Trying in 2014--A Family Affair

I didn’t recognize the power and beauty of extended family bonds until my own, immediate family unraveled some.

Families aren’t perfect. They’re full of complex relationships that can be maddening and mean. Mine is no different. But mine, like others, also can be miraculous, kind and heroic. It was last year.

The death of my mom in July, followed by Rowena’s cancer diagnosis and other challenges this past fall, prompted our relatives to spring into action.

For one thing, all three of my cousins on my dad’s side flew to Chicago from Western New York for my mom’s memorial mass. This despite the fact that we have not been in great touch for years. And the presence of Jamie, Jill and Julie lifted my spirits at the funeral.

Then there are the Tobins. My mom, born Martha Frances Tobin, was one of eight kids. And after she died, the Tobin clan proved to be a life-saver to me, my brother, my sister and my father. Even as they mourned the loss of their own sister or sister-in-law, my aunts and uncles helped us take care of funeral arrangements, pitched in with my dad’s apartment packing and comforted us generously in those early days.

During the extra week I stayed in Chicago, for example, I took my dad to the “Prayer Porch” at my Uncle Mike and Aunt Dorothea’s house. This remarkable ritual dates back to the summer of 2012, when my cousin—and Mike and Dorothea’s youngest son—Billy Tobin died in a freak accident at the age of 19. The morning after his death, Dorothea’s sister Peggy showed up at Mike and Dorothea’s to pray with them. In the days and weeks that followed, up to 20 people would gather each morning on the porch and pray.

The original purpose was to prop up Dorothea, keep her from collapsing from the grief of losing Billy. But even when she regained her footing in the months that followed, the Prayer Porch continued. The group would meet even on freezing, dark winter mornings, warmed some by restaurant-style kerosene heaters Mike bought, and its scope expanded to petition God to aid others.

I’d been moved by the idea of the Prayer Porch, and had attended it during visits to Chicago. Now I was benefitting from it directly. My dad and I added my mom’s laminated prayer card to the half-dozen or so held on a wire stand. And I read aloud the prayer on the back: the one attributed to St. Frances that begins, “Make me a channel of your peace.”

Dorothea and the rest of my relatives have been that channel for me as I wrestled with the loss of my mom. My sister Kate graciously invited my dad to live with her and her husband in Alabama, and my brother Kirk agreed to handle the bulk of the logistical duties related to the death, including helping to sell my parents’ car. The three of us checked in with each other throughout the fall about our emotional state—and about our dad’s.

What’s more, when my dad moved back to Chicago in November to try to restart his personal and professional life, Mike and Dorothea, as well as my aunt Patti and uncle Pete—who live just outside Chicago—regularly got together with him and sent me dispatches.  

Our family circle also steadied, cared for us four San Francisco Frauenheims amid the upheaval of cancer and other shocks this fall.

Rowena’s family, centered in Scottsdale, rushed to our aid upon learning she had breast cancer. Her brother Carty and sister-in-law Bunnie are both doctors, and offered medical advice as well as moral support. When Rowena began losing her hair, for example, Carty shaved his head in solidarity. Even though the dude looks good bald, it was still touching to have him there with us. Prayers flowed from Rowena’s younger brother Steve and his wife Abbie. And Rowena’s parents Carl and Parris combined prayers with acts of generosity.

With Richie Clan members in Phoenix over Christmas

Parris came to stay with us when Rowena had her lumpectomy in November. And then when we visited all the Richies in Scottsdale for Christmas, Carl and Parris treated Rowena and me to a night at a Tucson spa. That time away from kids served as one of the “quarterly retreats” that Rowena and I have tried to observe for many years now. And this Tucson excursion, including a desert hike, luxury hotel room and exploration of the city’s hip/hippie downtown, did more than usual to refresh our relationship. It gave us a chance to take stock of a topsy-turvy year and recharge for the chemo and radiation challenges ahead.

Although all these family members tended to our spirits in the second half of 2014, my aunts Dorothea and Patti in particular held me up. Dorothea is my adopted godmother. That is, I asked her to be my godmother when my original godmother, my Aunt Gretchen, died many years ago. It made sense in a way, because Uncle Mike is my godfather. But I’ve also always been drawn to Dorothea, amazed at how she has managed to raise seven kids, teach in inspiring ways to troubled Chicago students and still find time to make me and others feel like we are worthy of her undivided attention. Her Catholic faith has bolstered my own beliefs, in part because she is brutally honest about how much death hurts.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Dorothea on a recent visit to SF

 When I texted her on New Year’s Day that my mom died in a “perfect way,” Dorothea kept it real: “Good for her. Not so good for you.”

Patti, meanwhile, has been a much-needed pep squad leader. She and Pete hosted my dad at their Naperville home just before he drove off across country with his friend Tom Mino, and it was on their patio that we all laughed about the “Overbearing Brothers” and their journey. When Rowena and the kids were still in Chicago, Patti noticed Skyla playing with their big “bernedoodle” dog Murphy. Soon after we were all back in San Francisco, Patti texted a photo of Murphy with a new haircut.

Patti sent this photo via text: "This pic is for Skyla...wishing 
you were here to throw my green ring!"

Patti’s positivity also has taken more sober forms. She made sure to remind my dad to remember the suffering of his children amidst his own grief—and he immediately responded with much greater empathy for Kirk, Kate and myself. And late one night in her kitchen, Patti taught my father and me a simple prayer to repeat again and again during the darkest moments: “Lord, have mercy on me.”

I have been surprised by the ability of Patti’s prayer to bring me peace, to keep me from unraveling. Here it was again: family coming to my aid, to our aid, in a powerful, unexpected way.

I didn’t know what a family affair this fall would be. In trying, tough times, our relatives were tenaciously present and persistently tender.

Even as I mourned the loss of my mom and worried about losing my wife, I fell in love with my family.