Letter sent by Mom and Dad (written by Mom) to family to share their decision about donating their bodies to Loyola University Stritch School of Medicine.

Donating their Bodies to Science: Demonstrators of Illinois and Loyola University Stritch School of Medicine

I remember Dad’s expressing his burial wishes on a number of occasions in just these terms: “Just bury me in a pine box. . . .” This expressed desire may have arisen from his not wanting a lot of expense after he’d gone, or he may have been affected negatively by the expense he saw his brothers’ families expending for their funerals a few years before. Whatever the reason for arriving at that particular point of view, the intention to make plans for a post-mortem donation of his body may have been brought up by Mom. However, there was no twisting of his arm. He saw this as a perfect way to have his remains serve a higher purpose, and at an economical cost. So, on November 17, 1970, Stan, Tom and I were there at their apartment at 2410 Auburn Street when Stan and Jo signed the papers making official the donation of their bodies after death to Loyola University Stritch School of Medicine [secondarily, to Chicago School of Osteopathy] for use by medical students.

Neither of them had wanted memorial stones. And we boys had no sentimentality about gravesites for our parents. I was glad of this decision. It said so much about who they were. They intentionally saw that their memory would be kept in the service their bodies would continue to offer others even after their deaths.

Little Mike’s Back Scratching

After selling Northwest Market and retiring, Dad’s health declined. One of the comforts he enjoyed was a back scratch. It was one of his joy’s when grandson Mike would come over to visit. Seven-year-old Mike would slip in behind him in the favorite chair—which Dad would hardly leave in those day—and begin to scratch Dad’s back. The look of relief on Dad’s face was almost serene, a rare expression in these last months.

Anointing Service

Dad's Last Days

Since Dad didn’t take care of himself, Mom did. But he still didn’t get any better. Tom was the one who posited the theory that Dad just didn’t have much to live for once he stopped working. He had no hobbies, no involvement in sports like golf to get him on his feet. He’d been on his feet at Northwest Market all day long for over 10 years. The coroner’s report could never have said it. Tom suggested that Dad died of “systemic failure” due to having no more reason to go on. So he ended up in Rockford Memorial Hospital in December, 1973, weakened from diverticulitis. Since I was living in Rockford at the time, I had seen him on my birthday, New Year’s Day and the day after. For the past few days, his breathing had been labored, growing more and more difficult each day. I saw his breathing and heard the struggle it was for him to take each breath. I suffered each breath with him. I spoke to him. I could only presume that somewhere deep inside he heard. “It’s okay, Dad, you’ve done a good job. You can go. We love you.” He did not, and could not, respond. He had not been talking for the past 48 hours. His breathing was an act more instinctual than conscious—the result of the innate desire to continue living. It was two days after my 35^th birthday when Dad died at age 72, on January 3, 1974..

The morning of January 3^rd, I got the call from the hospital that Dad had died. I left my residence in downtown Rockford for the hospital immediately. He had died only minutes before my arrival. His body was still in the hospital bed. Mom had been there when he died. She was weeping, but not overcome. She mentioned she had been aware of Dad’s fulfillment in death. Because death was a relief for him, she was relieved. My own feeling was a deep sense of happy relief at the death of my Dad—relieved that he was at peace, glad he had completed a full and fulfilling life. To be sad, seemed to me, would have been a selfish sentiment. A sense of loss, and a feeling of joy for his relief were more appropriate. Now, in the quickness of a cleaver hitting a bone on the butcher block, in a moment, there was no breath, no labor. . . just rest and quiet.

Dad’s Memorial Service

Dad never wanted a big fuss about his death and funeral. And because Mom and he had made arrangements with Demonstrators about the final disposition of his remains, they’d both made arrangements that their remains would continue being of service of medical training while at the same time avoiding a lot of “fuss” made.

He’s made arrangements with Fitzgerald and Sons about transportation of his remains to Stritch School of Medicine. He hadn’t made special requests about his memorial liturgy. A friend of mine whom Dad and Mom both knew, Sister Thoma Miller, ssf., an artist with a rare gift of creativity, offered to help formulate a theme. When I began talking about Dad’s sense of humor, she thought of the season and the snowman as a sign of both the passing nature of life and the humorous, joy-giving of the snowman. We reviewed the idea with Mom and she thought it captured Dad’s spirit.

The cover of the worship aid which Thoma designed caught the spirit of the message perfectly. Added to that, she suggested that, since there was snow on the ground, we make a miniature snowman and place it in the sanctuary before the memorial began, so that it would melt as the service progressed. Since he served under the pastorate of Msgr. Art O’Neill, Dad had the now-Bishop Art O’Neill as presider at the Memorial Mass along with a number of priests who had known Dad throughout his life of service to church and community. The parish choir with organist Mrs. Gravino accompanied the Mass under the direction of Mrs. L.R. Hansen and the guitar choir under the direction of Anita Hansen played and sang some of the selections of Ray Repp.

Thought Shared At the Passing of My Dad, January 3, 1975

First Reading

Wisdom 3: 1 – 7a - The souls of the just are in the hands of God

Psalm Refrain: And I Will Follow – Ray Repp

The Lord is my true shepherd

The Lord is my true shepherd; no want nor fear I know.

He leads me by safe paths, and I will follow.

Cantor: Fresh and green are the pastures where my new home will be. The waters will be clear and clean, that s where He leads me. Through dark and lonely days, when hope seems gone, He leads me to the place where peace is won.

All: Yes, the Lord is my true shepherd; no want nor fear I know. He leads me by safe paths, and I will follow.

Cantor: A banquet will be ready when I come home to stay, My family will gather round on that great day.

Good and kindness shall follow me - all the days of my life. I ll live in the house of the Lord; Oh, grant that I may.

All: Yes, the Lord is my true shepherd; no want nor fear I know.He leads me by safe paths, and I will follow.

Second Reading

Romans 6: 3-4, 8-9 - As Christ was raised, we too live a new life.

Alleluia

Happy are those who have died in the Lord;

let them rest from their labors, for their good deeds go with them.

Gospel Reading

John 6: 37 – 40 - Whoever believes I will raise up on the last day.

Life, long life, blessing, will come to me, I will not turn away.

The Message of Jesus

Most of us have had the experience of building a snowman. I remember that childhood experience of a snow that is perfect for packing snowballs—the beginning of new life. We might wonder if God view of all of us is a little like the anticipation of the results of building a snowman.

My brothers, Stan and Tom, and I could hardly wait to get on our winter coats and gloves and get outside to the task. I can still almost feel of the cold snow through my gloves as I pack a small snowball, then dropping it to the ground and beginning the slow but sure rolling of that small little snowball into a little-by-little larger ball of snow. The three of us pushed the ball around the yard as it accumulated more snow sticking to it, leaving a bare path of mostly green grass and some leftover autumn leaves in the path. This big ball we pack together firmly so it will become the base of a snow body that is yet to take full shape. Not visible to anyone else, the snowman’s shape is already formed in our mind’s eye. Then the next step another ball rolled slowly into a slightly smaller ball. Packing it tight and carefully lifting it up onto the larger base was a job my brothers helped accomplish. Then, finally, the smaller ball, this one I could roll myself, even if I needed them to lift it up to the height of the two big other snow body parts. And there it was—the snow man. . . almost. Still needing the coal for the eyes and mouth. Luckily there was a carrot in the refrigerator. And we could always find a couple of branches in the yard for the arms. No top hat for our snowman. Too stogy for him. He had to be an action snowman. So the over-sized stocking cap would be placed on his head. And behold, the Wentland Brothers snowman.

Yet, even as we finished him, the snowman, we knew, would last only ‘til the sun’s warm beams would begin to melt him.

He was built for joy—passers-by would, as they spotted him, smile and go on their way, a little better for having seen him. And try as we might to sustain his shape a little longer as the sun’s warmth did its work, the snowman, we knew, would yield to the sun and slowly begin to shrink away. When I was younger and the first snowman I made was melting away, I was really sad. Tom and Stan, hardened by previous winter’s experience, knew the inevitable was coming and could understand. I cried. During subsequent winters I learned to expect the inevitable end.

But for us in the view of God, our snowman existence does not lead to an end. God’s looking forward tot he snowman is one of cherished concern, loving mercy. That loving kindness is manifest in our being absorbed into Christ’s death and resurrection. Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and I will not reject anyone who comes to me, because I came down from heaven not to do my own will but the will of the one who sent me. The miniature snowman we see in the sanctuary is a small reminder of a cycle of life, death and resurrection.

And who among us has not experienced the memory of one whom we loved, a person of faith, an ordinary person who didn’t do anything special, anything to inspire monuments with the name engraved in them, a person who never wrote a book—much less, even wrote letters—but whose obscure life proclaimed to us more than could be written in a book.

That person of faith reminds us of the snowman—built to bring joy to others—smiling passers-by, children in the family—maybe a bit of a tease—like the snowman that any moment almost seemed he’d sprout legs and say “Howdy!”

Melting away in the sun, even ready to melt, totally resigned to his passing (if we might personify him, endowing him with feelings), aware that he’d accomplished his purpose.

My Dad, Stanley Walter Wentland, was like that.

BUT LIKE THE SNOWMAN, HE’S NOT FORGOTTEN—don’t you remember the snowmen of your youth?—and we? How do we feel? If we weep, so what?!?!

Did you ever see a child ashamed of crying at the loss of his or her snowman?

Our grief at the loss of Stanley, our Dad, may, like the snowman, diminish with time. But the memory continues in the heart just as he, and we, are held in God’s heart forever.

Following the memorial service, out-of-town family and friends were invited to Ross’s Restaurant on East State St. for a luncheon.

Mom’s Way of Seeing Things in the Light of Fatih: Overcoming Fear of Storms & Drowning and Guiding Real Estate

Mom always had a deep-seated faith. Often times this faith would manifest itself in practices that grew out of a long history of pious practices that reached back centuries. Despite having some deep seated fears, Mom’s devotional practices allowed her to address this fears in a way that kept her from imposing them to us. Fear of Water

Facing Storms

Mom had a dread of storms. But somehow she had heard of devotional practices from Catholic folklore that helped her cope. Lighting blessed candles and throwing burning palm from the wind during a storm were customs that she’d carry out when we were young, perhaps in the hope that he anxiety about the thunderstorm's fury would not rub off on the younger of her three boys. She could never understand how Dad could be so calm and sleep right through the worst of them.

Fear of Drowning

It’s surprising that, growing up on Lake Michigan, Mom never learned how to swim. She told us how she “almost drowned” one day at the beach on Lake Michigan because of a “heavy undertow.” Even the lake had what we now call “rip currents” but not many had heard of the method to escape them--by swimming parallel to the shore. She didn’t talk about her near drowning experience much. But whenever we were at the beach on vacations in Michigan City, she was always leery about how far out we swam and warned about the dangers of the lake. We were pretty much oblivious to that because she had also seen to it that her boys took American Red Cross-sponsored swimming lessons at Fairgrounds Park during the summer in Rockford. Though she never indicated this was a practical caution she took based in any spiritual devotion, it’s possible she had St. Christopher in mind as the go-to saint she called on to be sure we were safe. Good to use the practical along with the spiritual.

Speaking to a Child

When Mom decided to take instructions to become a Catholic, she said her reason was motivated to do it because she had a deep-seated conviction about wanting to share the same faith tradition as Dad. Even then, however, as she confided when asked, she had a difficult time relating to prayer to Jesus as an adult. "I just found it easier to talk to a child." That's why she fostered a devotion to the Infant Jesus of Prague, a devotion that began in the second half of the 16th Century--reflecting the incarnation of God in Jesus, spiritual childhood and the dignity of the humanity of both Christ and us.

Fortuitous Move

One of the manifestations of Mom’s devotional practices was in her identifying events of our family life with feast days of the Liturgical year. Not like the familiar popular practice of burying St. Joseph in the yard as a sign of seeking his intercession to God for a quick sale of the house, Mom had another practice. I remember so vividly her conviction that the sale of Wentland's Northwest Market and finding the house at 1252 N. Main Street, allowing us to move smoothly in 1950 was related to the feast of the Dedication of the Basilica of Our Lady of the Snows, commemorated on August 5th. The market had been up for sale for some months, and Mom and Dad were becoming discouraged and anxious. But the buyers came through with an acceptable offer in time for Dad and Mom to be able to make the downpayment on the home in Main Street. For Mom, it was a confirmation of the response to prayer. For me, the move in August meant that we were able to move to a home right across the back alley from St. Peter School where I’d be able to enroll in time for the beginning of the 1950-1951 school year, joining the classmates I’d left four years earlier when we moved across the river to open Northwest Market.

For the narrative about the Northwest Market and Mom and Dad's collaborative work there, click here

GED and Real Estate

In 1970, Northwest Market had been sold. The three boys were grown up, no longer needing the close attention of the growing years. In 1974, Dad died. Just before those events, Mom had found a position working at D.J. Stewart & Co, being recognized as a good worker by being named as the first manager of Scotland Yard, the bargain area in the basement of the store where items from previous seasons were on sale. But less than a month after Dad’s death, the writing was on the wall that Stewart's would be closing, and Mom sought new employment possibilities. She had been working there for about five years, since they had sold Northwest Market. On January 29, 1974, she went to the Division of Adult and Occupational Services of Rockford Public Schools and put down her $20.00 to apply for classes that would prepare her for the High School Equivalency exam. One would never have guessed that all her accomplishments as retail clerk, self-employed entrepreneur and retail department manager had been accomplished with just a ninth grade education. Mom now wanted to fulfill a dream she’d had for sometime, to become a real estate agent. A prerequisite to preparing for that license was completion of high school education. So she made application for the G.E.D. testing on February 26, 1974 and completed the exam at Hall School, receiving her certificate, dated March 19.

As noted above, Mom’s faith connecting certain events that answered her prayer to feast days of Mary or a saint significant to her was not lost to her when the certificate was dated on the feast day of St. Joseph, her patronal feast day.

By April, 1974, she had completed the requirements for the course of Basic Real Estate Principles in preparation for further courses needed for her real estate license. She shared with me that she had some difficulty with the coursework on the measurement of lots. Be that as it may, this was also a time of adjustment after Dad’s death. And Helen Finnerty died about this time, and Mom began seeing Jim Finnerty shortly after this.

Mom’s Marrying Jim Finnerty—August 30, 1975

A big Day! Marrying James Lyle Finnerty was not in any of Mom’s plans...nor of his. Both Dad and Mom had known Jim and Helen for years. But his Helen had died just a little before Dad did. At first commiserating with one another, Mom found herself going out with Jim just for companionship. Then the companionship turned to more. And it was a discrete year and a half after Dad died when they recognized they wanted to “make it legal”. Mom always spoke about the trip she and Jim took out to South Carolina as “our trial run.”

They were married at St Peter Church with Betty Conboy--a friend from Cursillo--and Jim Lonergan--longtime friend of Jim's--as witnesses. Jim's son, also Jim, and I officiated. One of Jim's grandson's served as acolyte. Sister Thoma Miller, SSSF, a friend who loved Mom so much, as she had for the Dad's memorial service, prepared the worship aid for the wedding in her inimitably creative style.

It was a pleasure for both his family and ours to see them find love with one another. And his family loved Mom as much as we did Jim. And they had almost ten years together before Mom’s mild stroke in November, 1984.

Burial Plans Revisited

Marriage to Jim brought them into relationship with one another’s families. Jim’s older son, Bill, was sexton at the Archdiocese of Chicago Ascension Cemetery and Mausoleum in Libertyville. When the subject of burial came up in conversation, Mom shared the decision she had made earlier regarding donating her body to science. Bill’s reaction was, “I don’t want to think of anyone I love having their body floating around in formaldehyde.” And he tried to dissuade her from her intentions. Mom, to her credit, reflected on Bill’s reasoning. But after consulting and counseling with those she respected and loved, she decided to stay with her original intention to donate her body to science. Her compromise was to request that her cremains be transferred to Bill for interment with Jim in his crypt in Ascension Cemetery.

November 27, 1984

That was the day Mom began to notice the weakness in your right hand, leaving her unable to clench her fist, and was diagnosed with having experienced a mild stroke. While waiting for the surgical procedure to attempt to head off the effects of the stroke, there were occasions when her speech would suddenly become gibberish while we’d be visiting Jim and Mom. After one of these episodes, she had no idea why we couldn’t understand her. These episodes occurred a number of times in the period before the surgery,

Who would have thought that the woman who used to "drive around all her little old lady friends", this "Barney Oldfield" of the Golden Agers, would be stuck in the pit for the duration of the race. On January 9th--little over a month after the first indication—you went into exploratory surgery to see about correcting the blockage causing the effects of the stroke. As so often happens with stroke patients, Mom was left wondering what had happened when the procedure resulted in a full stroke leaving Mom with paralysis of the right side and almost total speech impediment. While she was planning therapy and looking toward getting better, Jim was getting worst. Both Jim and Mom, needing round the clock care, had to be placed in Roosevelt Square Nursing Home. Jim, perhaps thinking he didn't want to be a bother, died a short time after, March 9, 1985. And after physical and speech therapy, and a lot of love and care from her family and friends, especially Dorothy and Stan and family who packed up the apartment at 2410 Auburn—with Dorothy making a list of the contents of each of seventeen boxes—and making space in their home, Mom continued therapy.

Brightside

With therapy Mom was able to get around again—this time in a wheel chair. Living with Stan and Dorothy, with a lot of help from them...especially Dorothy—she was taken to Brightside, a senior day care center. There—first at the Lutheran Church in Rockford, then at St. Chad's Episcopal Church in Loves Park—with other persons of advanced age, she kept busy with activities and crafts.

Mom couldn’t complain out loud due to the aphasia brought on by the stroke. But she could certainly make her displeasure known. And now, no longer living on her own independently but with Stan and Dorothy, this was not her idea of what her life was supposed to be.

Learning a new way to communicate—in effect, getting the brain to function through new neural pathways, as Tom described it—was not an easy task. To make a response that distinguished between affirmative and negative, Mom learned to use a phrase rather than a single word: a “no” became “No way!” and a yes became “You bet!” One of the pat phrases she managed was to respond with a “God never told me it was going to like this!” I always asked her when she came out with that complaining statement, “Did you tell him you’re angry at him?” She would formulate a labored response, “Yes!”

Living in someone else’s home when it wasn’t something she chose was tough. And it wasn’t easy for Dorothy juggling a work schedule and having to adapt to having another woman in the home, especially one who needed care for everything—meals, toilet, bath, getting to bed. Mom’s feistiness showed itself on many occasions, aggravated by the situation of having to be dependent on others. It is a wonder that Dorothy’s patience lasted as long as it did.

Riverside Nursing Center

Once the arrangements were made, Stan was able to get Mom into Riverside Nursing Center. The assistance Mom needed was more than Dorothy and Stan could give.

It seems a cruel stroke of irony that this woman who once was an active minister of communion with her words that brought spiritual solace to her little ol’ friends at Riverside each month was now a captive in her own mind, unable to express herself and receiving monthly communion from someone else.

Visiting Mom, joining her for lunch, and taking her out on occasion challenged us and her in attempting to respond to prompts and to decipher her wishes. What an irony—she might have said it to herself—that through all of her life, Mom had honed her communication skills to the point of regular public speaking, sales presentations and familiar conversations, becoming accustomed to expressing herself with ease, was now condemned to one syllable responses. One of her greatest frustrations—one she handled with great difficulty—was being condemned to an inability to express herself in a way others could understand her. She knew what she felt, knew what she wanted to say and had it formed in her head. But the interconnect between head and mouth was damaged, leaving her frustrated, at times to the point of tears. While that was difficult to witness, only words of understanding her frustration could be offered. One of the most satisfying forms of communication for her was assenting to the stories and remembrances we had in common—many of them recounted here. Her response of “Right” in affirmation and “No Way” in correction of an inaccuracy in the account gave her the satisfaction of having shared the reminiscing.

On one of my visits with her, she was able to get across to me that her prayer included, "God, you never told me it would be like this." I asked her if she was angry about that. She indicated yes. And I asked, "Did you tell him how angry you are?" She said, "Right!" That must have been on of the most authentic prayer she ever uttered.

Mom died September 30, 1993, at River Bluff in Rockford, Illinois. I was in Elgin at Centro de Inforamaciٕón when Stan and Dorothy called to tell me Mom had died. They had taken care of arrangements for Mom since 1984.

I drove up from Elgin to Rockford and Fitzgerald and Son funeral home as soon as I heard the news. Mom’s body was about to be moved to Stritch School of Medicine in Chicago, according to the arrangements for the donation of her remains she had made with Demonstrators Association of Illinois.

After I arrived and greeted Stan there, we had a few moments alone with her remains. As I stood there at her body, I just repeated what I’d told her while she was alive. I had already said everything I could to her. And I gave thanks for who she had been, what she had accomplished and what she had given me—for a life lived to the fullest—even if a bit thwarted by a stroke in the past nine years.

Mom’s Memorial Service

Originally in 1979, and reaffirmed more clearly just a month before her death, Mom had made clear in writing the arrangements she wanted for her memorial service. By the time she made her wishes in writing, the former pastor of St. Peter Church had been ordained bishop of the Rockford Diocese—October 11, 1968. That September morning of her death, I called the chancery to leave a message for the bishop about Mom’s death and her wish that he preside at her Memorial Mass. He called back shortly after to tell me, he would be happy to do that for Jo. His response was a gracious acknowledgement of her role in the life at St. Peter Church and Cathedral for over 60 years—from PTA and St. Anne’s Society president to president of Our Lady, Queen of Apostles Legion of Mary Presidium—with the exception of the three years we lived on the East side attending St. James when the then Fr. O’Neill served there as assistant pastor. Back in 1968, Mom had received an invitation from him to his ordination as bishop. Now he was receiving her posthumous invitation to preside at her memorial service. The memorial included a number of other priests whom Mom had designated as especially important in her life—Fathers Tom Brady, Bob Balog, Bill Colliins, Bill Clausen, Dick Kramer, Dave Beauvais, Bob Lawrnece, OSA, and Bob Sweeney—she wished to have concelebrating with Art. Following the service there was a gathering of all her family and friends in the parish hall. The memorial display of Mom depicting photographically moments in the life of Josephine B. Westphal Wentland Finnerty gave background of the rich fullness of her story for all those who came. In addition, Stan had made arrangements for invited out-of-town family and friends to come to a luncheon at Top Hat in Loves Park.

. . . And remembrances of Stan and Jo continue for us as we remember the past celebrations, making new ones with our families. . . and our process of the heart goes on.