Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Safe At Home
An Account of the Night That Changed My Life
Karyn Roggatz Ness
I was a humid and overcast night on the first day of summer in 1978. Joan and members of her nuclear and extended family were sitting in the stands watching her son Bobby, play baseball. He was pitching that night, but now was positioned as a runner on third base. Everyone in the league knew Ryan. An exceptional player, he was going to compete that weekend in a national competition for Little Leaguers called “Pitch, Hit and Run,” to be held at Comiskey Park in Chicago. Bobby and his coach developed a play in which he could steal home plate—a maneuver he was working up to right now. The pitcher, catcher and infielders watched him carefully. The ball was active in the outfield, and he was off. A few moments later the pitcher again had the ball and hurled it to the plate at the moment Bobby was sliding in. The runner: the ball-racing, engaged in a battle for who would arrive first. They would meet in what seemed an impossible encounter, changing lives forever.
The two collided at the plate. The ball struck the ten year old squarely in the chest. Bobby fell on his back momentarily, but then stood up, receiving applause from the crowd.
“SAFE!!” came the umpire’s call to a cheering crowd and a proud father. Larry, was coaching first base, and walked toward the plate after Bobby was hit. When he saw his son get up, he turned his back to return to his position, thinking to himself, “He did it again.”
Suddenly there were gasps from the crowd, and Larry turned around to see the third base coach lower Bobby to the ground. Larry ran over, and tried to get his attention-- without success. Ignoring the chest rattle he heard, Larry placed his hands on Bobby’s chest to begin CPR (Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation), and felt his heart flutter. “What’s your name?” he called to his unresponsive son. Again, “What’s your name?” No answer. Twelve compressions-one breath, again and again. Kristine stood behind her father near the pitching mound—about fifteen feet from the tragic event unfolding at third base. Soon, Lisa, a young family friend, came to stand beside her.
“The funeral will be Friday,” Kristine said, not hearing these words come out of her own mouth.
As the minutes passed, the sound of an approaching siren could be heard. The spectators sat quietly in the stands. A Chicago Fire Department ambulance rushed onto the field. Paramedics quickly grabbed the defibrillators and moved to assist the young ball player and his father, one of their own. Larry, a career fire-fighter was well-versed in CPR. Efforts were made on the field to regain a stable heartbeat, and a call was placed to Children’s Memorial Hospital for consultation. Prior to transport, Bobby was placed in an ambulance and taken to a nearby hospital. He was pronounced dead at 7:58 pm on Wednesday, June 21, 1978.
Joan had been standing alone for several minutes on the opposite side of the batting fence, her fingers wrapped around its links, watching the whole event unfold, yet afraid to approach. “No one could come near me, and I felt like I couldn’t get to him,” she recounted. The gurney passed by carrying her son. Janet tried to get into the ambulance with her husband, but was topped by a well-meaning paramedic. Two friends, other mothers of ball players, drove her to the hospital. Upon arrival in the ER, Joan recalls passing the paramedics who brought Bobby to the hospital, and overheard them say to a nurse, “that’s his mother.”
The rest of the night continued to be a blurred nightmare for Joan. When a nurse told her Bobby was dead, she remembers banging her head against the wall again and again. Someone approached her with a syringe filled with a sedative. “Get away from me,” she said, teeth barred, almost feeling like a frightened animal in a cage. An hour passed, maybe two at the hospital doing who knows what. Finally, Joan, Larry and their youngest daughter, Kristine, arrived home to dozens of waiting friends, neighbors and their two other daughters, Karyn and Caryl. Karyn approached her mother sitting on the couch, dazed. Kristine was lying on the couch, crying because she had a stomach ache. She was the only child in the family who saw it all happen.
“Mom, Mom.”
“He doesn’t know where he is,” came Joan’s reply.
Later, Karyn in her own awkward way, tried to console her father.
“We’re going to make it, Dad.”
“Karyn, you don’t have to keep telling me that.”
Shock, disbelief, numbness. No tears. It wasn’t that way earlier.
Karyn didn’t go to the baseball game with her parents and younger sister. Neither did Caryl. Both went to a meeting at Christian youth group called “Son City,” which met every Wednesday night at South Park Church in Park Ridge, Illinois. Karyn left earlier than Caryl. When she arrived home, her friend Diane came by for a visit. The two girls had just graduated from Taft High School on Chicago’s Northwest Side, and were excited about their college plans for the Fall. They were waiting for their hotdogs to boil when the phone rang.
“Hello,” said Karyn. A pause.
“Karyn, there’s been a terrible accident,” came her father’s voice.
Quickly a list of names went through her head. It can’t be Dad, he’s talking. Mom? Kriss/ Bobby/ It must be Bobby, she thought.
Words, words, something, something…”And Bob died.”
Karyn dropped to the floor—literally. “What are you saying?” she cried out, trying to hold back hysteria.
“Go to the Maloney’s,” said her father.
Karyn hung up the phone, and said to Diane. “My brother just died. I don’t understand what he said. “Diane turned off the hotdogs and followed a frantic Karyn through the back gate and down the alley to the home of the Maloney family—dear friends of the Roggatz’.
“Mrs. Maloney, Mrs. Maloney,” cried Karyn.
“Karyn, Karyn,” she cried back.
The two were frantic. Mr. Maloney and Mr. Muszalski, another friend, were there and were about to leave to get Caryl from South Park Church.
Caryl emerged as a leader in this teen organization. Karyn brought her, but Caryl’s popularity quickly surpassed her own. Glad for her sister, true, but Karyn often felt left out—part of the reason she attended less regularly now, and why she left early that night. Caryl was built chatting with friends when she saw Marian Maloney appear in the side aisle, wearing the fast food restaurant uniform from her job earlier that day. Caryl pretended not to see her for a moment: she knew Marian must be here for a reason, and probably not a good one. Frankly didn’t want to talk to her. Caryl remembers the last conversation she had with a girlfriend before the news she was about to hear would change her life forever. Caryl accompanied Marian out to the parking lot where the two men were waiting.
Soon they arrived at the Maloney’s home, where Karyn was waiting for her sister. The living room was chaos: attempt to control emption was not even possible, let alone attempted. Several minutes later a few young men from Son City joined the girls. “He’s in Heaven, right? He’s a little kid, he must be.” The young leaders gave Karyn and Caryl words of comfort, and stayed for awhile. Soon it was time to go home. Mom, Dad and Kriss were home from the hospital. Karyn didn’t want to go.
. Later that night, after everyone went home, the family received a call from the The Chicago Tribune. Over the next several days, Bobby’s picture, headlines and the story appeared not only in the Tribune, but in many Chicago land newspapers as well. The word was out about the star little leaguer who died on the baseball diamond. On Thursday, the day after Bobby died, Karyn, Caryl and a few of their friends went into a near-by “7-11” to buy some snacks. Karyn saw the Tribune” lying on the counter. “That’s my brother,” she remarked to the check-out girl. “Are you serious?” came the reply. The group left the store without any further discussion.
A wake and funeral came and went with thousands of people attending, including representatives from the Chicago Cubs and White Sox baseball organizations. On Sunday, June 25, 1978, one day after Bobby Roggatz’ funeral, the “Pitch, Hit & Run” competition took place at Comiskey Park in Chicago, where Bobby was supposed to compete as the 10-year-old Midwest champion. Sportscaster, Harry Carey, paid tribute to the ten-year-old boy as his substitute rounded the bases. The rest of the Roggatz family sat at home watching.
An Account of the Night That Changed My Life
Karyn Roggatz Ness
I was a humid and overcast night on the first day of summer in 1978. Joan and members of her nuclear and extended family were sitting in the stands watching her son Bobby, play baseball. He was pitching that night, but now was positioned as a runner on third base. Everyone in the league knew Ryan. An exceptional player, he was going to compete that weekend in a national competition for Little Leaguers called “Pitch, Hit and Run,” to be held at Comiskey Park in Chicago. Bobby and his coach developed a play in which he could steal home plate—a maneuver he was working up to right now. The pitcher, catcher and infielders watched him carefully. The ball was active in the outfield, and he was off. A few moments later the pitcher again had the ball and hurled it to the plate at the moment Bobby was sliding in. The runner: the ball-racing, engaged in a battle for who would arrive first. They would meet in what seemed an impossible encounter, changing lives forever.
The two collided at the plate. The ball struck the ten year old squarely in the chest. Bobby fell on his back momentarily, but then stood up, receiving applause from the crowd.
“SAFE!!” came the umpire’s call to a cheering crowd and a proud father. Larry, was coaching first base, and walked toward the plate after Bobby was hit. When he saw his son get up, he turned his back to return to his position, thinking to himself, “He did it again.”
Suddenly there were gasps from the crowd, and Larry turned around to see the third base coach lower Bobby to the ground. Larry ran over, and tried to get his attention-- without success. Ignoring the chest rattle he heard, Larry placed his hands on Bobby’s chest to begin CPR (Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation), and felt his heart flutter. “What’s your name?” he called to his unresponsive son. Again, “What’s your name?” No answer. Twelve compressions-one breath, again and again. Kristine stood behind her father near the pitching mound—about fifteen feet from the tragic event unfolding at third base. Soon, Lisa, a young family friend, came to stand beside her.
“The funeral will be Friday,” Kristine said, not hearing these words come out of her own mouth.
As the minutes passed, the sound of an approaching siren could be heard. The spectators sat quietly in the stands. A Chicago Fire Department ambulance rushed onto the field. Paramedics quickly grabbed the defibrillators and moved to assist the young ball player and his father, one of their own. Larry, a career fire-fighter was well-versed in CPR. Efforts were made on the field to regain a stable heartbeat, and a call was placed to Children’s Memorial Hospital for consultation. Prior to transport, Bobby was placed in an ambulance and taken to a nearby hospital. He was pronounced dead at 7:58 pm on Wednesday, June 21, 1978.
Joan had been standing alone for several minutes on the opposite side of the batting fence, her fingers wrapped around its links, watching the whole event unfold, yet afraid to approach. “No one could come near me, and I felt like I couldn’t get to him,” she recounted. The gurney passed by carrying her son. Janet tried to get into the ambulance with her husband, but was topped by a well-meaning paramedic. Two friends, other mothers of ball players, drove her to the hospital. Upon arrival in the ER, Joan recalls passing the paramedics who brought Bobby to the hospital, and overheard them say to a nurse, “that’s his mother.”
The rest of the night continued to be a blurred nightmare for Joan. When a nurse told her Bobby was dead, she remembers banging her head against the wall again and again. Someone approached her with a syringe filled with a sedative. “Get away from me,” she said, teeth barred, almost feeling like a frightened animal in a cage. An hour passed, maybe two at the hospital doing who knows what. Finally, Joan, Larry and their youngest daughter, Kristine, arrived home to dozens of waiting friends, neighbors and their two other daughters, Karyn and Caryl. Karyn approached her mother sitting on the couch, dazed. Kristine was lying on the couch, crying because she had a stomach ache. She was the only child in the family who saw it all happen.
“Mom, Mom.”
“He doesn’t know where he is,” came Joan’s reply.
Later, Karyn in her own awkward way, tried to console her father.
“We’re going to make it, Dad.”
“Karyn, you don’t have to keep telling me that.”
Shock, disbelief, numbness. No tears. It wasn’t that way earlier.
Karyn didn’t go to the baseball game with her parents and younger sister. Neither did Caryl. Both went to a meeting at Christian youth group called “Son City,” which met every Wednesday night at South Park Church in Park Ridge, Illinois. Karyn left earlier than Caryl. When she arrived home, her friend Diane came by for a visit. The two girls had just graduated from Taft High School on Chicago’s Northwest Side, and were excited about their college plans for the Fall. They were waiting for their hotdogs to boil when the phone rang.
“Hello,” said Karyn. A pause.
“Karyn, there’s been a terrible accident,” came her father’s voice.
Quickly a list of names went through her head. It can’t be Dad, he’s talking. Mom? Kriss/ Bobby/ It must be Bobby, she thought.
Words, words, something, something…”And Bob died.”
Karyn dropped to the floor—literally. “What are you saying?” she cried out, trying to hold back hysteria.
“Go to the Maloney’s,” said her father.
Karyn hung up the phone, and said to Diane. “My brother just died. I don’t understand what he said. “Diane turned off the hotdogs and followed a frantic Karyn through the back gate and down the alley to the home of the Maloney family—dear friends of the Roggatz’.
“Mrs. Maloney, Mrs. Maloney,” cried Karyn.
“Karyn, Karyn,” she cried back.
The two were frantic. Mr. Maloney and Mr. Muszalski, another friend, were there and were about to leave to get Caryl from South Park Church.
Caryl emerged as a leader in this teen organization. Karyn brought her, but Caryl’s popularity quickly surpassed her own. Glad for her sister, true, but Karyn often felt left out—part of the reason she attended less regularly now, and why she left early that night. Caryl was built chatting with friends when she saw Marian Maloney appear in the side aisle, wearing the fast food restaurant uniform from her job earlier that day. Caryl pretended not to see her for a moment: she knew Marian must be here for a reason, and probably not a good one. Frankly didn’t want to talk to her. Caryl remembers the last conversation she had with a girlfriend before the news she was about to hear would change her life forever. Caryl accompanied Marian out to the parking lot where the two men were waiting.
Soon they arrived at the Maloney’s home, where Karyn was waiting for her sister. The living room was chaos: attempt to control emption was not even possible, let alone attempted. Several minutes later a few young men from Son City joined the girls. “He’s in Heaven, right? He’s a little kid, he must be.” The young leaders gave Karyn and Caryl words of comfort, and stayed for awhile. Soon it was time to go home. Mom, Dad and Kriss were home from the hospital. Karyn didn’t want to go.
. Later that night, after everyone went home, the family received a call from the The Chicago Tribune. Over the next several days, Bobby’s picture, headlines and the story appeared not only in the Tribune, but in many Chicago land newspapers as well. The word was out about the star little leaguer who died on the baseball diamond. On Thursday, the day after Bobby died, Karyn, Caryl and a few of their friends went into a near-by “7-11” to buy some snacks. Karyn saw the Tribune” lying on the counter. “That’s my brother,” she remarked to the check-out girl. “Are you serious?” came the reply. The group left the store without any further discussion.
A wake and funeral came and went with thousands of people attending, including representatives from the Chicago Cubs and White Sox baseball organizations. On Sunday, June 25, 1978, one day after Bobby Roggatz’ funeral, the “Pitch, Hit & Run” competition took place at Comiskey Park in Chicago, where Bobby was supposed to compete as the 10-year-old Midwest champion. Sportscaster, Harry Carey, paid tribute to the ten-year-old boy as his substitute rounded the bases. The rest of the Roggatz family sat at home watching.
Friday, May 29, 2009
What is grief?
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great
cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that
hinders,.......and let us run with perseverance the race
marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and
perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured
the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right
hand of the throne of God..." Hebrews 12:1
How do we begin to talk about grief? The poem posted below is likely to meet with different reactions: some will think it is a beautiful and artful expression of a mother's search for resolution. Others will find it too painful to read. Perhaps in attempting to define grief, one element bust be it is individual. Even though individuals may walk the same path, they will notice different features as they travel. Some will notice scenery along its edges. Others will feel the breeze, take in the smell, feel the warmth or coolness of the air or listen to the sounds. At the end of the journey, each will take hold of one of those features.
Another component to defining grief is that it is normal. The emotional pain, anger, sense of powerlessness and many other feelings, is a normal response to loss. When we think of grief, as this poem depicts, we most often think of death. But people grieve over many losses. These include relationships that ended (including marriage), or never became what we hoped they would; employment or career aspirations that were never accomplished: loss of health; acquiring or being born with a disability; having a child with a disability--to name a few. I am sure many others can be added to this list.
The verse quoted is from the Bible; the New Testament book of Hebrews, chapter 12 verse 1-2. When I was in my forties, I decided to run the Chicago Marathon. When you run for three and four hours to train for such an event, you have plenty of time to think. I liken grief to a race, though I admit one we didn't choose to run unlike my desire to complete a marathon. We are not alone. I learned that having a friend to run with motivated me to continue when I was tired. Connections with others, and I believe with God, is our greatest support. Kind of like the water and Gatorade stops every 1 and one-half miles along the 26.2 mile course. Runners would faint without such support.
It is my hope that this blog will provide two things: First, a way to get in touch with and express our own thoughts. Second, a means of connection with others so we are motivated to finish our own race strong.
cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that
hinders,.......and let us run with perseverance the race
marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and
perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured
the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right
hand of the throne of God..." Hebrews 12:1
How do we begin to talk about grief? The poem posted below is likely to meet with different reactions: some will think it is a beautiful and artful expression of a mother's search for resolution. Others will find it too painful to read. Perhaps in attempting to define grief, one element bust be it is individual. Even though individuals may walk the same path, they will notice different features as they travel. Some will notice scenery along its edges. Others will feel the breeze, take in the smell, feel the warmth or coolness of the air or listen to the sounds. At the end of the journey, each will take hold of one of those features.
Another component to defining grief is that it is normal. The emotional pain, anger, sense of powerlessness and many other feelings, is a normal response to loss. When we think of grief, as this poem depicts, we most often think of death. But people grieve over many losses. These include relationships that ended (including marriage), or never became what we hoped they would; employment or career aspirations that were never accomplished: loss of health; acquiring or being born with a disability; having a child with a disability--to name a few. I am sure many others can be added to this list.
The verse quoted is from the Bible; the New Testament book of Hebrews, chapter 12 verse 1-2. When I was in my forties, I decided to run the Chicago Marathon. When you run for three and four hours to train for such an event, you have plenty of time to think. I liken grief to a race, though I admit one we didn't choose to run unlike my desire to complete a marathon. We are not alone. I learned that having a friend to run with motivated me to continue when I was tired. Connections with others, and I believe with God, is our greatest support. Kind of like the water and Gatorade stops every 1 and one-half miles along the 26.2 mile course. Runners would faint without such support.
It is my hope that this blog will provide two things: First, a way to get in touch with and express our own thoughts. Second, a means of connection with others so we are motivated to finish our own race strong.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Where Are You Going, My Little One?
I saw a boy on a bike go by
He was ten years old and blue of eye.
Slender like you with straight blonde hair
But hard as I looked, you were not there.
I saw a group of children playing ball
Boys and girls, both big and small.
I was restless inside, and the panic grew,
Because try as I might, I could not see you.
You are not really one of them, my little son
You’ll always be a special one.
Here for a short while, then gone somewhere
I could rest inside if I just knew
Where.
I glanced up at the clouds as they billowed by
Floating free in a peaceful sky
Lovely and light –they have not a care
And finally my son, I saw you there.
(Anonymous in Kubler-Ross, 1981, pg. 161.)
This poem is posted in honor and in on-going loving memory of my brother, Bobby Roggatz, whose short life changed mine forever.
I saw a boy on a bike go by
He was ten years old and blue of eye.
Slender like you with straight blonde hair
But hard as I looked, you were not there.
I saw a group of children playing ball
Boys and girls, both big and small.
I was restless inside, and the panic grew,
Because try as I might, I could not see you.
You are not really one of them, my little son
You’ll always be a special one.
Here for a short while, then gone somewhere
I could rest inside if I just knew
Where.
I glanced up at the clouds as they billowed by
Floating free in a peaceful sky
Lovely and light –they have not a care
And finally my son, I saw you there.
(Anonymous in Kubler-Ross, 1981, pg. 161.)
This poem is posted in honor and in on-going loving memory of my brother, Bobby Roggatz, whose short life changed mine forever.
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