My Dash

By Karen Spowal-McKitrick

Walk with me down a captivating road. The lead-ins below are the stops along the way. The road will be smooth, alluring, with a photographic scene. In contrast, it will have huge bumps, hills, curves, and crossroads. Death will be close-by, yet I’m still here. The destination has not been reached.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635684186

Book preview

cover.jpg

My Dash

Birth to Death

A Memoir

Karen Spowal-McKitrick

Copyright © 2017 Karen Spowal-McKitrick

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-63568-417-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63568-419-3 (Hard Cover)

ISBN 978-1-63568-418-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dear Reader

This memoir was written the months following my husbands death. My brother, Ken suggested I write a book about my life. Writing My Dash was my first attempt at writing. The writing was cathartic for me, and helped me manage my life without John.

I hope you will find it happy, unfortunately sad, yet informative.

Thank you for your interest in My Dash.

Sincerely,

Karen

collage

The dash—a symbol between birth and death.

Everyone has a dash,

and it is what we do with it that matters.

Cover

The blue represents that the sky is the limit.

The silver reflects life laced with a silver lining.

cover design by Karina McKitrick Linehan

and Page Publishing, Inc.

Dedication

John Clifford McKitrick

June 10, 1937–February 7, 2013

for John with love and respect

The dedication of this book has been easy for me. John’s name is followed by many words, achievements, and organizations:

John Clifford McKitrick, PhD, (D) ABMM (American Board of Medical Microbiology), (F) AAM (American Academy of Microbiology)

Director of Microbiology, Montefiore University Hospital, Bronx, New York

Professor of Clinical Pathology, Albert Einstein College of Medicine of Yeshiva University Bronx, New York, Department of Pathology, Division of Microbiology

But the above do not define the man.

The man I know was especially proud of his two daughters, their husbands, his three (so far) grandchildren, and I would like to think, me. He never forgot where he came from. John gave back in ways I found out after his death and promoted higher education for all who would listen. John had a business mind and shared it freely with me.

This is the man I married on November 30, 1985. He was my best friend. Our relationship was built on mutual respect, and I miss him every single day of my life.

Readers, please note:

A portion of the profits from this book will help fund the John Clifford McKitrick Memorial Science Scholarship. John was the second student to receive a scholarship at Farrell High School in Farrell, Pennsylvania, enabling him to go to the University of Pittsburgh (Pitt). The scholarship in John’s name, funded by friends, colleagues, and family, was established immediately after his death. The first recipient was Katelyn Sump, whose interest was science. It warms my heart knowing that Katelyn and many other students after her will benefit from the science scholarship in John’s name.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to some of the people in my life who made me the person I am today (I hope that is a good thing):

John Clifford McKitrick, my husband

Karina McKitrick Linehan, our daughter

Colleen McKitrick-Treml, John’s daughter

Janice Young, John’s sister

Tim Young, brother-in law

Jacob Spowal, my father (deceased)

Dolores Spowal, my mother and family historian

Kenneth Spowal, my brother and family historian

Bettie Spowal, my sister-in-law

Janice Spowal, my sister

Joseph Spowal, my brother (deceased)

Joyce Spowal, my sister (deceased)

Clifford Kiselka, my uncle (deceased)

Sharon Sullivan, VP, Wilfred Academy

Edna Collins, Wilfred Academy (deceased)

Ira Sussman, John’s boss and friend

Nancy Sussman, friend

Terri Zimmie Sedlacek, friend

Barbara Rosenthal, friend

Bobbie McCann, friend

Myron Mike Miller, CPA (deceased)

Lorraine Long, aunt and historian

Donna Ecton, mentor and friend

Andrew Silverman, fertility specialist

Joseph Beahm, technical consultant

Jacqueline Barberi, literary support

Eugene Ritchie, editorial consultant / publicist

Preface

This book is unconventional, as I am. The hope is that you will find it happy, unfortunately sad, yet informative. Writing this memoir was not my idea. One evening, about six months after my husband’s death, I received a call from Ken, my brother. The call came at the right time. I was feeling sad, lonely, and all the other adjectives associated with the loss of my husband.

What’s with you? he asked. I told him I was in a little slump. He said, Karen, I think you should write a book.

I replied (the business side of my mind often acts as the captain of my ship), But who would buy it?

He said, Me and, to name a few, my two sons. He told me he thought my life was completely extraordinary, and he wanted to share it with his own family. I was amazed and told him I would think about it. In my typical fashion, I dwelled on what he said. The next thing I knew, I was buying journals to write this book in, which evolved into this memoir. I share my life-and-death experiences, the run up the corporate ladder, and events that grounded me as a person.

I chose not to write using a computer. A computer is impersonal, and the message I am trying to convey to you is not. I want this book to be personal, from me to you, from my heart to your heart. The only way I could have achieved that was to write it by hand. Like snail mail, it takes longer, yet it is so much more personal.

Said the intellectual Marshall McLuhan, The medium is the message.

Chapter 1

Evans City, Pennsylvania

We All Have to Start Somewhere

I was born Karen Margaret Spowal on February 26, 1949, the daughter of Jacob and Dolores Spowal. I was raised in Evans City, which is near the Ohio border, in western Pennsylvania, near Pittsburgh. That should give you a better reference point. My parents had five children. My brother Ken, then me, my sister Janice, and the twins, Joseph and Joyce. My brother and I were born on the same day one year apart. He always told me, You ruined my life from the day you were born. I certainly did ruin his first birthday dinner. I tormented him in the years that followed, and I am surprised he still speaks to me.

Janice, my sister, was born eleven months after me. So for one month, Janice and I are the same chronological age. She has cerebral palsy, something to do with the Rh factor blood type (when parents are opposite Rh, negative and positive). In this case, my mother’s Rh was negative and my father’s was positive. Most people are Rh positive. In severe cases, this hemolytic disease can cause brain damage and possible death in the newborn and higher risk of complications with the third child. The doctors scheduled a blood transfusion from my father to my sister at the time of her delivery. The technique was new and saved her life.

I was raised Catholic, and that explains my parents’ lack of birth control. The birth controls permitted by the church were the rhythm method and abstinence. I asked my mother (when I was old enough to understand) if she wasn’t doing the rhythm method backward. I remember her looking at me as if I had two heads, but maybe I was on to something.

The twins, Joseph and Joyce, were born four years later with the same medical problem as sister Janice. The doctor did not know my mother was having twins. There were no sonograms back then and no shot for Rh factor. The delivery room at Saint John’s Hospital in Pittsburgh became a crisis center. The combined weight of the twins was fifteen pounds. The doctor and my father were prepared to do the blood transfusion with the first baby, Joseph. To everyone’s surprise, a second baby, Joyce, emerged from my mother’s womb. Joyce could not be saved, and Joseph had cerebral palsy. He lived to be twenty years old, and when he died, he was just over four feet tall. Totally incapacitated, he spent his entire life in a long-term care hospital.

The hospital was in Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania, a long distance from our home in Evans City. I remember the phone calls in the middle of the night. The whole family would pile into the car and race to the hospital, always expecting he was not going to make it. This went on for years. During the summer and school breaks, we would visit him. We visited when he was in crisis and when he wasn’t. I understood what it meant when our parents would tell us we were going to visit Joseph. It was a time of great sadness. Joseph, who had the most beautiful smile, could not talk and was extremely thin. I will remember his smile forever.

Unfortunately, this was his life. He did nothing, said nothing, and just smiled.

The rides home from these visits were heart-wrenching. All had assigned seats in the car. My brother sat behind my father, who drove, my sister was in the middle (poor kid), and I sat behind my mother. On the way home, no one spoke. I remember thinking how easily it could have been me. It was a hard situation. My mother felt the pain more than any of us did. I forever will be grateful for the love and care of my brother by the staff at Selinsgrove State Hospital.

Today, there is a simple remedy for