by Sally Quinn
Once back inside the fence separating us from the masses, I couldn’t help feeling guilty, wondering what I had done to deserve my good fortune. And yet, so many of the people I saw outside the fence were the religious ones, not me. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Uneasiness and gratitude.
I was missing Ben and Quinn. I called home. Quinn, in particular, was so happy to hear from me. He had had a terrible nightmare about me the night before. According to Ben, he had dreamed that I had died in a plane crash. He had gone into Ben’s room sobbing, threw up, got into bed with Ben for the first time in years, and cried all night.
I had chills up and down my spine. What if I had taken that flight? Would it have gone down? What did it all mean? What I do know is that Quinn and I were communicating telepathically. Not for the first time, or the last.
* * *
I had never been to Cairo before, so I was really looking forward to seeing the pyramids and the Sphinx.
What a disappointment. . . . These structures, so magnificent in photographs and from a distance, were disintegrating from lack of care. They were dirty, littered with trash and garbage, surrounded by beggars, and overrun by tourists. A man was urinating on the side of one. Stray animals wandered about untethered. One could only imagine how these once grand religious monuments, tombs for the greatest pharaohs, had looked, polished and reflecting the glittering sun, symbols of resurrection as the fiery orb died each night and then rose again in the morning.
I was shocked that the Egyptians had let the pyramids and the poor old Sphinx, both wonders of the world, go to ruin. One of the most potentially magical places on Earth had become completely devoid of magic. I wondered what the sun gods were thinking.
* * *
By the time we got to Armenia, I was exhausted. Severe jet lag had set in and the early wake-up calls had gotten to me. I was tired and lonely. I wanted to go home immediately, but I had Armenia and Istanbul and then back to Rome yet to go.
No matter where you are in Yerevan, the capital, you can see the breathtaking peaks of Mount Ararat, which is the sacred mountain of Armenia. Mount Ararat is said to be where Noah’s Ark ended up after the great flood. There have been a number of archaeological expeditions to find the ark, which some say simply is a myth, while others swear there have been pieces of it found. Mount Ararat is covered year-round by snow, and many Armenians believe that the ark is buried there, preserved in the snow and ice and will one day be found. Unfortunately, though Mount Ararat is the holiest of sites for the Armenians, it is actually in Turkey, a fact that has been and continues to be disputed by the Armenians.
I don’t believe the story of Noah’s Ark, but it captivates the imagination like few other stories. Looking out at Mount Ararat one can see how it could be an inspiration and how, even if you didn’t find the story credible, the idea of it could connect you in some way with the divine.
* * *
Nearing the end of the trip, I passed out a brief questionnaire, asking for certain opinions from my fellow travelers. One thing I asked was what moved them the most about this experience. Almost to a person, they responded that it was Chet’s lecture. Chester Gillis is a Catholic theologian and dean of Georgetown College, along on the trip as a guest lecturer, which probably wouldn’t have resonated as it did if we hadn’t seen the mystery and beauty of the sights. He had given a talk as we traveled from Tibet to India, which he’d titled “On the Plain of Unity,” and it turned out to be one of the most enlightening talks I had ever heard. It was about pluralism, and I’m embarrassed to say that this was a new concept for me, particularly in relation to religion. Today it is a common topic, but a decade ago it was not.
“What a perfect setting to discuss it,” he began, “on a world tour of faiths in which we encounter Christians, Muslims, Jews, Sikhs, Buddhists, Hindus, and others—to talk about Christianity and the world religions.”
He stunned us all by beginning with the idea that the scandal of Christianity is its divisions and disunity: “We cannot help but see a pluralism of belief and practice that transcends Judeo-Christian confines.” Chet went on to quote from God Has Many Names by the contemporary philosopher of religion John Hick:
We have been like a company of people marching down a long valley, singing our own songs, developing over the centuries our own stories and slogans, unaware that over the hill there is another valley, with another great company of people marching in the same direction, but with their own language and songs and stories and ideas; and over another hill yet another marching group—each ignorant of the existence of the others. But then one day they all come out onto the same plain, the plain created by modern global communications, and see each other and wonder what to make of one another. You might think that the different groups would then simply greet one another as fellow companies of pilgrims. But in fact that is made difficult by part of the content of our respective songs and stories.
Chet went on to say:
It is obvious that we have emerged from the valley and entered the plain. The plain is wide and broad, and we have several options. We could regroup our company of pilgrims and return to the relative security and absolute isolation of the valley from which we emerged. We could politely bow to the other companies of pilgrims and move in our own direction. We could approach them for a closer look, get to know them a bit, but then make a friendly exit from them. Or we could stop in the middle of the plain with them and tell them from whence we have come. We could try to learn about their religion and they about ours, so that we could discern if indeed we are on the same journey of faith, moving towards the same Divine One who beckons us from the valley to plain, to perhaps a new mountain where together we will see the route ahead.
He concluded by suggesting: “But perhaps we are headed in the same direction. Perhaps there is for all of us the same eternal one who beckons us. Perhaps the journey would be easier and more enlightening together. Perhaps the discussion must begin before the journey can go on for any of us.”
What was so fascinating to me was that Chet had articulated what I wanted On Faith to be, I just hadn’t been able to formulate it in my mind or properly put it into words. I wanted to take it further though. To me it wasn’t just about religions. It was about faith and spirituality and people with different beliefs, including those who had no religious beliefs at all. Most people believe in something. The important thing is to try to understand and respect one another. It’s interesting how difficult that is for many people. If I could have some part in changing that, I thought then, that would be tremendously satisfying. There is a Jewish saying, “Tikkun Olam,” a concept that encourages acts of kindness in order to “repair the world.” That would be a goal I could aspire to.
I had gone on the trip almost as a student or reporter—to learn about religion generally and certain religions specifically. In a way it was a business and educational trip, as well as a chance to have some distance from Ben in both time and space, to try to process what had been happening to us. As it turned out, I was totally and happily distracted and absorbed by the trip and really hadn’t focused much on my life with Ben except toward the end when I was missing him and Quinn so much.
I certainly learned a lot about religion, which is what I had hoped for. I saw that there are so many ways to practice one’s faith, and that they should all be respected. One of the things many religion scholars detest is to hear people say that all religions are the same. Yet almost to a person, those on the trip were astounded by the similarities in the basic tenets of the religions we had studied, even though the rituals might be different.
Though most people said they were clearer about their religion or their beliefs after the trip, I was more confused. It was a little bit like the graduates at the military academies throwing their hats up in the air after the ceremony. I always wonder how they find their own hats after it is all over. I had for so long worn my atheist hat and had always thought it quite a good fit. Now I would have to go around trying on other hats t
o find one that better suited me. Maybe I’d find mine again or maybe not. Maybe if I got the old one back, I wouldn’t want it anymore. Maybe I’d find someone else’s hat that fit me better. There was something frightening and hopeful about that possibility.
* * *
Finally we arrived in Turkey. We had celebrated Ben’s eightieth birthday in Turkey in 2001 with twenty-three of our closest friends and their kids. Talk about magic. . . . Now here I was in Istanbul, only this time I was alone. I had had it. Two more days to go, another day in Istanbul and then back to Rome, and I couldn’t be away another minute. I went back to the hotel and booked the next flight to Washington and was on my way home that afternoon.
When I arrived at Dulles, Ben was there with a bouquet of flowers in a rented limousine to pick me up. We held on to each other the entire ride back. I loved him so much and he loved me so much. I was so happy that he had come by himself. It was romantic and gave us a chance to be alone together. I knew I could never be away from Ben for that long again. I never was.
I also knew in my heart—both before and after the trip—that love was at the center of my life and that nothing could ever be more important to me than the ones I loved. That was the transcendent, that was the divine, and, yes, that was the magic.
Chapter 20
Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another. . . . The meaning of our life is a secret that has to be revealed to us in love.
—Thomas Merton, Love and Living
After I returned from the Great Faiths trip, things between Ben and me improved considerably. According to everyone who had been around him, he had been especially bereft, almost desperate, lost really, without me. He couldn’t keep away from me, constantly holding me and kissing me and telling me how much he loved me and that he couldn’t live without me. He didn’t want me out of his sight and, though he was still going to the Post every day (for shorter and shorter times), he wanted me to be home when he got back and would be upset if I wasn’t there. The few times I had to go to New York for work, almost always only for a night, he would be so morose that I would call him constantly to check in.
It was around this time that people were beginning to notice Ben’s lack of affect, his distance, his forgetfulness. It was clearly time for Ben to be tested. Much against his will, he agreed. He knew—dreaded—and so did I, what the diagnosis would be. We were right. Dementia. Frankly, I didn’t care what the label was. It was what was happening to Ben that I cared about. I told nobody.
* * *
Quinn’s wedding in 2010 was the happiest day of my life, except for the day he was born. He was twenty-eight. He was marrying a beautiful, kind young woman, full of life and full of love. My darling Quinn, whom we had been told would never finish high school, never go to college, never have friends, never have a job, never have a relationship, was getting married to Pari, someone he and we adored. Ben and I kept pinching ourselves. How could we be so lucky? This was beyond anything that we could have imagined. He was so happy. We were so happy.
They both wanted the wedding to be at the Washington National Cathedral. I was fascinated to see that Quinn (Pari was raised Catholic) wanted the highest, most religious ceremony possible. He had rarely been to church himself. His church was with his father in the woods. Yet the idea of this ritual was deeply important to him as it was to Pari and of course to me.
The day was 10/10/10, a Sunday of Columbus Day weekend, chosen by the three of us for its magical date. And it was magical, from beginning to end. The weather was perfect—eighty degrees, dry and clear with just the slightest breeze. The black-tie ceremony started in the evening with the radiant pink sun about to slip down over the horizon. The cathedral was filled with candles and the lights were low. The main illuminations came from the last streams of sunlight shattering the dimness with shards of brilliance from the multicolored stained-glass windows. A harp played in the background as guests were seated.
When Quinn stepped up to the altar, he was in full Scottish regalia, wearing his kilt, the Sterling family tartan complete with shawl and pin. I know, I know, I’m the mother, but he looked so handsome he took my breath away. I held it together until I saw Ben and Pari. There was something so deeply touching about Ben as he walked down the aisle, gently holding Pari’s arm to give her away. Their walk together was spirited and exuded happiness.
Pari looked exquisite. Quinn was spellbound. He looked so young and vulnerable and scared and proud and happy. Ben didn’t cry often, but this time he barely made it through.
It was the most beautiful wedding I had ever seen. One of our guests would later say that the whole thing made him forget for a time that he was an atheist.
At the reception Ben and I decided to speak early on so we could drink. I insisted on going first. I began by saying, “This is the happiest day of my life.” When I had finished, Ben made his toast and began by saying, “Sally just stole my lead. This is the happiest day of my life.”
The evening was very multicultural with food from different lands: Persian (Pari), all-American (Quinn), Southern (me), and Yankee (Ben). Salman Ahmad, a Pakistani rock star and good friend of all of ours, played and sang a dizzying song from his band, Junoon. Christiane Amanpour (Iranian) and Salman’s wife (Pakistani) performed a Middle Eastern ceremony for the bride. Bandleader Peter Duchin had everyone on their feet until midnight.
When I think about magic and its effects on the mind and body, I see clearly that Quinn and Pari’s wedding had it all—the sacred ritual, the beauty, the mystery of the marriage vows, the wonder at the flowing of life and the changes we go through, the awe that we somehow experienced together, bonded in that holy place filled with grace, the sense of community it inspired. Most of all there was heightened magic in the profound love Ben and Quinn and I had for one another and the opportunity to add Pari to the inner circle of our family. Who could ask for more than that?
Somehow it seemed like a metaphor for our lives. It was all there that night. The memories live on. I still cherish them and all that they meant.
* * *
Ben’s confusion accelerated. A reporter called to interview him about something sensitive that had happened at the paper. His secretary, Carol, put him through. Ben was very forthcoming—in fact, too forthcoming. He told the reporter much more than he should have, much more than he knew. He opined about whatever the subject was, naming names and not being very flattering. After the piece came out, I went to Don Graham and suggested that it might be time for Ben to stop going to the Post. Don, the kindest human being on the planet, refused to even consider it. However, we did work out a plan. All the secretaries and assistants on the floor were advised never to put a call through to Ben without checking with Carol or Don or me. Everyone was told to turn down all interview requests. Ben never knew about it. When we went to dinner parties, I would make sure we arrived late so we didn’t have to make a lot of conversation beforehand, and then I sat with a knot in my stomach, watching Ben from across the table to make sure he wasn’t saying or doing something to embarrass himself. I began making excuses for him. When he would forget something, I’d make a joke and deflect the worry and concern of others by saying something that could be taken as funny or at least lighthearted, like “you’re having my problem, when you’re the one who’s supposed to have the good memory.”
Ben became more and more dependent on me in social situations and on Carol and Don at the office. Almost every day he went down to the Post cafeteria for lunch and would be immediately surrounded by a coterie of reporters and admirers and that seemed to perk him up. There was always a group conversation and as long as Ben gave somebody the finger or told somebody to “fuck off,” people didn’t seem to notice the forgetfulness that much.
I organized a lunch group at the Madison hotel across from the Post, where I had a running tab. Ben’s secretary, Carol, had a sign-up sheet and up to five people could join. It was always full. We called it “Tu
esdays with Ben.”
One night we went to George Stephanopoulos’s and Ali Wentworth’s house for a party. We were all standing around having cocktails when Ben, suddenly pale and weak, collapsed on the sofa and proceeded to have what looked like a seizure. His eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth dropped open, and he blacked out. I asked somebody to call an ambulance, and within minutes we were speeding to George Washington University Hospital where we were met by our doctor, Michael Newman. Within a half hour, Ben was alert and talking. He was agitated and telling anyone who would listen to “get me the hell out of here.” He was fine.
It was the consensus that he had had a vasovagal syncope episode. Within hours we were home and in bed as if nothing had happened. It was only a day or two later that I realized he was behaving differently. He wasn’t as sharp. He had lost something. In fact, he had had a mild cognitive impairment, sort of like a ministroke, or TIA. I was the only one who noticed.