Diary Friday: “What a life I’ve led. So full of sickness and death.”

I found this this morning and read it, amazed. I have no memory of any of this.

When I was in college, I had a job at a pizza joint called Pit ‘n Patio. It was in walking distance to the beach, and it was a MADHOUSE. There were lots of CRAZY regulars. Oh, and the place served beer – which meant you had to deal with lots of carding of underage kids, and also had to serve up beers to vaguely homeless beach people who would pay for their beer with PENNIES. Counted out on the counter.

I wrote down stories from “the Pit” in my journal. Apparently, there was one regular (and I am kind of remembering her now) – who was 85 years old if she was a day, a small wrinkled crone in a housedress, who would come in every day and have a beer or whatever. Her name was Martha. I was fascinated by Martha. Obviously (judging from this entry in my journal) I grilled her about her life when it was slow at the Pit. I have no memory of interviewing her so rigorously. But obviously I did.

The stories! Who did I think I was, at age 19, in my grimy apron behind the pizza counter? Studs Turkel?

To the people who balk at “TMI”, who don’t like it when people over-share, all I can say is: You really might be missing out on something pretty extraordinary!

AUGUST

Martha –

One daughter – Pat – who has 7 children – and a great-granddaughter – a baby – who, whenever she sees Martha, runs to her, arms out, crying, “Ma! Ma!”

Pat is a nurse at South County Hospital and loves it. Martha asked her if she ever had any regrets. “Not one.”

At first Martha begged her not to be a nurse, but a schoolteacher – anything but a nurse because Martha had experienced so much sickness in her life.

She nursed her mother for 3 years alone – who had cancer. None of her other relatives wanted to do it so she did the best she could, not knowing anything about cancer. Her mother got to be skin and bones. They took off one breast, and lots more … Martha had to bear up alone. She was not in a good way either.

She didn’t cry for days after her mother died. A few nights before her mother died, the two planned out her funeral. Her mother said, “Don’t put me in navy – or brown – or black. I want to be in pink orchid.” And she was – in a pink dress with ruffled sleeves.

The undertaker was a friend of her mother’s, and in spite of her being so thin “he made her look beautiful – like she was 18 years old.” She had long long hair and he had it all softly waved. Her coffin was grey velvet with pink taffeta insides. She had her rosary in one hand and someone brought her a dozen roses and said, “I want her to have one in her hand” – so the undertaker slid a red rose in her hand.

Martha could not believe how many people came. “She had so many friends … but I didn’t know that many!” People streamed in – and the friend undertaker told Martha to go home for a while “or there’ll be one more coffin here” and he stood in the line for her. He told her that by the end he thought his legs would fall off so many people came.

Her mother was 70 when she died.

Her mother was English – her father Scottish – her great-grandmother Irish … her father was very stern. Her mother got all of her teeth taken out on one day and was in so much pain she couldn’t function. Her father came home and there was no supper fixed and he got so angry at her. “Why did you have them all taken out at once?”

And Martha remembers saying to him, “Don’t yell at her – she’s in enough agony.” She was only around 7 at the time. But he still didn’t let up.

Her and her husband – both from Pawtucket – were going to take a trip overseas and move to Florida, but he had a heart attack and they were too afraid to be away. He had 3 heart attacks – the last one killed him.

Listen to this story: He died on the toilet seat at night. Martha was asleep. She woke – he wasn’t there – and she found him on the toilet seat – slumped over with his glasses all crooked. She described it so vividly. I felt tears in my eyes. I think she absolutely went into hysteria. She rang the alarm and everybody came running.

A male nurse, a friend, lived nearby, and Martha said to him, “Could you please come and see if my husband is dead or alive?” So he went and felt the pulse in his neck and wrist and turned to Martha and said – I’m sure gently – “Martha, he’s been dead for hours.” And she had been sleeping. She was in shock – so much so that this nurse held her tight in his arms in the dining room and said firmly, “Martha – cry. Cry. Cry. You have got to cry.”

And she told me that she totally soaked the front of his shirt. “I’m getting your shirt so wet.” “I don’t care. Just cry.”

Her daughter is the joy of Martha’s life. She sounds like an angel. She does Martha’s laundry and every Friday takes her out shopping and out for dinner at the 108 House, and then for a long long drive all the way down to Galilee and all the seaports. On Sunday she always has Martha over for supper and another drive.

When Martha has teeth out and is in great pain, Pat stays overnight with her to help her and make her mashed potatoes and ground-up hamburger.

When Martha and her husband were gonna move to Florida, Pat begged them to stay. “You’re my only mother and father … I need you to be nearby so I can help you if you need it.”

I just wanted to get her story down. I think it deserves telling. And Martha deserves to be remembered. So brave and so alone.

“It’s terrible living alone. It’s so lonely.”

“What a life I’ve led. So full of sickness and death. I didn’t want Pat to have to face it too. But she has no regrets. She loves it.”

I told her I had just had an extremely scary dream that I had cancer and I had to face death at midnight and I was suddenly so so so afraid of dying I couldn’t even think about it (a fear I never really knew I had) and she said, “Well, I broke your dream, honey – cause I talked about cancer. If you have a dream about something and the next day someone talks about it, that means the dream won’t happen. So I broke the dream.”

Let’s see: her mother was so full of cancer at death they had to drain all her blood but she turned black – but it was an open casket so they had to put it back in.

She and her husband (Eddie) used to really raise hell when they were younger and go out drinking and dancing.

One day Martha came into the bathroom and saw Eddie standing there with two things hanging down from his nose and Martha said, “Eddie – for Pete’s sake – blow your nose!” And they wouldn’t come out – so Eddie took pliers and tried to yank them out. Turns out they were polyps, and he began to bleed profusely. The polyps went all the way back into his head.

Martha miscarried into her hand.

Actually, as the more pathetic it gets, the funnier it gets.

Poor woman!

This entry was posted in Diary Friday and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Diary Friday: “What a life I’ve led. So full of sickness and death.”

  1. Stevie says:

    Holy moley. Okay, these are the stories of our lives – polyps, death on toilet seats, beautifully made up dead faces – but also drives along the coast, devoted and loving children, a beer a day at the Pit-n-Patio, a good long talk with a sweet young waitress. I can live with that.

    Martha played you her greatest hits album. And isn’t that what we really are, in the end? A list of stories and events that changed us, for the better and for the worse, making us who we are – and the way we choose to tell them as time goes by. How cool.

    Great job, Studs!

    xxx Stevie

  2. PatrickW says:

    I miss the Pit. My greatgrandparents used to go there once a week, well into their 90’s, for “date night”. Sadly, it’s a real estate office now.

  3. Cullen says:

    This is wonderful. If I could pay you for it, it would be wonderful to have you interview and report like this around the world. It’s moving.

    You’re a living version of the NPR Story Corps Travel Trailer. You are that kind of recorder. But, it’s more poignant because we have some of your impressions and your filters.

  4. red says:

    Pat – I love that your greatgrandparents would go there for date night!! Wow. It was a Pier institution.

    I know – it’s just not right that it’s not there anymore. What a great location. Yummy pizza too.

  5. jean says:

    I remember going into the pit with Tara – with nothing on but bikinis and flip flops! Girls, put some clothes on!

  6. red says:

    Stevie:

    also drives along the coast, devoted and loving children, a beer a day at the Pit-n-Patio, a good long talk with a sweet young waitress. I can live with that.

    I know!! Not a bad life, right?

    I also love how she reassured me about my dream. She wasn’t just a gloom-and-doom person, all about the sickness and death in her life – she was also reassuring to me.

  7. red says:

    Jean – hahahaha

  8. red says:

    Cullen – Ohhh, what a nice compliment!

    You know, it’s funny – it just occurred to me on the bus this morning that talking with Martha like this (or, uhm, getting her to talk, that is) is sort of part of the cab-drivers-opening-up-their-lives-to-me continuum.

    There is a part of me that does it deliberately, I do realize that – although I don’t think I was aware of it back then with Martha.

    But obviously the same kind of thing was operating.

Comments are closed.