May the Gates of Heaven Swing Wide Open to Receive Him.
Chances are, if you walked past the firehouse on Boylston Street across from the Hynes some time in the last 28 years, you saw or spoke to Frankie Flynn.
He was a firefighter and one of the happiest guys in the world. Frankie Flynn would talk to a telephone pole. He went on the job in 1986, assigned to Engine 33 in the Back Bay, and never left. He was always there. And he was always smiling.
But a couple of months ago, he was suddenly wincing.
“My back is killing me,” he confided to other firefighters.
Everybody figured Frankie hurt his back working a fire, because he was a worker, what firefighters call a good jake.
The pain got so unbearable that Frankie finally went to the doctor, about a month ago, and the doctor told him he was going to die.
“The cancer was all through him,” Eddie Glora was saying. “They said there was nothing they could do. So Frankie goes, ‘Then why am I in the hospital?’ He signed himself out.”
No comments:
Post a Comment