Tribute to Norman, his obit

A tribute to an orinary great man who didn’t live long enough for this kind of tribute on Father’s Day. This is his obituary.

Norman Glenn Campbell, 69, died at home March 24. He was retired from General Motors. His parents Clementene and Dewey Dutton Campbell and his sister Gail Allen proceeded him in death.
Holding him in loving memory, are his wife, Sherita Saffer Campbell, daughters; Kimberley Kara Campbell, Kristie Kaye Campbell, Marguerita Susanne Barnes and her husband Eric Barnes. Grandchildren; Karita Karlene Tackett and her husband Timothy Tackett, Michael Noel Dillard, Zachary Dutton Barnes, Morgan Lynn Barnes; great grand daughters, Kylee Ann Tackett and Tia Nichole Tackett.
He leaves his spiritual foster children Billie Lojewski, Mark Perry and Rancy MCCord. His nieces, nephews, cousins are: Sharon Holding, Danny Rhonemus, Kenny Rhonemus, Lori Haggard, James Campbell, Edmund Glenn Wallace, Bessie Price, Jama Sifford. His aunts and uncles are Mr. And Mrs. Ralph Pierce and family and Francis Pierce and family.
Dave MCCartny was his work and fishing buddy. They fished in Arkansas once a year until he became too ill. Before that they went Salmon fishing in Michigan with fellow workers from General Motors.
Norman was a mechanics’ mechanic who told folks, “just put the phone up to the engine and I’ll tell you what’s wrong and if I can fix it.” When he pronounced the engine’s problem he said, “bring it over and I’ll lay hands on it.” And so he fixed the cars that no one else could repair. When he became too ill to work on cars he sat beside his grandson Michael, Randy and his daughter Kristie and told them what to do to fix cars, and other “sick” machinery. Which led to a great deal of interesting discussion. Once he and Mark Perry rebuilt a burned up tractor in spite of some of our skepticism.
Once he went with my friend, Linda Joohnson to a tire replacement place and said: “give her a good deal or I’m not going to come back here myself.”
He loved to drive tractors to farm or mow grass. His favorite hobby was deer hunting. Norman did these things as along as he could walk. Then he would read books about them until he could no longer see to read. Norm like to be outside with the sun, the wind, the birds, the animals around him. He welcomed the challenge of blizzards and digging out and driving his Chevy truck with the snow plow to dig out everyone.
Norman like to talk hunting, fishing, cars and General Motors as long as he could hear and talk. Most of all he loved his family and friends around him, knowing they cared and loved him.
Stormin Norman, as he doctor called him, was a member of the National Rifle Association, past member of The Bass Fisherman’s Club. We loved to watch them on the reservoir when they had a tournament and all came swooping over the water. It was like a posse after fish.
He never missed telling he loved us and giving hugs even as he was dying. He told us with his eyes and we hugged him. He was our hero, forever. He was the best.
The family would like to thank Care One Health Care, who took such good care of us and him while he was alive and embraced and helped us when he died. He was able to stay at home instead of the hospital or a nursing care because of them and how they taught us to care for him. Thanks to nurse, Katherine Ware, home care person, Lashea Pegues. I learned how to care for him in a way beyond my belief system that I could do. Thanks to the therapy people, Andy, whose last name I don’t have, and whose therapy enabled me to get him into his wheel chair. Marcos Aziz, and Chris Jack with the love and caring heart and understanding.
We would like to thank the 4th floor rehab folks and Harold and Allen who convinced us we could handle his paralysis and live with it. They taught us that he could still do some of the things he loved.
Thanks to Dr. Dinwiddie and his staff who were always there when I called hysterical and didn’t know what to do.
Thanks to progressive care, the emergency room the 10th and 9th flood nurses and staff who took care of him when he was in the hospital.
Thanks to friends and family who comforted him and us as we went through this devastating part of our lives. Norman was our hero, we still love him and the 50 years I’ve shared with him on this earth have been a wondrous experience. We know that he is still fishing, hunting and caring for others wherever his spirit is.
His wishes were no calling hours, no funeral. We will have a celebration of his life sometime in April outside with music, a carry-in, laughter and memories and want all his friends, family and caregivers and all the children he helped to be there.
We ask that in instead of flowers you may make contributions to Friends School at Friends Memorial Church, 418 W. Adams. Thank you for reading this and sharing in his life, our lives and the celebration of Norman Glenn Campbell’s life. His wife and family

The Dyslexic Writer #


My husband is now very ill. He’s paralyzed from the waist down. It happened slowly at first. Numbness in his arms and legs. A twinge here and a tingle there. Tiredness, a change in his disposition. Anger more often. Some forgetfulness.
Then the legs became numb and hurting. First one leg totally numb, then the other. One leg paralyzed, the he woke up with the loss of bladder and bowels, then in the hospital he lost the use of the other leg.
For a long time even before he was paralyzed from the waist down, it was as if I losing him, a piece at a time, a cell at a time. I prayed, meditated each night with him to heal, to hold back the changes in him. The pain. The loss. Our loss.
For my 70th birthday, three months before, my daughters had a party at our middle daughters house. I invited all my friends. Most came. My kids wondered why I asked so many, I don’t think I was supposed to. But something told me I had to. That this was the last gathering for us all. It was wonderful, but my husband was across the driveway at home in bed, he couldn’t get up.
On our Golden Anniversary our children, grandchildren and great grand children had planned a huge picnic. The oldest daughter bought a fortune in food, the middle daughter and the younger daughter planned and prepared, the granddaughter wrote an article and sent a picture to the paper, mostly unknown to me. We had to cancel, he was in the hospital, in the physical therapy section.
Finally he came home from physical therapy; he was there for Christmas. Hospital bed, wheel chair. He’s been back and forth several times since. Too many to count.
Now it’s different, he has early onset dementia.
He has a spinal infrart, which is like stroke in the brain. Only this is in his spine, which is much smaller than it's supposed to be. This after months and moths of misdiagnosis, guessing, stumped doctors. This moves up to the brain until everything is gone. Everything but life. Life stays like a medieval torturer until after the body is a shell and nothing is left. I haven't slept sound for a very long time. I sleep in the next room and listen for his breath. I listen to see if he moans or his pain. Why? I don’t know. Nothing can stop the pain, hold the breath inside him. Before the diagnosis,before one of trips to the hospital I woke up at night and went into his hospitalbed, I put my arms around him and held him as close as I could. I wanted to hold him, take him away from all the loss. Keep him close to him. Hold him tight and let him never go away.
` Because I felt him leaving me, a cell at time, a piece at a time like some one was erasing him from himself, from me, from our children and grand children.
We learned how to change dressings, clean him up after bowel accidents, empty the catheter, measure it’s contents. Find ways to appeal to his every decreasing appetite so he would eat. Love him. Talk to him and just hold him close.
We have learned to hold in tears until in the kitchen or outside. Once I gave him a scrapbook like the doctors and nurses said, with all the kids pictures, and he looked through it. I was proud to for once following the doctors and hospital suggestions until saw a tear slide down his cheek. I went into the kitchen and wept until my whole body was empty of everything. I had prayed once before to turn my heart into stone so I could take care of my father after my mother was killed by a drunk driver. I wanted no tears for my mother, no feeling, no compassion only hate for the drunk that killed her and be strong for my dad. Now I prayed that prayer again. Hate for this sickness, any weakness I had, turn my heart to stone, but make me strong to care for my husband. That’s all I ask. Be strong, no tears. He can not see me cry. The kids can not see me cry. I must be mean. Make him do his exercises, take his medication, eat his food, drink his water. When the time comes, be able to say to doctors, nurses, “no more. Let him alone. Give him peace.”
That’s still my prayer.
Sometimes he can talk, eat and laugh. Sometimes he is like a child and sometimes into his own world. That world beckons him more and more now, away from us. When he was young, other times. and I listen and smile.
He is cold or hot because the infrart, which is like stroke in the brain. Only this is in his spine, which is much smaller than it's supposed to be. moves up to his brain and he losses temperature control. To watch someone die slowly, in pain because of dying nerves, without feeling in parts of his body where the nerves have already died is my idea of hell and my punishment, I think, for being healthy now. I almost died two or three years ago, and Spirit told me I had to live and that I would live, but I must fight. So I fought with everything I had to live. Spirit wrapped me in White light and I sang the Bearcat Fight Song to keep fighting. Part of me didn’t care if I lived or died. I figured whatever happened was ok. Death was beautiful, so was life. Deep inside myself I knew I had to live for some reason. And I did live. I always wondered why.
Now I know why. And I am grateful.
For Norman who will never be able to read this, and we love him so much. Sherita