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Oldest citizen says farewell

Ramona correspondent

The day before Tony Meyer died he asked me if I’d reported the Kentucky Derby party held in his room May 2.

Tony always loved being in the news, but I hadn’t written many newspaper columns recently, primarily because my life from March to May was centered on him.

For much of March, Tony was in the hospital, recovering from a bit of pneumonia. He was given the choice March 31 of entering 24-hour care at a nursing facility or returning home with ’round-the-clock care.

He wanted to be home. So his niece, Cynde, and I set about creating a team.

I could fill a column with the stories from Tony’s last 40 days — what I lovingly refer to as “The Blessing Path,” because the sacred journey of his final days was filled with love and inspiration.

Tony was clear-minded and fully aware of all that was happening until the last hour of his life. He spoke with me until about 20 minutes before he departed this earthly realm.

He took care of his business until the very end. He just needed hands and feet to get things done since he never left his bed once he returned home.

“Commanding things” was Tony’s way of life. It was a natural extension of his career as a naval commander. Ironically, his demise was the one thing he could not command.

“Remember the day we watched the Kentucky Derby and Big Brown got hurt and they had to put him down?” he asked me one day. “Well, I’m Big Brown, and I’m ready to go. I just don’t understand why it hasn’t happened yet.”

I had a theory about why he was still with us: I figured his heart and soul, after a lifetime of “singularity” — he never married or had offspring — needed to know, without doubt, just how much he was loved, admired and cherished.

There were things he needed to impart, too: inspiration, final advice, and moments of thanks.

Friends jogged delightful memories, family warmed his heart, and early morning sleepless hours were turned into moments of reviewing his life.

“What were you thinking about when you couldn’t sleep?” I asked one night.

“I was realizing that I won’t ever see the Kentucky Derby again,” he said.

Tony and I always watched the three big horse races each May, and bet on a couple, too.

“You need to write a letter to the New York Racing Association, and ask for the $110 I have there on account that I didn’t get to use,” Tony instructed.

Weeks passed, May arrived, and I was surprised to hear one day on the television that the Kentucky Derby was happening May 2.

“You’ll get to see another Derby race,” I excitedly announced to Tony.

When he heard the news, he kicked into high gear.

“I want you to call the racing association and see if my account can be re-opened,” he said.

I called and said I had a request from a dying man. The association confirmed that his account would be opened and he could bet.

“Next I want you to call Lorna Morgan (a friend who works at his bank) and tell her I want to wire money to New York so I can place a bet.”

The Friday before the race, Lorna followed Tony’s instructions.

I called friends and relatives and invited them for one more Derby race party. I brought my hat collection to the house so ladies would have a choice of hats and fit in with the Derby crowd.

Tony decided to bet on Friesen Fire and Dunkirk. I called in his wagers.

Guests arrived: Linda Ihde and Edna Mueller of Tampa; my sister, Pat Wick, Al and Darlene Sondergard, and Tony’s niece Cynde Bentz (part of Tony’s caretaking team) from Ramona; and another niece, Gloria Schultz of Herington, along with grand-nephew Paul Bentz of Lindsborg, (Cynde’s son and occasional weekend relief help for Tony).

We all crowded into Tony’s room and surrounded his bed with eyes turned toward the television set. Excitement was in the air. About 5:20 p.m. the horses left the gate, and we cheered. In the end, a horse with 50:1 odds (Mime That Bird) won the race on a muddy track.

In the days I spent with Tony, I started writing down stories I heard, advice he shared and insights he recollected. I took pictures. Tony loved having his picture taken, and the pose was always the same: Tony in his bed, with folks on either side.

Eventually these stories became a 20-page booklet, which he wanted his family and friends to have after he died.

He watched me put it together on my computer. He was amazed.

“I should have gotten one,” he pronounced.

He would smile as I read him the stories. Each new visitor would stir up more recollections, and he’d command that I write about them.

On the morning of May 8, Tony was restless — like a man trying to escape an uncomfortable suit.

For a brief time, the night nurse, Kim Young, was standing beside him, stroking his head, Hospice volunteer and friend Dollye Novak was touching one foot and I the other. I asked if he wanted me to sing — I often sang to him — and he nodded that he did.

I began to sing, “Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling.” He began to calm.

I stood in awe at this amazing moment with these other wonderful caregivers.

He died later that morning with grace and ease. I was sitting beside him. He sneezed three times.

“Bless you, bless you, bless you,” I said. And he was gone.

Tony’s funeral was at St. John’s Lutheran Church in Tampa, where he was baptized and confirmed.

Tony was insistent that Pastor Clark Davis conduct his funeral. Everything happened in perfect timing because Tony died right before the pastor was leaving for his daughter’s graduation. He delayed his trip long enough to grant this final request.

Tony collected quotations that inspired him. I’ll close with one by Confucius, that Tony marked with three stars:

“There are three marks of a superior man: being virtuous, he is free from anxiety; being wise, he is free from perplexity; being brave, he is free from fear.”

Tony was all those things until his last breath.

Last modified June 4, 2009

 

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