“Senator Joe, Part Four”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-19)

Sunset.

The cycle of mortal existence is not unlike a day being witnessed in slow motion. From sunrise to the fullness of noon, then the cascade toward evening, and eventual stillness of night. This regular happening fits the pattern set by our creator. We reflect what is in us and around us. A play performed in the image of nature and God.

Regular readers of this series will remember that I wrote about the journey of my parents following their own trajectory toward the light of eternity. Last year, my father finally slipped away as his temporal shell grew too frail to continue. This left my mother alone at the Mansfield Place nursing home, in Philippi, West Virginia. A spot both friendly and convenient to provide for her care. Yet with the rush of events, there had not been enough time to properly set everything into motion. Funding for her residency did not exist. Family efforts to secure Medicaid coverage began in February. Yet over six months later, this task remained uncompleted. Her applications, filled out by my sister and then by myself, were rejected over and over again. Mother’s unpaid invoices filled an entire folder. She was $36,000 in the red, and pleas from the home had grown more desperate. We feared that she would have to leave her beloved Mountaineer State.

While wallowing in this relentless tide of frustration, I remembered the name of her favorite senator. A fellow who had once been governor of the state. Joe Manchin III. I composed a short letter to explain our predicament, and sent it to one of his offices. Some members of the family were amused by this strategy. They reckoned that such a busy fellow would have little time to address the plight of an old woman from Barbour County.

Happily, Senator Joe proved them wrong.

He replied quickly with a personal note, and a form to authorize an investigation into mother’s needs. Eventually, he contacted the head of DHHR, the Department of Health and Human Resources. The agency responsible for oversight of the Medicaid program in their state. Suddenly, the process transitioned in velocity from a snail’s crawl to the sprint of a cheetah. I returned to Philippi with my sister, and we met the local caseworker in charge. Denial turned to assurances that Mom would receive her coverage without further delay. In early September, I was formally appointed as her conservator. Sister became her legal guardian. At last, we had finished our work.

My mother thrived in the social environment of her nursing home. She interacted well with other residents and the staff. Many of these people knew her personally. Church members, neighbors, and relatives from around Parkersburg visited her often. Her meals were a culinary delight. Lots of variety in each menu, with a foundation of staple foods like ham, beans, cornbread, and biscuits with sausage gravy. She stayed full in her belly and in spirit. Activities continued throughout each day. She was rarely alone in her room, except to slumber.

Movies provided an extra compliment to this regimen of activities. During one visit, we sat with Mom and watched ‘The Wizard of Oz.’ Though I had seen this celluloid classic many times, it took on new meaning when viewed with a group of wide-eyed oldsters. Before, this film had reminded me of the wonder I felt when seeing it as a child. Now, that perspective flipped to the innocence of seasoned souls peering from the opposite end of their journey. A sweet and joyful moment to be cherished forever.

Mother seemed poised for a long, restful stay at the nursing home. But like a thrilling, summer day, her experience came to its conclusion too quickly. In August, she suffered what appeared to have been a stroke. Her ability to eat and drink were compromised. No longer did her voice ring out with zeal. She confided to a friend from the Union Church of Christ that her heart was ready for surrender and peace.

We stayed with Mom in a private room, for 33 hours. My sister believed it was her desire to have one long, last visit with us, before saying goodbye. Every breath came only through the might of deliberation and desire. A fight to stay with her children. Then, she quieted to a whisper. We kissed her forehead. I held her hand.

When the struggle was done, I prayed over her body.

She was laid to rest next to my father, in Parkersburg. By Allie and Lulu McCray, my grandparents. And Aunt Audrey & Uncle Blaine, who were so dear to our hearts. With Uncle Fritz and Aunt Edna nearby. Her journey from sunrise to sunset was complete.

In the aftermath, I ran an ad in the Barbour Democrat newspaper, to offer thanks. A tribute and salutation. Gratitude for the people who had given our parents over 30 years of fellowship. A lingering bond never to be broken. Affinity for this town on the Tygart Valley River that would continue into eternity. 

I shared the clipping with Senator Joe, after we were back in Ohio. Then, a package arrived in the mail. I was stunned by his gift. An official proclamation, bound and sealed:

“John F. Kennedy said the sun doesn’t always shine in West Virginia, but the people always do. Gwendolyn exemplified this and her light will forever shine through those that honor her memory… I extend to you my most sincere condolences for the loss of this wonderful person. The unwavering love she had for her family, friends, community, and our home state will live on forever in the hearts of all who knew her. I know she and Rhoderick are looking down on all of you with a smile.”

Mom and Dad both supported Manchin at the ballot box, despite differing on their own political loyalties. They believed he was a faithful guardian of the state. As governor and in the United States Senate. I knew that this final gesture would gladden their hearts, in eternity.

Thank you, Senator Joe!

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