Mar
20
Online Condolences
March 20, 2008 | | 1 Comment
Feel free to leave your condolences as a comment to this post.
Mar
20
Poem: Tool & Die
March 20, 2008 | | Comments Off on Poem: Tool & Die
(A poem about my father written in the mid 90s)
Calipers and micrometers, cradled by the red felt
lining the half opened drawers of the wooden toolbox that belonged to his father,
wait to measure the tolerances of parts that must work together without touching.
And his corrugated space smells of the sweet oil sliding down the bit,
smoking as metal bites into metal,
digging towards the core,
extruding the sharp helix that can tempt blood from my young fingers.
We hide behind masks, he and I,
as he draws a molten bead along the cold unparted edges,
the inscrutable panes protect our dark eyes.
We must not look directly at such couplings.
Even here, among the jagged edges and melting surfaces,
kindness lays down in the teeth.
The blade, oiled to cut softly through the angle iron
eases itself down under his sure fingers , chewing gently
through the 90º angles, 6″ at a time.
And there are no shadows here;
the cold fluorescent lights illuminate every square inch of my father’s workshop.
The only darknessess are the fears
lying beneath his clean work shirt,
beating against the pencils and rulers he carries in his breast pocket.
© 1994, John Lyon
Mar
19
Robert L. Lyon (bio for his 50 year H.S. class reunion)
March 19, 2008 | | Comments Off on Robert L. Lyon (bio for his 50 year H.S. class reunion)
Robert L. Lyon
Crawfordsville, IN
(Married to Nancy – 2 children, 1 grandchild)
Retired
Immediately after graduating from Crawfordsville High School in 1955, I went to work for my uncle at Lyon’s Machine Shop as a machinist and worked there until about 1959, when I went to work for Summor Metalcraft Corp. to learn the Toll & Die trade. In 1961 I met Nancy Jane Payne, whom I dated until December of 1963 when we were married at Mount Zion Church just outside of Crawfordsville. In November of 1964 we were blessed with our first child, a son John. In 1968 I acquired the status of Journeyman Tool & Die Maker at Sommer Metalcraft and in October of that year I went to work for HC Industries in their new Research & Development Dept as a Tool & Die Maker.
While working at HC Industries, I was involved and worked on several inner plant committees, i.e. president & vice president of the social club several times, founding member of the HC Cares Committee, etc. In August of 1971 we were blessed with our second child, a daughter, Shannon. In 1980 with the Research & Development Tool Room Staff growing through the years from 2 people to around 10 people, I was promoted to Group Leader of the Tool Room, and 2 years later I was promoted to Tool Room Forman.
The research & Development Group at HC Industries was primarily responsible for the development of the plastic beverage cap that now is so common on many soft drink, water and other beverage drinks sold around the World. In 1982 HC Industries was bought out by ALCOA Clusure Systems International and the Tool Room would grow to include as many as 16 to 18 people plus other support staff. In 1993 I was promoted to Tool Room Manager, a position I held until my retirement in February of 1999.
Our son John and his wife Margaret and our granddaughter Emma live in Austin, TX. Our daughter Shannon lives in Muncie , IN.
My current hobbies include traveling when we can. I am a member of the Ben Hur Antique & Classic Car Club of Crawfordsville and currently own 2 ‘older’ cars, a 1965 Ford Mustang Convertible and a 1964 Ford Galaxie Convertible, which occupy most of my time during the warm weather months, by participating in various car shows, parades, cruise-ins etc. My wife, Nancy and I are members of the First Baptist Church of Crawfordsville.
Feb
26
Thoughts after Six Days in Crawfordsville
February 26, 2008 | | Comments Off on Thoughts after Six Days in Crawfordsville
(February 26th) I just got back to Austin from a six day stay in Crawfordsville, from February 21st through the 26th, and I thought y’all might like some impressions.
(In my best Groucho Marx voice) “Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
But seriously, several things really stand out: Dad still has his sense of humor, which makes the situation bearable. He’s also accepting this with such graciousness and dignity, it is simply awe inspiring, and an incredible lesson and example for mom, shannon and I. I never heard him complain once. Not. Once. He apolgizes for being an inconvenience. He never demands something he wants; he always asks, almost apologetically.
But even with all he is going through, his first concern is never about *his* wants or needs. It is always that we kids look after his wife. “Take care of your mother,” he’s told us, on numerous occasions. And we will.
And mom, after telling me that she didn’t want to be strong just a few months ago, is really showing incredible character as she deals with the day to day demands dad’s illness puts on her, and physical strength and she lifts and moves him from place to place. I can’t tell you how pleased and impressed I am. She too sets a good example, as she’s well outside her comfort zone. But she’s standing in there, even as new challenges are thrown at her. I think she’s proving to herself she’s stronger than she thought. She might even be a little bit surprised!
As far as dad’s physical condition, he is much weaker – and he was weaker on the 26th than he was on the 21st. He is unable to move his left arm and leg, and his speech is less understandable, and his ability to eat is now being affected. On the 21st, he was able to eat some, but he now is nearly unable to swallow. Oddly, he seems to be able to hear better. And his right side still seems quite strong. His grip is very firm, and I noticed today he really had good strength in his right arm, which he had around my shoulder as I moved him from one place to another. Waltzing across Texas, I told him. He said I was a good dance partner.
Emotionally? As I noted, he does not complain, ever. And he is unfailingly gracious, thanking everyone for what they do for him. I found it humbling, and a real honor and privilege to do the things for my father he couldn’t do for himself, and be witness to such graciousness and dignity. I should be so on my good days. When he “perked up,” seemingly out of the blue, a few weeks ago, he not only was better physically, but he was able to eat, and he was mentally sharper. Until then, it was if he was in a fog. And while he’s gone down hill physically, he is still, it seems to me, as mentally cognizant as he was a few weeks ago. Which means that he understands very well he is going to die. And though he doesn’t talk about it – he was ever reticent – my sense is that he is very sad at the thought of leaving behind his wife, his children, his grand-daughter, his family and friends. He loves life, and isn’t ready to leave. And so he is much more emotional than I have ever seen him.
Dad and I talked a fair amount – at length on the 21st and again on the 26th. Although, even from the beginning, I’ve had nothing I felt was unresolved between my father and I, each chance we get to talk is a blessing, “a gift,” the hospice spiritual advisor called them.
I assured him that his father, were he here today, would surely be proud of the man he is. I told him if he were my son, I’d be proud of the man he is. And mom and I both let him know that when he’s ready, he should feel free to let go. (I know Shannon feels the same, and I’m pretty sure she’s let him know as well.) I reminded him that Shannon and I are part of his legacy, (which may be quite a disappointment) ;-), and that Emma is too. I hope I was clear that even as he passes from this life, he still remains physically in and with his children and grandchild, and in our hearts as well.
Jan
12
Mercy Now
January 12, 2008 | | Comments Off on Mercy Now
Just on a whim I played “Mercy Now” by Mary Gauthier.
My father could use a little mercy now
The fruits of his labor
Fall and rot slowly on the ground
His work is almost over
It won’t be long and he won’t be around
I love my father, and he could use some mercy now
My father, indeed, could use a little mercy now.
Jan
6
My Dad’s Last New Year
January 6, 2008 | | Comments Off on My Dad’s Last New Year
In trying to get some perspective on my father’s glioblastoma multiforme, I compiled this time line:
11/17/07 – Mom asks me to call dad for general chit-chat. I know something’s not right – she never asks for something like that unless there’s an agenda. I call, and from his first sentence, I know something’s not right.
11/19/07 – In a Dr. visit, he’s diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder. That didn’t sound right to any of us, so we pushed for more tests.
11/27/07 – He gets a CAT scan, which reveals a frontal lobe tumor. The family doctor suggests it is glioblastoma multiforme, which is a stage four cancer.
The decision is made to go ahead with surgery to remove as much of the tumor as possible. My mother is told that the prognosis would be three months without treatment, six months with surgery, and twelve months with surgery, chemotherapy and radiation.
12/03/07 – I’m in Lafayette Indiana with my Mom and sister, friends and family, while dad gets the tumor removed. The doctor reports that he got 90 to 95% of the tumor removed, and that we need to wait to find out the pathology report.
Over the next two days, we visit him in the hospital. He seems to have problems eating, swallowing, and develops a urinary tract infection. He also has low sodium, which can effect brain function.
12/06/07 – My sister and mother get the pathology report, confirming the family physician’s diagnosis. Originally dad was to be home after three days, but because he doesn’t make as much progress as the doctor had expected, he remains in the hospital.
12/11/07 – He is moved to acute rehab, where he receives physical and occupational therapy, particularly to help his swallowing.
12/13/07 – I speak by phone with the neurosurgeon, who says he doesn’t know why dad has “struggled.” Dad’s recovery is not typical, but given he’s had a chunk of his brain taken out, we understand there was the risk things wouldn’t go as planned.
The doctor asks how we felt dad did on the steroids prior to the operation.
He notes that generally, when someone does well on them pre-op, they tend to recover better post-op. I felt that dad had improved, and my sense was that mom and my sister felt he’d improved as well. The doctor tells me that he thinks dad has improved since he had the surgery. He said his interactions with dad had been pretty normal.
But we continue to be concerned.
12/21/07 – On their 44th anniversary, dad comes home from the hospital. Despite coming home, he still has problems swallowing, hence, eating. This will continue to be an issue
12/25/07 – He is able to attend his sister-in-law’s wedding.
12/27/07 – One month after finding out my father has a tumor in his frontal lobe, my wife, daughter and I visit my parents. We quickly see the problem dad has with eating. He is also not drinking enough. It is clear we have some hard choices to make in our meeting with the doctor tomorrow.
12/28/07 – I accompany my parents on a doctor’s visit with the neurosurgeon. He seems surprised dad hasn’t started the chemo and radiation. He also admits that he doesn’t have an explanation on why dad never “perked up” after the surgery. He tells us that problems swallowing are usually seen in cases of dementia and where both frontal lobes are affected by a tumor or other damage. While rare, it is possible the tumor has grown back in the three weeks since the surgery, and spread to the unaffected lobe. We feel that my father’s inability to eat has severely impacted his prognosis, and that chemo and radiation would net us very little time. The doctor doesn’t steer us away from that assumption. The decision is made not to put him through the rigors of additional treatment. We go ahead with another CAT scan, and the doctor calls later to confirm that the tumor is beginning to grow back, but not so much that it should affect dad’s swallowing. We are still without answers, but ultimately, given the short time line, it will not matter.
12/31/07 – My parents and I meet with the social worker from hospice. My wife, daughter and I head back to Austin, where we ring in the new year in the terminal baggage claim.
2008 – Not to put too fine a point on it, but my father will die this year, and sooner, rather than later. He has hospice care, so it is my hope that he will be, at the very least, comfortable. I don’t know if he is at peace with it. I hope so. He always was a practical man, so I expect he accepts it.