Saturday, December 30, 2023

 

Neighbors in Time of Need


The pain associated with death and dying that paid our family an extended visit over the last year came to a somber culmination Friday when our matriarch and my wife’s mother Fayna Birnbaum was laid to rest.

I’ve never been much comfort to anyone during times like these dating back to my dear mother’s untimely passing at 66 in 1990.  I’ve never had to arrange funerals or quite understood the role of funeral homes. I’m good at crying and caring, but I’m prone to flee from the nuts and bolts of the discussion.

For the first time, I sat around a table at a funeral home and helped deal with the task at hand, and coming away from that experience, I’m forever grateful we chose Farrell Funeral Home on Franklin Square in New Britain.

My wife Lisa graduated from New Britain High with owner Bill Farrell, and I got to know him in passing during my sports writing career at The New Britain Herald as a prominent figure in the Hardware City to the World.

Bill, his son Mike and their staff left no stone unturned to spare the family any burden.  The biggest issues were addressed and flawlessly executed in one brief meeting.

On Friday, everything was in order for a beautiful ceremony that I’d be proud to share with you a bit later in this discourse.  Plenty of umbrellas were on hand with the skies threatening for the umpteenth day.  Rows of seats were arranged graveside.

But their true mettle and dedication to their craft arose when further adversity reared its ugliness at precisely the wrong time. 

The terrain at the Beth Alom Cemetery on Allen Street is rather treacherous.  It’s a steep hillside, and the Birnbaum plot was at the back after the hill has crested and began to slope down.  Footsteps are even more difficult because of the pitting left by previous interments.

A woman whose name I need not mention slipped down a small slope and fell down.  She had spent the last few years as Fayna’s very best friend.  They would chat multiple times a day, the way so many of past generations did.  The conversations were very soothing for Fayna as she declined.

Thankfully Lisa’s brother Neil is a doctor, as is his wife Ruth and their son, Aaron.  Lisa’s good friend Connie, a nurse by trade, was standing right next to the woman when she went down. The comforted her and put her in a chair, but the family had the responsibility of setting up the ensuing luncheon.

The Farrells stepped right in and saw to her needs as the family moved on to the final stage of the process.  They showed kindness beyond compare and compassion to aid the stricken woman.  They sat with her as the ambulance arrived and made sure her possessions were safe.

I can’t say enough about how the Farrells and their friendly entourage settled our jangled nerves as we paid our final respects to Fayna, whose contributions to the city as a New Britain General Hospital volunteer were massive.

I have a much different understanding of compassion at such times thanks to Bill and company, and for that we want to thank them with all our hearts.

While we’re thanking people, I must include my sister Marji, whose compassion is also off the charts.  Like the brunt of us, Marji was ailing with some strain of what’s been haunting so many of us in this time of strange weather.  She could hardly speak for days with laryngitis, but that didn’t stop her from arranging a warm graveside ceremony.

Marji’s husband Harold, another person at the top of the compassion list, is an accomplished flute player.  He brought smiles to the face of Fayna and other folks at the Jerome Home nursing facility with the holiday season impending.

He played softly, the gentle notes wafting through the air like we were all nestled in a corner of heaven.  The skies were so grey and our hearts were aching but Harold’s music lifted us as we settled in for 20 minutes of readings and two eulogies. My God, Harold and Marji, how can we thank you!

I also want to mention that the Birnbaum’s cemetery plot is adjacent to that of a man whom I treasured as a resource of New Britain sports and history.  Bart Fisher, one-time Herald sports editor, passed 10 years ago at 68.  I loved Bart, and couldn’t spend enough time with him.  He was a New Britain historian without equal.  He used to tell us, “You give me any subject in the world and I’ll tell you how it’s tied to New Britain.”

I’ll revisit Bart in my wrap-up.

We had lunch at Great Taste, the venerable Chinese restaurant on West Main Street, where Fayna and her late husband David were far more than just customers.  Their food is exceptional – has been for decades – but as with the Farrells, the owners did everything to lighten our burden. 

It’s all over now.  A page has been turned in our life.  A new chapter has begun.  Fayna is out of pain now.  No more of the worries that frazzled her for months.

As I summed it up in my mind, I recalled how my time writing sports at The Herald enabled me to get very familiar with New Britain.  Bart was instrumental at the start of my Herald career, and I tried to carry his torch after he moved on to Central Connecticut State University’s sports office.

As each day passed, I became more in tune with New Britain and how it differs from other cities of similar size.  I’m proud to have made my contribution, and even prouder of the love that Fayna helped course through town.

Happy New Year to all, and please make 2024 a damned sight better than its predecessor.  I’d like to have a cup of coffee, or a Great Taste order of General Tso’s, with everyone.

 

 

 

Monday, December 11, 2023

More than the games have gotten worse


One of the great blessings of my life is having been spared from any hospital stays since I was 16.

That was the summer of 1968.  I remember bits and pieces of the experience.  To nobody’s surprise, I can best sort through it if I put it in baseball terms. 

1968 went down in baseball annals as the Year of the Pitcher.  St. Louis Cardinals Hall of Fame righthander Bob Gibson, perhaps the best ever if you ask me, recorded an ERA of 1.12.  Detroit’s Denny McLain won 31 games, the first to break the 30-win barrier since Dizzy Dean in 1934.  MLB starters threw 339 shutouts. 

Mickey Lolich tossed three complete games in the World Series to lead the Tigers over Gibson and the Cards. 

I watched the 1968 All-Star Game from a bed in St. Raphael’s Hospital in New Haven.  If memory serves (give me a break; it was 55 years ago), the great Willie Mays singled off Luis Tiant of the Cleveland Indians the first inning and scored the game’s only run for a 1-0 National League victory.  Mays reached second on an errant pickoff attempt, took third on a wild pitch and scored on a double-play ball.  That was it.  The pitchers took over.

Aah, those were the days!  Tight, briskly played ballgames.  No weird geeky statistics.

Baseball wasn’t the only item that was better in those days.  Visiting the hospital in 1968 wasn’t exactly fun, particularly for a teenager who hardly knew why the hell he was even there.  Apprehension bracketed my body and mind as the nurses, student nurses, aides and interns did their best to brighten my spirits.

Since I was 16, I was placed in a pediatric unit.  The toys that filled the solarium and the pastel colors on the walls softened the apprehension.  Kind, elderly volunteers went from bed to bed like gentle grandparents making sure fear left the room.

Wouldn’t you think that the hospital system would be much better 55 years later? 

My wife’s mother is currently in New Britain General Hospital, which we were quick to discover is now part of Hartford HealthCare.

I can’t comment on the medical attention she’s getting because I’m not a physician, but the services in the hospital are nowhere near the 1968 level.  I certainly wouldn’t blame the hard-working souls who work there.  They’re just doing their jobs, and doing the best they can, but there simply are not nearly enough of them. 

My mother-in-law was on the third floor, where they had two nurses caring for 38 patients.  The incessant beeping of calls for help were like the soundtrack of a horror movie.  Hospital administrators would have had to go to the Cloning Department five times for the department to run efficiently.  If I was sick that may be the last place I’d want to be.

So what has happened since I went in for my childhood adjustment so long ago?  I wish I knew half of it.  On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to.  Those are not the type of statistics on which sports fans care to dwell.  Suffice it to say that drawing up a plan for renewed efficiency and high-quality care requires money and lots of it.  The massive majority needing hospitalization can’t come close to affording it.

Less populated countries like Canada have socialized medicine, but I’ve heard terrible tales about waiting lists.  It seems Canadian residents often prefer to be treated here because timing is critical.  Can the US government pay the bills?  Should the government be responsible? 

I’m not into political arguments, but even the person on the streets can see that something’s amiss as soon as they pass through the beautiful lobby.  I don’t wish to discuss which party was in power when the crisis took a turn for the worse.  What I do know is we’re sending billions overseas and don’t appear to have the resources to take care of our own.

When politics enter the fray, I start scanning the Comcast grid for a ballgame because I’m out of my league.  Unfortunately, Major League Baseball is just another indicator that something is dreadfully wrong.  We don’t have money to improve hospitals but the Los Angeles Dodgers have $700 million to hand to Japanese superstar Shohei Ohtani over the next decade?

Sure, we’re talking about apples and oranges here but no one can deny that something is indeed dreadfully wrong.