In 2006, I was able to put together some of the pieces about what was going on in LaCrosse while I was in Utah. We had talked about retirement, but she would always plead, "But what would I do?" I had talked about a home with a very nice "grandma apartment" in the basement, but she didn't seem too enthusiastic. After I bought a different, one family house, she broke my heart when she asked, "Did you buy the grandma house?" She constantly asked me to make a list of new projects she could introduce through her office. I was uncomfortable with our seperation, but I assumed all was well back in LaCrosse. It wasn't. Newspaper clippings from 1991-92 sent to me in 2006 from the LaCrosse Historical Society, show there was trouble brewing. One article talks about Committee funds being mishandled, and that troubles me a great deal. Was THAT how she kept slipping me $500 checks for my business? Reading the articles partially answers my question about why she came to Ogden without notice.

Once she moved to Utah in February of 1992, I would swing by Adams Place retirement home two or three times a week after work to be with Mom. Periodically, I "kidnaped" her and brought her home for dinner, or I would stay and have dinner with her. She also loved to go prowling in used clothing or furniture stores. All her life she would take particular joy in buying a dress for 25 cents or a dollar, and then decorate it in some way to make it uniquely her own.

She came over to our place for my son David's birthday on May 1, and enjoyed herself very much. To me, she was just Mom. I did not notice until much, much later how she had aged. She seemed somewhat distracted, but that was natural - she had left EVERYTHING behind in LaCrosse. Everything. In later years I guessed she might have been wondering how to tell me a few things. But at that time, her mind seemed as sharp as ever. The quality of her voice was the same as it had always been. "If I had only known" we had just a few months left together..........

She insisted on finding a typewriter. She always wanted to write "the Great American Novel," and now she saw the opportunity. She also wanted to finish her book of proverbs and rhymes. Her doctor became very interested in that project. He told her he would help her publish them and that he even knew an artist who would help out. Again, my enthusiasm was nonexistent, and I dragged my feet. We finally went looking for a typewriter one day, but she couldn't find the exact model she wanted.

I was torn emotionally during our get togethers. As a single parent, I felt I needed to be with my children as soon as they would get home from school. Yet, my mother needed me as well. Pressures from work and my personal life overwhelmed me, and I had a nervous breakdown July 10, 1992. Some of my journal entries while recovering were addressed to my mother. They were not intended to be mailed, but expressed some of my frustrations at living among secrets and lies all my life. For example:

July 13, 1992

Mom;

Everyone knows you are a pathological liar. Now that you are nearing the end of your stay on this earth, wouldn't you feel better if you cleared your conscience of a few things? Sure you would.

It might be easiest if you started at the beginning - you know - the basics. Like, where were you born...................? When...........? No one really knows how old you are - maybe not even you. Perhaps you've lied so much and so often, you don't even know the answers yourself?

Well, okay, try something a little easier - when and where was I born?? I've heard lots of stories on this one, so which one is true? Or are they all false? In order to get through life, we have all settled on my birth date as Nov. 2, 1945, and my birth place as Ipswich, Suffolk County, England. Wasn't that a shock the other day when you scoffed at me, "You weren't born in England!" Well, where the hell was I born?

Maybe you are unsure of the date of my birth because I dug out the secret you married my Dad in AUGUST 1945. Now, simple math tells us that I was about to be illegitimate, OR, that R. Vincent O'Neil isn't my real father! Which is it?

Somewhere, I found a record that says you are Marianne Rebecca Emily Fisher (formerly Foyster). I also found a record referring to a Reverend Foyster. So - if you were really born in 1913 that means you had plenty of time to be married to the reverend dude - maybe get pregnant once or twice - and lose him to divorce (unlikely) or WWII (most likely) or to ghosts (I found a weird reference to ghosts in your papers). Which is it?

Do I have a sister? I get the feeling from talking to [old friends] that they think I do. But they say they don't know.

So, if we figure out how I came to be, and where I came to be, I guess I can figure out the rest.

I believe you (should I?) when you say you and I came to America when I was nine months old. You told a story about "Limey brides" getting first preference on tickets to America. What was that all about? Did you lie to someone to say you were English in order to get here faster? If you did, the lies started early and have snowballed ever since...

...You really missed [Dad after he died]. For months you used to say, "He's calling me. It's my turn next." Even though you divorced him, he lived with you the last several years of his life. You two must have really had a time of it back somewhere in England, hunh?

He died in 1981. I still don't think you're over it...

You've done so much for so many people. They call you "Mom" and "Grandma." You put J.H. on his feet and now he's a millionaire. You've done so many good things for others - EXCEPT YOUR OWN FAMILY. I ran away from home - got kicked out of schools - and you helped everyone else. Remember the heroin addict who overdosed while staying with us [when I was about 16]? Did she live? I still remember the smell...

I learned from you not to want people in the house. I'm just as antisocial as you when I get home. Public during the day - private at home...

I sent you some brochures describing the various rest homes out here in Utah, hoping to spark an interest. I told you how we could convert the garage into an apartment for you. You didn't seem to take the bait. Remember when [my third wife] and I were looking for a newer home and we found this big house with an apartment attached? You didn't seem interested, so we moved on and bought something else. Remember when you called and said, "Did you buy the house with the grandma apartment?" I guess we failed to communicate one more time.

Speaking of failing to communicate, imagine my surprise when I discovered you had moved out here to Adams Place! You snuck in without a word! Someone could have pushed me over with a feather. I never will forget how all that happened; from the little old lady who always hated lies and deceit; and from the little old lady who always hated surprises! "It's better to anticipate than be surprised," you always said. Hmmm - kinda funny isn't it?

July 14, 1992

I'm sitting here waiting for my doctor to arrive, and I am getting a small feeling for part of your life right now. You're in a rest home, looking at three different clocks and a watch, counting off the minutes until dinner. Then it's count off the minutes until medication time. Then count the time until bed.

Sometimes, I pop in for a visit, and a different clock starts all over again until I return.

I guess "turn about is fair play." I keep kicking myself for being so impatient when I visit you. I say to myself every time I come for a visit, "Your turn is next. Will your children be as impatient as you are now?" Of course they will be! It's the eternal circle.

I've never had much sympathy for the sick - until I had my kidney stone attack. So now, after 46 years, I've discovered I'm mortal and susceptible to pain and death. You would think I would learn some empathy, wouldn't you?

August 9, 1992

You broke your hip this morning -

You forbade me to talk to the doctor behind your back, but since you wouldn't tell him about your stroke [in 1990], I told him. Couldn't you remember you had a stroke? You lie so much - I couldn't tell.

Mom fell and broke her hip while walking across her room at Adams Place. When I got to the hospital, she complained, "What are you doing here? Who told you I was here?"

She had also been angry when I came back to see her in Wisconsin after her first stroke. This time - as before - she quickly adjusted to my presence and actually seemed glad I was nearby. I couldn't help but ask myself, "Why does she not want anyone to see her sick?" She passionately hated visiting doctors. She waited years to have her stiff knee operated on, and then only "submitted" because she could barely walk. She hated all the tests and despised the "probes."

The probes of instruments and the probes of questioning neighbors - she could tolerate neither one. Both made her furious.

The doctors in the emergency room pulled me aside to show me x-rays after she broke her hip. They clearly showed a lump inside her lungs.

Her operation was an unqualified success. She was anxious to begin physical therapy, and was moved rapidly to the Transistional Care Unit. She was feisty, talkative, and very active. A day or so later, she walked five or six steps, and the staff was very impressed with her progress. During some of my visits, we sat together just looking at the mountains. We chattered aimlessly about all kinds of things. She told me over and over, "I do love you, Vinny." Why was it so important for her to get that message across? I had a foreboding about the tone of her voice when she continually repeated the same phrase. What was she really trying to say?

One day while visiting, I helped her swallow a big blue pill that was way too large to go down easily. She had not tried walking for several days, and I was a bit surprised to see her slow down. Then, she just seemed to stop. She had been taken off the blood thinners that were so important to her daily life, but which prevented clotting after her hip replacement. The enevitable had happened - a stroke.

On about August 13, 1992, I talked with Mom's doctor from Adam's Place - Dr. N. He ominously told me that traditionally not much is attempted to aid old people like my mother. "Why pull her out, just to go through all of this again?" he asked me. " Does she want to come back? What about the tumors? She is a very old woman and there is very little we could probably do for her anyway." He gave me the impression she was a dying woman.

It didn't really register in my mind what he was saying. My mind was foggy and I couldn't put the pieces together just right.

Later, I wrote to T.P. "Regardless of what Dr. N. 'thinks' we talked about in his office, I never told him to stop medication or to stop care for my mother. I listened to a professional and did not discuss treatment - or lack of treatment - since I am not an expert. I trusted him to 'do what is best.' That did not mean 'help my mother die.'"

About the first of September I noticed something was definitely wrong with Mom. She was getting weaker and weaker. Where she had been so active before, now she wouldn't even wake up. Then T.P. arrived back in town. She wanted Dr. N. taken off the case. She stirred up the hospital staff - big time!

Mom continued to say, "I do love you, Vinny. I always have." I felt very ill at ease.

About this time, T.P. told me she "knew the truth" about my background. She said that my mother had told her "everything" about my heritage, but that she has sworn not to pass that information on to me until after my mother's death. I pumped her for more information. She didn't give in, but without giving specific answers, I got the feel for what I thought was to come.

"Do you mean she is not my real mother?" I asked. A knowing look.

"I have often thought that maybe my Dad wasn't my real Dad. Is that it?" Her look was not quite so confident. She didn't look like she had an answer to that one.

"I know they weren't married until just a couple of months before I was born." I pointed out. "Is that it?" A noncommittal expression.

"But it was war time and she always figured God understood their love." I defended my parents. "Lots of people came together that weren't married." Nothing.

"You know, my Mom always talked about carrying me under her heart for nine months. Surely she is my real mother?" The knowing look again.

In the next couple of days, T.P. let one "fact" out, "If it hadn't been for your mother, you would have ended up in Australia, and many evils things would have happened to you. As bad as you think your life was while you were growing up, you have no idea what she saved you from."

"I hated my mom," I told her. "She was never home. She didn't have time for me, but she gave my Dad everything he wanted. She paid his bar bills; bought him cars and trucks. Bailed him out of the drunk tank. Never filed charges when he broke her wrists. Yet, I was so angry with her one night when she came home and said we were going to have a special treat for dinner - hot bread and milk! That made me furious. I never forgave her for that."

"It would have been a lot worse," T.P. repeated. "You have no idea."

T.P. was astonished when I showed her a small collection of some of my mother's things I had gathered up during my last visit to LaCrosse. She firmly told me she would NOT send me the rest of the things I had stashed upstairs in a trunk. "They were all stolen," she told me. "The diploma, the pictures, everything." The pictures were not of my ancestors. Even the family stories my mother told me were fabricated.

"Your mother came from a very poor background. She made up everything about herself, including her name, which she stole. Those stories she told about her family? She took them too. Whenever she heard a story that she liked, she wove it into her own history. Your mother was never a ballet dancer - she had flat feet. She must have taught those youngsters by reading books."

I talked with T.P. about some old letters to Mom from a young girl named Astrid. I figured she was my sister. For some reason, I always pictured her in Florida, but I had no support for that theory. I also told her I believed I had an uncle named Sean who probably died in WW II. T.P. made no comment on either speculation. There was also a cryptic letter from someone named "Letty" over in England. I was sure there were clues in that letter, if I could just figure them out. No comment.

I couldn't tell if T.P. was lying to me or not. "Why on earth would she go through all the trouble of making this stuff up?" I asked myself.

On the other hand, if any of what she told me was true, I began to wonder "Did my father get his drinking money from my mother with not-so-subtle blackmail? Maybe my Dad knew the truth, and Mom 'paid him off' to keep him quiet?" No wonder the silverware gradually disappeared. No wonder we kept running away from him.

While reflecting on those dark family secrets, I remembered clearly the scene in Mom's house about 1964 while Dad was still alive. He was sitting by the bay window when I asked him if he knew anything. He refused to answer. His look then was as blank as T.P.'s look is now.

The stuff T.P. told me - or refused to tell me, was all too fantastic. Down deep inside I wanted the truth, but was this what I wanted to hear? Was I ready for the truth? Was I going to be any different when I found out? Why in heaven's name would my mother make up such fantastic stories just to tell T.P.? Why did Mom keep insisting so hard that she loved me? Was that her way of trying to tell me this fantastic garbage was true?

I reflected on the time she arrived in Ogden - she was afraid T.P. and I would meet. Maybe Mom DID tell her all that stuff, and she was afraid it would leak out while she was still alive. Mom didn't want to face me with all those secrets - and even more questions. If she had been able to talk about it, she would have brought it up years ago. She was definitely afraid.

Under more pressure, T.P. told me I had four [or was it five?] brothers, but no sister. They were all older than me. She told me she would write it all down and mail me a letter. Then we searched for a good nursing home. (Mom always said she NEVER wanted to go to a nursing home, she would "rather be shot first.") T.P. returned to LaCrosse but promised to come back.

Mom's new doctor - Dr. H. - told us her brain had swollen to 12 centimeters. He wanted to reduce the swelling before making a prognosis. "As the swelling goes down," I wrote T.P., "I see my mother respond more and more. While she can only communicate to me with eye and toe movement, I am convinced she is coming back more every day and will talk again. I feel very miserable about having given up on her."

A few days later I told T.P., "I am absolutely convinced my mother wants to live! Dr. H. asked if she should have a transfusion. I asked her and she nodded 'yes,' so they will go ahead with it. She tried so hard to talk last night. The nurse asked her if she wanted [clergy] and she violently shook her head 'NO!' I am still so very upset I helped give her that whopping [blue] sleeping pills. My mistake is going to haunt me the rest of my life."

By September 10, T.P. was able to have Mom moved to a nursing home in Roy Utah, just a few miles from my home. The way she hung on to life with every energy inside of her convinced me she would rather have been in a nursing home than be allowed to die.

I wrote T.P., "Please know how much I appreciate all you have done. There aren't enough ways to say 'thank you.' Mom made the move okay. I went to see her about 8 p.m. at her new quarters. Rather Spartan, compared to the hospital. They have made the effort; fresh cut flowers (you know Mom hates cut flowers), and a welcoming poster. She tries to talk, and she hears every word. It is so heartbreaking to see her just lie there, foaming at the mouth. She tries to talk and then gives up in hopelessness. Sometimes I just sit quietly by her bed, watching. There isn't much else I can do. I can't even hold her hand because she can't feel her right hand, and her left hand hurts so much [from IV's]. What a feeling of helplessness I have."

About a week later I wrote, "Mom is back! She asked the nurse this morning what day it was! I couldn't get any words out of her just now, but she is looking around the room and trying to get her lips and tongue to work. I brought [her dog] Lisa in, but she was worried the nurse would get upset until I told her it was okay for pets to visit.

"Just watching her lie there made me SO depressed Friday and Saturday. She wasn't responding at all. Now, she is starting to look like her own self."

Around September 27, T.P. came to Utah to help out for a few days. While visiting at the nursing home, she called her daughter in Finland so Mom could "talk" to her. A huge production was made out of wheeling my mother's bed to the pay phone. I wrote in my journal, "Mom hasn't been that animated for weeks. Although she can't really talk, it was amazing to see her eyes light up, her jaw move, and her leg move. I cried.

"I cired for two reasons: it was so touching to see this worn out old lady respond to someone - to participate in life; I also cried because I don't have that same influence."

On October 7, I received a letter from T.P. "I wanted to talk to you about the 'Astrid' letter when I was there, but with all the excitement it leapt out of my head," she wrote. "Where did you get all that information? Did you talk to Marianne about it? Who is Letty? Is this all from a legitimate source?

"There are some discrepancies in some of the info as far as I know. This too seems to be a mess. I can now see where you thought you had a sister. Unfortunately...Astrid was and is not Marianne's child. Astrid did think otherwise for a great period during her childhood. Neither she, nor Sean, now that you mentioned, were related at all to Marianne, other than that she took care of [Astrid] for a couple of years.

"I guess some of that is confusing...but it is true. If I live to be 100, I guess we will never know all there is to know.

"When I asked M.[arianne] 'why,' pertaining to Astrid, etc., she really couldn't answer that."

Late in October I wrote to T.P. that, "Mom is fully alert! Personally, I would rather be dead than a vegetable. I've told anyone who would listen NOT to let this happen to me." Mom had a living will that instructed us that she was not to be put on life support. That meant machinery. Technically speaking, oxygen and tube feeding were not considered life support. In Utah, doctors would not allow a patient to suffocate or starve to death (under most circumstances). Dr. H., T.P., and I held constant conferences to discuss each step of Mom's treatment.

During the next couple of months, I tried to visit Mom every day. I read to her and talked as if she could hear and understand everything. Meanwhile, T.P. told the staff of the nursing home that I was "neither the natural nor the adopted son" of Marianne O'Neil.

Mom had another severe stroke one night at the nursing home. She was rushed by ambulance to the hospital, but T.P. and I convinced the emergency staff to have her returned to the nursing home "without any heroics," as per the wishes of my mother. It looked like she was going to die because her eyes rolled up into her head. Later, her eyes returned to normal, but she was increasingly unresponsive.

Several times I brought her dog, Lisa to visit. As attached as the dog had been to my mother - biting anyone who invaded their territory - Lisa did not cuddle up to Mom. "She must know something," I told myself. I didn't visit much after that.

On December 18, 1992, the staff at the nursing home read a letter to Mom from some of the children she left in England. It said simply: "To Morny; From all over here - love and forgiveness."

At the same time, my son Sean was sitting at the dining room table in Holmen, Wisconsin. He looked up at his mother and quietly said, "Grandma O'Neil just died."

I was not with her.