The Flood

The Flood

The silent, stoic patriarch of my family lies in a maroon, sterile looking bed in front of me. To my left is his scared, heartbroken wife of 53 years. It is her tears that employ my own. Periodically she grabs my hand in hers that is so frail and knarled and asks me some gut wrenching, heart dropping question like, “How long do you think he will hold on? Or “What will I do with his new chair? I can’t sit in it.” Each time I fight back the wave of sadness and act strong. I came here with the intention of being a support for my family. With every twitch and moan from my grandfather, the semi circle of chairs freezes in silence and stares at the unresponsive core of our unit.
With every bleep or whistle from the heart monitor, we collectively and dutifully proceed to stare at the screen like it is an enthralling TV drama.
My family has hugged and kissed me more in the past three days than my collective life. My mother is facing me from the opposite side of the bed. She alternates between the heart monitor screens, the sporadic movements of my grandfather’s unaffected side and the window behind me. She tries to fill the silence with stories of the younger cousins’ youth. She talks of when we all dressed up for Halloween and got our face makeup all over her 1983 Honda EXP. She reminds me of how my grandfather got me addicted to butter pecan ice cream. (He took me to the corner store every day after school for a single scoop.) She tells of the time my grandpa dug a well and I spent two solid weeks out there playing with the frogs and tadpoles until the day I fell in and got my boot stuck in the bottom. (It is still in there.) She recounts her own youth and memories of her father. My aunt and uncle are present and chuckle as she tells my cousins how she always won at chess, so no one would play with her and my aunt chimes in that my mother would then “beat her up” because she wouldn’t play with her. My cousin mentions that he recently found pictures of him and I bathing in the kitchen sink.
The doctor comes in with the results from the CT scan. He holds them up in front of the light above my grandfather’s head and points to the dark area where the stroke has occurred. It is almost half of his brain. “This is dead tissue. Obviously the clot-buster drugs didn’t work. The chances are very slim of any significant recovery. I doubt he will make it through the weekend.” With that he turns on his patent leather heel and leaves the room. We are shocked and horrified at the doctor’s callous tone and each of us mutters under our breath.
My grandmother says that she wants to start seeing a new doctor, because she doesn’t like the one that she is seeing (the one that was just here). “I don’t like him; he doesn’t listen.” “He’s a douche bag Gram, you should see someone you like,” I say.
My mother retorts “I love my daughter” with a smiling tone.
I stare at the imitation tile-linoleum floor and the drop ceiling tiles. We are surrounded by tiles. I stare at anything but the room that is filling with tears all around me. I go out of my way not to make eye contact because I do not want to cry. No, I prefer to wait for other much less appropriate places like in front of strangers in the hospital lobby.
Time creeps by and my stubborn grandpa continues his struggle. His fever is back up to 102.4 degrees and his lungs are audibly full of fluid. My grandma has rubbed the skin off of my hand by the time the priest comes in the room. As if on command everyone reinstates their personal quest to flood us all onto the street. I imagine us all clinging onto mattresses and garbage cans trying desperately to stay afloat as the deluge rushes us down the stairs and out the fire door, all those tiles littering the salty river bottom. Flood warning signs line the shores and concerned citizens’ stand biting their nails and watch with baited breath at the unfortunate gasping, flailing victims in the water.
This daydream continues all through the priest’s prayer as we huddle, hands linked around my fading grandfather. One of my younger cousins is sobbing so loud that the priest gets distracted a time or two.
It’s now 12:30 AM and all but my mother and I have given up their post at his bedside. I sit in a creaky wooden chair holding his hand and stroking his feverish face. His hands, I notice, are remarkably soft for someone who worked so hard for so many years. His nails are trimmed and clean, as they always were, and his hair is combed evenly to one side. With every word I say, his eyes move under his eye lids. He knows that I am here, and I tell myself that he knows it’s me. I kiss his scruffy chin and tell him everything that I think he needs to hear. I pet his hair as I lean over to whisper in his ear. I tell him that his whole family is there and loves him and I tell him that there is no need to be scared. I tell him that we will take good care of grandma and that he shouldn’t suffer if that is the only thing he is worried about. I tell him that he was my favorite (and he was) and I tell him that I will see him in the morning. I do not know for sure that he will still be with us, but I will see him either way and I don’t feel guilty.
I am on the road about fifty five minutes. I wanted to take a drive to clear my head before I try to sleep. My car begins to sputter. It bucks and the headlights dim and I do my best to pull it off the road. As I roll into a parking lot, it stalls. It is 2 AM. I am all alone in this small town; all of the residents are tucked away safely in their beds. I don’t have a cell phone. I pop the hood and use my mini flashlight to look underneath. I don’t know what I am looking for. I can barely see anything. The engine is steaming, so I take a guess that it’s overheated, but then I see that there is a tube that has burst. As it dawns on me that I am trapped here with this giant hunk of tired, heavy metal, tears being to pour down my face. Again I am reminded of the flash flood warning signs that I had seen earlier in the day.
I visualize a map of the area where I am. There is nothing for miles. I am sobbing hysterically at this point. I sit down in the driver seat, with my head on the steering wheel. I remember all the details about my grandpa that I have held back all day and I cry for each of them. My grandfather had always been my surrogate father. He showed me all about gardening and plants. He taught me how to read the forest and track animals. He taught me how to identify animal droppings for better hunting. I never did go hunting with him, but I sure would have if I had been older or taller. I remember when he named a flower that we planted together after me. He taught me how to be calm. He taught me the importance of being peaceful and one with nature. I wanted to be just like him. I had always followed him like a puppy. I wanted to be with him now; it wasn’t enough time. I cry for over an hour before I am too exhausted to cry anymore. I decide to sleep in my lifeless, old, worn-in car. It had served me well. I wrap my corduroy jacket over my shoulders and fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The sun is beat down on me like a hard wind, and I wake squinting. It is still damp and chilly. I stand, shaking the cold out of my bones. A half hour passes before someone comes by. In Vermont, people stop for women. The man is in his early 50’s with a graying beard and shaggy hair. He is tall and slender and wears a red Budweiser hat. He doesn’t say a word other than to ask where I was headed and I am thankful because I was still at a loss for words.
Back at the hospital, it is like I have gone back in time to the day before. Everyone is seated in the same places and the heart monitor is still bleeping. My mother informs me that Grandpa is being moved to a “comfort care unit”. They are sure he will not last the day. Throughout the afternoon faces exchange for new faces as people filter in and out to pay their respects to my family and to say their goodbyes to “Coop,” as he was called by his friends.
The tone is markedly different today. Each of us can sense the change in the way the nurses speak to us. He is dying and they cannot save him. Our vigil continues late into the night, each of us taking turns wiping his furrowed brow. He is in pain, but he cannot tell us. One by one, the family trickles out to their cars and warily drives home to wait. My mother begins packing up my sullen grandmother’s belongings to take her home for the night. I had been waiting all day for some time alone with him. I want to say goodbye, on my own terms, in my own time. I hold my poor brave grandfather’s hand and hum a soft song with my head lying on the guardrail by his side. Again, I get close to his ear and assure him that no matter what, we will take care of his wife- we will take our duties seriously. I assure him that we all love him and respect him and that he can go whenever he is ready. It is hard to watch him suffer. I know he is holding on out of guilt. He thinks he’s abandoning her, after all of these years of devotional love and care. I remind him of all of the goodness that he has brought to the world. I remind him of how much love he has shared with us all. About 45 minutes has passed since my mother and grandmother left for home. The nurse has assured them both that she will call if anything changes. I stand to hug him one last time. I cannot hold back the sobs that escape onto his chest. I kiss his cheek and tell him one last time that I love him, before I turn and head out the door. I feel a pressure unlike any before on my chest. I can’t hold back my tears as I pass the nurses station. They peer up curiously from their nurses logs.
Once again the image of me grasping for something sturdy, as I crash down the stairs in a wall of salt water comes to mind. I can’t shake that image. But this time I imagine that I don’t bother to continue the fight. In my mind, I let go of the chair that I am holding onto and sink into the depths of the murky river. I inspect the tiles littering the muddy floor, inspecting their uniformity and texture and suck in a big gulp of water instead of the ever necessary air.

I take a shuttle to the bus station. My mother had reminded me before she left that she would be back to spend the night with him. I must go home for work in the morning. It is cold next to the window on the Greyhound. The bus driver is feeling chatty. I respond in one word sentences in hopes that he will get the idea that I want to be left alone. He asks me about the ring on my left hand and whether or not I like children. He rambles on about baseball. I fall asleep. I dream of that river, that is now so deep I cannot tell which way is up or down. I do not feel claustrophobic, no instead I feel free. I poke at the fish that swim by and giggle at the seaweed that wraps around my leg. I explore and navigate the deep saline gulf with ease. I feel no pressure, not in my lungs or in my heart. I move around gracefully, letting time pass with no regard. I am fully at peace. I am liberated.
I wake with a start as the bus comes to a halt at the station near my home. The driver nods his head, apparently disappointed with my company. I huddle on the corner, waiting for the CDTA that will take me to the comfort of my bed. At least we will be reunited. I am exhausted and still somewhat weepy.
Opening the front door, I see that there is a message on the machine. I know immediately what it will say. I glance at it several times as I undress and climb into bed. I feel obligated to listen to it; like it would be disrespectful not to, but I choose to wait. I already know what it says; that he is gone. I rationalize that no one will know the difference, as I fall into a deep sleep with reflections of the river bottom behind my eyes.








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Henry F. Cooper Jr., 79
HOOSICK FALLS - Mr. Henry F. Cooper Jr., 79, a resident of South Stateline Road in Hoosick Falls, died Saturday, February 4, 2006, at the Southwestern Vermont Medical Center following a brief illness.
He was born in Bennington, VT, on July 12, 1926, he was the son of the late Henry F. and Helen L. (Clark) Cooper.
He received his education in Bennington.
A World War II veteran, Henry served in the U.S. Army.
He married the former Eleanor M. Robertson May 9, 1953, in North Bennington.
In earlier years Henry was employed at the Bradford Mill, Sprague Electric, Cushman Manufacturing and the Hale Company in Arlington, VT. He later worked at Globe Union, which later became Johnson Control, from which he retired in 1988.
He enjoyed playing horseshoes and over the years he received many trophies. He and his wife Eleanor were very active in the Bennington Horseshoe Club. They also traveled throughout Vermont and New Hampshire to different tournaments. Mr. Cooper was elected into the Vermont Horseshoe Hall of Fame. He also enjoyed hunting and fishing.
Survivors include his wife Eleanor Cooper of Hoosick Falls; a son, Frank T. Cooper and his wife Diane of Hoosick Falls; two daughters, Nancy C. Woffenden of North Hoosick and Ellen M. Redden of Hoosick Falls; eight grandsons and three granddaughters; two great-grandchildren; a sister-in-law, Donna Goodell of North Adams, MA; and several nieces, nephews and cousins. He was predeceased by a brother, William T. Cooper, and a sister Martha Hall.
The funeral will be held from the Mahar and Son Funeral Home on Thursday, February 9, 2006, at 1 p.m. The burial will be in the family lot in Park Lawn Cemetery.
Friends may call at the Mahar and Son Funeral Home Wednesday from 4 to 7 p.m., when the family will be in attendance.
If friends desire, contributions in memory of Henry F. Cooper Jr. may be made to the Hoosick Falls Rescue Squad through the office of the Mahar and Son Funeral Home 628 Main St. Bennington, VT 05201.



Henry F. Cooper Jr. Rites

February 10, 2006
HOOSICK FALLS, N.Y. — The funeral service for Henry F. Cooper Jr., 79, who died Feb. 4, 2006, was held Thursday, Feb. 9, 2006, at the Mahar and Son Funeral Home.

Pastor Michael Benoit officiated.

Mr. Cooper's daughters, Nancy Woffenden and Ellen Redden, were vocalists.

Bearers were Candice Redden, Donald Donisthorpe, John, Jeremy and James Woffenden.

Burial took place in Park Lawn Cemetery. Military taps were played by Maurice Rancourt and the American flag was presented to Mrs. Cooper by Joseph Krawczyk of American Legion Post 13.

A reception followed at the VFW Post 1332 in Bennington.