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Memories of my son Jimmy

June Donohue - Columnist
Posted 2/28/20

He died in November over two years ago and I have learned to talk about the funny and touching things he said and did. I can only peak through the crack in the door of memories, not open it wide or …

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Memories of my son Jimmy

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He died in November over two years ago and I have learned to talk about the funny and touching things he said and did. I can only peak through the crack in the door of memories, not open it wide or remain there too long.

Somehow, though I once said, I could never live without him, I have moved on, as Kathy Werner, a fellow columnist, whose husband died more recently than Jimmy, has done. Jimmy's ability to read was very limited, since he was developmentally disabled, but his vocabulary often astounded me. As I mentioned in a previous column, he once said, “Look Mom the birds are having a caucus,” when we came upon a group of birds loudly chirping and scurrying around in a park.

At another time when I suggested that he leave a book home he said, “That would ruin my persona,” as he always had to have at least one book with him. I had never used either of those words but yet he used them correctly. The two of us were in the country together once and as we were leaving my son, Michael was trying to tell me how to set the alarm before I closed the door.

After trying this for several minutes, Jimmy asked me to give him the phone. “Michael we have to leave. It's getting very late and we have to get up early tomorrow.” He said in a few words what I was trying to get across to Michael. Another time Kathy Von Grouw, who gave him massages and stayed with him when we were away, had left very late one night and advised me to go right to bed because she could see I was tired.

For some reason she called here shortly after she left and Jimmy asked to speak to her He told her I not only didn't go to bed but I was continuing to work. He said he was going to have to put his foot down, but then corrected himself and said, “I already put my foot down, but I'll just have to put it down again.”

When I would go to the country without him and ask to speak to him, he would say to tell me to stop worrying about him. Two of his favorite expressions were “Don't worry about me.” or “Don't worry about it.”

Two days before he died he said he was going to see his dog soon. When his aide Leisha thought he meant her dog, he said “No, my dog, Bingo.” Bingo had died about 40 years before. I have now stopped worrying about him because I know he's in a better place with Bingo.

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