Contributions to the tribute of Rose D. Carbone

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The family of Rose D. Carbone uploaded a photo

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

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Patrick Ott posted a condolence

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

It was a typical Friday afternoon for me. We went out to lunch, had a burger and a brew, and went back to fritter away the rest of the afternoon, until around 3 o'clock. My mother called, summoning me to the hospital. According to the doctor, my grandmother had days to live and I needed to come and say goodbye. My mind instantly started racing as I glanced at the bus schedule, then told my boss that I had to go. I ran out of the front door and down the street, just missing the next bus to Woodbury. With my eyes filled with tears and my voice quivering, I called Tara and asked her to meet me at the train station. Luckily, she was able to do so, and I boarded the next train to Collingswood. The Train ride was interminable. I kept saying, "Hold on, Mom Mom. I'm coming!" I almost fell to pieces about 10 times on that 15 minute train ride. When Tara and I got to the hospital, Rose was still alive. Barely. I kissed her on the forehead and told her I loved her. I sat down next to her and held her hand, staring at her at a loss for words as she desperately tried to force words out of her weakened body. Fortunately, we all got to say goodbye, and we know she heard us. On Saturday morning around 9:30, I got the call. Even though I knew it was coming, it didn't soften the blow. My Grandmother had passed away quietly. It's now the night before the viewing, which will no doubt be one of the most emotionally draining experiences ever. So what did I do on the night before the viewing? I did the most fitting tribute I could do, I went bowling. First, Andy and I went to her apartment and picked up her car. I volunteered to sell it, so Andy to help me move it. Once we got it started, we decided to drive it to the bowling alley. The whole thing felt surreal. There I was, in my usual station as the passenger, on our way to the lanes where Rose and I bowled every Wednesday religiously. We drove through the parking lot that once held the DMV, Ames, and Tirftway, but is now a big empty space. Though I had done this trip so many times, everything was different. I bowled well, at least for two games. I topped out 178. That one was for you, Mom Mom. After I got home, I stood outside and stared at the car for a bit. She bought the car in 1986 and was the only owner. So many memories rushed through my head while I stood there, like the day she bought it, the day we got rear ended on the way to the bowling alley, and all the cheesy 1980's music I subjected her to on the tape deck. I guess I get what Tara was going through when she sold her Acura. The reality hasn't quite set in yet that I will never share another smile with Rose again. Tomorrow, I know it will harshly rain down on all of us. The memory of her laughing till she cried at Thanksgiving is still so fresh to me. It's hard to grasp that we will not hear that laughter again. No one knows what Heaven is really like. I don't really think its all clouds and white smoke like a concert. I think you return to the happiest time in your life. Since I'm not sure when that was for her, I'll substitute my own time; which was when we lived in Wenonah in the house that my Grandfather built. I see her entrance into Heaven going something like this: My Grandfather sitting on the couch with a pint of beer and a burning cigar next to him and the news paper in front of him. She walks through the door and looks at him as he puts the paper down into his lap. In his usual quiet manner, he says "Hi Rose! I've been waiting for you!" So I guess she's not gone, she just went home. 9:20 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

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Patrick Ott posted a condolence

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

My Grandmother, Rose Carbone At my age, not many people can say they still have grandparents. I consider myself fortunate that I still have 3 out of 4 of them, all of which are fairly lucid and have been in relatively good health for being of such an advanced age. When I was very young, my mother and father divorced and my mother and I lived with my maternal Grandparents for a few years. This experience allowed me to spend more time with them and forge a stronger connection to them than any of my cousins had. My Grandmother served as a second mother to me during a tough time in our lives. She bathed me, fed me, shuttled me around from place to place, spent countless hours playing games with me, and sometimes served as a disciplinarian. There will always be a special place in my heart for Rose. Rose has spent most of February and all of March in the hospital. She celebrated her 90th birthday in the lounge with me, my mother, and a few of the other patients. Since then, she has endured a series of cardiac episodes, which has led to two difficult conclusions; the first being that she can no longer live on her own, the second being that she doesn't have much time left. Once you get past the shock of the latter, the concerns of the former set in. My mother has been wrestling with the issues for quite some time now. Not so much the specter of Rose's impending demise, but the practical side of where to house her until God takes her home. My mother and her sisters have decided to send her to an "assisted living" facility called Sunrise, where she can receive round the clock care if need be. After calling the same apartment home for over 20 years, she may never return there again. So now, we have the seemingly insurmountable task of cleaning out her old apartment. Rose is an incurable pack rat, and she still has clothes, bills, and assorted possession that date back to 1980 in her place. I have offered to help my mother weed through the mire, as I think she needs all the physical help and emotion support I can offer. This is going to be an emotion ringer for us all. So there it is. This proud, vain, beautiful woman who has led an incredible life is now destined to spend her remaining days in what may be a drug induced haze which will not doubt be peppered with frequent trips to the hospital. This is the woman who taught me how to bowl, play cards, and so many other things. Though I am having a hard time seeing her like this and resolving the issues with myself, I can only imagine how she feels staring down her own mortality. It's like being dropped off at a train station, but having no way to go home and no idea when that train will come. There is no cure for old age. And unless you are unlucky enough to be struck down earlier in life, this is what is waiting for all of us. Sobering, isn't it? Patrick Ott, February 2006

Rose D. Carbone

Saturday, March 18, 2006

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