(Lloyd B. Cunningham / Argus Leader) Debbie O'Daniels feeds Larry Hohn his lunch in the kitchen of his home. "It's a daily part of my life, but more like a gift was given to me," she says of her time as a caregiver.
Picking up where an angel left off
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NOVEMBER 10, 2008
Jay Kirschenmann, Sioux Falls Argus Leader

They are alone in the empty church, the mid-morning sun glowing through stained glass. Robin Hall lights a candle and dips her head to speak to Larry. "That's for your mother," she says.
Watching from his wheelchair, Larry Hohn's expression is serious, and his eyes are wide. And he does something he does not do often: he makes a sound.
It is mournful and sad, and it is as emotive as any words he might have spoken.
Born with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, Hohn's infant brain was deprived of oxygen for too long. He never has been able to use his hands, so he must be fed by others. He cannot walk. He cannot speak words. Mentally and physically handicapped, Hohn, 61, requires constant care.
Because of her compassion for others, and the strength to face a lifetime of meeting her son's unique needs, people here called Eleanor Hohn the community's angel.
But in the weeks since she died July 3, Larry Hohn has been cared for by a close-knit coalition of family, friends and neighbors who say their interactions with him are their own reward. Somehow, this small community about 30 miles west of Sioux Falls found the courage to pick up where Eleanor Hohn left off.
"That's what you do," said Jeff Kapperman, a longtime family friend and neighbor who stops in several times a week.
"You help each other out."
A massive dose of "neighboring"
Folks here call it "neighboring." But the kind of help Larry is getting goes far beyond sharing a cup of coffee or lending an occasional helping hand.
When Eleanor Hohn died, her nephew, Mark Berg, 51, of Sioux Falls and Hall, who have lived together for about 12 years, made a big decision: Instead of moving Larry to a care center, Hall moved to the Montrose house.
"I know when he's uncomfortable. He's never unhappy, really," Hall said.
"My hope is to keep him here as long as the good Lord will let me."
But it would be hard for anybody to care for him alone. Hall, 52, maintains a full-time job as a manager at J.C. Penney. When she's in Sioux Falls, several of his Montrose neighbors take turns with him. He is never alone.
"The neighbors have been so valuable. I don't think this would happen in a larger city," Hall said.
They recently took him out for pizza for the first time in his life, and to the mall.
Debbie O'Daniels, a neighbor across the backyard, has known the family for about 17 years. She stops in daily to help with Hohn, especially when Hall is at work.
"I do this at my own choosing because he makes me feel good," O'Daniels said. She does art projects with him and helps with other activities to keep his mind stimulated. Hohn likes listening to country music and enjoys watching television or listening as people chat.
"It's a daily part of my life, but more like a gift was given to me," O'Daniels said.
"I can't explain it any other way. I'm proud that Robin feels that I am capable of being part of his life. But he is happy all the time, so he makes you happy."
Berg and Hall say they're working through various social programs to get at least 15 hours of pay per week for O'Daniels, 50, and another neighbor, Nancy Ditmanson. A new wheelchair that better suits his body is expected to arrive soon, provided through a social program.
"I'm here every day, too; I live right next door," Ditmanson said.
"Robin posts her schedule here, and we decide who fills in, and when. I just talk to Larry. He's so easy to love and take care of, he makes your day."
Nancy Herman has known the family her whole life. Her mother was Eleanor Hohn's best friend. Herman, 49, stops in several times a week. On a recent afternoon as she walked into the living room, Hohn's face lit up with a smile of recognition.
Subtle lines of communication
Hohn watched Herman and Hall as they talked with other visiting neighbors. He studied Hall's face, smiled when she smiled and casually looked around the living room that is decorated as it was when his mother was alive.
In a painting in the corner, Jesus kneels praying under a shaft of light. A faded mountain scene is framed on another wall, a piece of artwork that's been there as long as anyone can remember. In another corner is a glass cabinet filled with Eleanor's dolls.
Hohn occasionally vocalizes limited responses that sound happy, sad or interested. His new caregivers have taught him things such as winking when he means "yes."
He must be lifted to a couch or bed. He has a permanent catheter, and others must tend to his personal hygiene.
His medical care specialist, physician's assistant Terri Behl, says that while Hohn is learning a few new ways to let people know what he's thinking, perhaps the mother and son had other ways of communicating.
"I think she just knew, after a lifetime, what Larry meant or what he needed," said Behl, who travels between clinics in Bridgewater and Freeman.
"He's always cheerful and cooperative," Behl said.
"And now that his family and friends are working with him, they're teaching him how to better interact with people."
Cliff Hallem, 57, a nurse and family friend who grew up nearby, visits often. The Montrose resident is teaching others to change the catheter that is inserted in Hohn's lower belly.
"I believe that's the reason he's still here is because of the great care he got from his parents all these years. I really do," Hallem said.
"I really don't think he would still be with us today had he been institutionalized all these years."
Growing up on the farm
Friends and relatives don't blame Eleanor for giving her son a sheltered life. She and her husband were a farm couple who later moved to town and gave their only child the best care they knew how to give.
The couple didn't consider sending him to a care home. Instead, the child came along during chores and trips and never was left unsupervised.
Longtime family friend, neighbor and helper Larry Miller, 57, grew up near the family.
"I remember him sitting out in the cow barn when they were milking cows," Miller said.
"He was always right there - they had him involved with every bit of the farm they could."
Hohn always was wheeled to the dinner table and ate with the family or company. He never was left sitting alone or neglected. That attention continues today.
"I don't think any aggressive therapy would have really changed the way he is, but there wasn't much available in the '50s and '60s anyway," Miller said.
"My folks were close to his folks, and we exchanged a lot of work as farming neighbors. Larry always was a part of everything."
Today, Miller stays overnight with Hohn when needed. His own three children come along on visits. They grew up knowing Hohn, talk to him and make him laugh.
"I think it's just great for him and great for the community, too," Miller said.
"It shows that the community cares - we care about people ... I will help out as much as I can."
Legal guardianship in the works
As much help as they get, Berg and Hall say their legal role as primary caretakers will be affirmed sometime this month when she and Berg gain legal guardianship. She's ready for the challenge.
"It's not a burden. I enjoy it," Hall said.
"It makes me feel better about myself. It makes me feel like it's what God wants me to do, and I want to do it."
Over the years, the couple grew close to Hohn and his mother and consider them part of their immediate family.
"After Mark lost his mother, Eleanor just became a part of our lives, and like my own mom," Hall said.
"We got to know Larry, too, so near the end of her life, I told her it is time for me to be here to take care of things, to take care of Larry."
Many holidays and frequent visits brought the couple to Montrose and the Hohn home.
"My perception is that Robin became the daughter my aunt never had," Berg said.
Now Hall is there every evening and on her days off, fulfilling a different part of her life.
"I've always been told that God only gives you what you can handle, and I feel like this has been my gift from God, to take care of him," she said.
"But there's no way it could be done without the support from the people in this community. They've all just been great."
Bond with mom shines through
At St. Patrick's Catholic Church to light a candle for his mother, Hohn's usual smile fades as Hall talks about Eleanor.
It's impossible to know just how much Hohn understands of what's happening around him, but those who know him are certain of his bond with his mother.
When she died, these devoted friends and neighbors filled the void with compassion and a sense of true community. They give of their time and energy and emotion for someone who can offer unconditional friendship but will never be able to say "thank you."
But it will never fully replace the love shared between mother and son.
In the days leading to Eleanor's death, Rev. Bob Krantz was there often.
"Larry would look at me, look at his mom, and look at me again with a look, a connection that told me that he knew something was going on," Krantz said during a visit to Larry's house.
As Krantz spoke, Hohn's smile dropped. Hall hugged him as the priest continued to speak.
"On the day she died, we took him in there - she wanted to see him one more time, and she told him she loved him, then said, 'You can go out now, you can go.' "
Then Larry Hohn let out that rare, mournful groan.
You can reach reporter Jay Kirschenmann at 605-331-2312.
www.argusleader.com