Bill and I lived close to Grandpa and Grandma Rhone's farm outside Allenwood. Wayne loved the farm and that's where he spent most of his time. He was strong, even as a young boy, so he helped work in the fields. Wayne is five years older than me so my memories of growing up with him are scarce. Except for the time he and Nana saved my life.

We moved to the Staggert Place down the road from Grandma and Grandpa Rhone's farm in the summer of 1957. When we moved in, there was a lush green yard bordering a small creek that snaked along our property and under a bridge on the road in front of our house. That first summer, the creek was a calm flow of clear water, hopping over rocks on it's way to dump into a wide stream on the other side of the bridge. But by early spring, that creek had turned into a roaring monster - muddy, brown and swift. Along the high bank of the creek, tiny pine trees were struggling to survive. On a windy, cold March day, Nana allowed me to go out and play. I bundled into warm clothes and donned my favorite red rubber boots. The raging creek was ominous but my attention was on the little pine trees. They were coated in ice from the frigid March temperatures. In my eight year old mind, they were calling on me to free them of their icy coats. I started with the ones at the top of the bank, digging the heels of my rubber boots into the slippery, ice covered bank while I rubbed the ice off their fragile branches. The more trees I rescued, the further down the bank I ventured. 

Suddenly, my rubber boots slipped from their hold on the bank. I slid quickly into the swift water, where I was tossed around like a twig. In the seconds it took to realize I was in trouble, I must've screamed. How Nana heard me scream over the noise of the rushing water and the howling wind, I'll never know. 

With my mind in a blur, I saw Nana, no coat, her apron flapping in the wind. Then Nana was the one screaming. Soon after Nana screamed, I saw Wayne racing along the edge of the bank. By that time, I was close to being swept under the bridge. I'm sure they both knew that if I went beyond the bridge into the large stream on the other side, I would be drowned.

All of a sudden, Wayne jumped down the bank and into the creek. I felt Wayne grab me and drag me up the steep bank, back to the safety of the yard. I have no idea how we both didn't get pushed under the bridge with the sheer force of the current. Nor do I know how Wayne was able to climb up that steep, ice covered bank, especially while holding me. 

All I do know is that if Nana hadn't heard me scream, if Nana hadn't screamed for Wayne, if Wayne hadn't been brave enough to jump into that monstrous creek, I wouldn't be here.  Yes, Nana and Wayne saved my life and they're both my heroes. 

Wayne and Sharon and Diane and Bill at Staggert Place Summer 1957

Wayne grew up to be a loyal employee of Textron, a dedicated husband and father to his family.  He never grew out of his love for farming and tractors. His abundant garden and graveyard of tractors in his yard waiting to be brought back to life are evidence of that.  

For many years, Wayne and I weren't close. About seven years ago, we reconnected. We talked on the phone and I saw him on almost every one of my trips to Pennsylvania. We visited when Wayne stopped in at Nana's apartment and I often visited Wayne and his wife Sharon at his home. I have fond memories of Wayne taking me for rides in his golf cart on the trails in the woods behind his house. We usually ended up at the back of his daughter Missi's property, where we stopped to feed her chickens. The chickens loved Wayne. They surrounded the golf cart, happily clucking and eager to eat out of his hand. They knew he was a good man. 

Wayne was a good man. I'm so sad that Nana lost her first born son and that I lost my older brother. I know he's at peace now and he's our guardian angel, but Nana and I will miss him. 

Wayne and Nana September 2019

Wayne and Diane February 2017