The Promise I Kept

by Jackie Madden Haugh

  Arriving home at lunchtime, I first became distracted with The Phil Donahue Show, figuring I had plenty of time, when a call came from the captain of the Serra High School football team, the all boys’ version of my high school. Before I knew it, it was 5:30 p.m.

  “Shit!” I screamed, jumping off my parents’ bed. “Bob, I’ve gotta go. I have to put dinner in the oven.”

  Slamming down the rotary phone and racing to the kitchen, I grabbed Mom’s favorite easy-bake pan of chicken of the sea, complete with canned peas and carrots smothered in some pre-fabricated thick cream sauce. Next, I cranked the oven into overdrive, setting the temperature at 650 degrees.

  I tossed a salad with limp butter lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and a few dried-up croutons and drowned it in my dad’s favorite Bernstein’s Italian dressing.

  The final chore was setting the table. Instead of my normal willy-nilly way, I took extra care to place the utensils in their “Miss Manners” correct spot, with forks on the left and spoons and knives on the right. Finally, to top off the look, I added fresh flowers from Mom’s garden.

  “Whew!” I muttered, running to the couch to read my new issue of Seventeen magazine.

  Five minutes later, in walked my mother.

  “Oh, honey,” she chirped, eyeing the table. “Everything looks beautiful. Thank you so much.”

  Soon after, the head of our household, our hardworking father, came through the front door at six o’clock on the dot.

  “Call your brothers. I’ll take it from here.”

  Gathering around the table, the evening ritual began with bowed heads and grace. Sucking in air, my silent prayer to the heavens above pleaded that all would be right in cuisine land. But, as my luck would have it, Julia Childs I was not.

  “This is frozen!” Dad uttered in surprise with a mouthful of icy sludge. Spitting the casserole back onto his yellow plastic plate, he looked questioningly in my mother’s direction.

  “What?” Mom uttered, shock appearing on her unsuspecting face. Stabbing her fork into the thawed mushy coating, her utensil hit an iceberg. Turning her laser eyes in my direction, she demanded, “What time did you put this in the oven?”

  “Five, just like you told me to.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  Caught in the 11th commandment, “Thou shalt not lie to Lassie,” I broke down and sobbed.

  “I’m sorry. I was on the phone and time just got away. I wasn’t paying attention and . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear any more. Go to your room.”

  Normally, escaping to my room meant refuge from the constant noise made by my three brothers. But when mom sent me there, death felt like a better alternative.

  “Jackie, do you know how disappointed I am with you?” Mom hissed as she ushered me out of the kitchen and stood in the doorway to my room. “You promised!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You broke your word,” she said in frustration. “Next time, don’t promise something if you can’t deliver.”

  Never wanting to hurt my mother, I broke down in tears over the selfishness of my youth. It was in that moment I made a pledge to myself and the universe: there’d never be a next time. If I uttered the words “I promise,” I’d follow through, no matter how difficult the task. After all, people depended on me.

  It wasn’t until years later that my commitment to keeping my promises was truly tested. In 1981, my ninety-two-year-old maternal grandmother Helen came to live with my parents. She’d been having fainting spells and the doctor said she could no longer live alone. It was just the beginning of health issues popping up in my family.

  Ironically, my mother had constantly told me and my brothers that when the time came, she and Dad wanted to be put in a home—the last thing they wanted was to inconvenience their children. But when it came to Lassie caring for her mother, that was a different story. Despite the fact that Mom was beginning her spiral into the world of poor health with breast cancer, degenerative back issues, and rheumatoid arthritis, she took Helen in. And, with help from my father and us kids from time to time, they managed.

  But in 1984, at the age of sixty-eight, my father suffered a debilitating stroke, leaving him weakened with minimal use of his left leg. His left arm was completely dead. As time wove in circles around the sun, mobility became more challenging and so too, his ability to help my mother around the house.

  For the next six years, the three of them struggled to get through their days until lifting my grandmother from her bed to her wheelchair proved to be an impossible task. Home care was not a popular idea in the 1980s, so the only solution, as my parents saw it, was putting Helen in a nursing home where she’d be cared for.

  One sunny spring afternoon in March 1990, shortly after my mom had settled Grammy into “the facility,” I took my father for a visit. He adored his mother-in-law and missed her.

  Laboriously making his way up the wheelchair ramp, I fully grasped how debilitated he had become. Instead of the agile, speed-walking man who trekked miles each morning to get to early Mass at our parish, St. Charles, he looked like a tattered, weather-beaten scarecrow. With one strong gust of wind from the northeast, I was sure he’d fall over.

  Resting between each step, his left arm dangling at his side like a broken pendulum in a grandfather clock, I witnessed his internal battery slowly running out of steam, and my eyes began to sting. Children, no matter how old we become, are never prepared to watch our parents age.

  But as he teetered up the ramp inch by inch, I found myself becoming antsy. I didn’t have all day. While my children were safe and waiting for me at home with a babysitter, as far as I saw it, only I could attend to their every need perfectly. Only I could make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches just the way they liked them. I needed to get home.

  Hoping to diffuse my building impatience, I asked, “Dad, isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “What did you say?”

  “The weather, Dad. Isn’t it a nice day?”

  No response.

  Shading my eyes from the glare of the midday sun with the back of my hand, I scanned the unkempt grounds. I was grateful my horticulturist grandmother had lost her sight long ago as this would have made her terribly unhappy. Her spirit would have died right alongside the wasted garden.

  While it was spring and the rest of the world was coming back to life, apparently the facility hadn’t gotten the memo. A once-prolific rose garden sat petrified. Black buds dangled from long fossilized stalks that hadn’t had a proper pruning in years. Thin stems of impatiens, which when in full bloom served as a well-tailored honor guard along the walkway for residents, were now leggy and flaccid, in desperate need of a prescription of Viagra for flowers. Off to the right, a grove of gnarly, lifeless orange trees sat silhouetted against the faded pink wall of the building. Decorated with only a few shriveled orange balls, the dead branches cried out for a good Texas chainsaw massacre.

  “How are you doing, Dad?” I checked in as he took another painful step.

  “This place is so ugly,” he breathed heavily, his brow now glistening with perspiration. “I don’t know why your mom thought this was a good idea.”

  Sadly, I couldn’t agree more. While the grounds were bad enough, the building was worse.

  Built in the 1940s, the facade didn’t just need some lipstick and rouge; it needed a complete Hollywood facelift. Faded flesh-colored paint peeled away from the cracked stucco as spider web fissures wove a labyrinth in several of the single-paned windows. On those windows were rusty bars. Was it to keep intruders out or the inmates from escaping?

  “So, Dad? How about those 49ers?” I tried once more, hoping to keep his gaze away from the broken-down surroundings. “That was some game last night, huh?”

  His six-foot-tall body seemed to be morphing into that of an ostrich with his head bowed low as if looking for a nice soft pile of sand to hide in. He was now bent completely in half, struggling to follow my conversation and continue walking.
/>   “I’m sorry, honey. You keep talking, but I can’t hear you.”

  As he rubbed his ear, I wondered if wax build-up had clogged his ear canal.

  “Never mind.” I sighed, gently brushing the palm of my hand up and down his crooked spine. “We’re almost there. How are you doing?”

  Carefully manipulating his cane for added assurance and balance, he was one step from the top.

  “I don’t like this place,” he mumbled.

  “I know. I don’t either, but Gram is safe here.”

  Just as I stepped between my father and the battered front door to enter the facility, his body began to shake wildly.

  “Dad,” I cried, grasping his shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was having an epileptic attack as I watched his one good arm fly in the air searching to retain his balance.

  “My cane! Oh, God. Where’s my cane?” he cried as it went flying.

  “Stand right here, don’t move. Hold the rail tight.” Molding his gnarled fingers around the oxidized banister, I wished they made crazy glue for human skin. “I’ll go get it.”

  Scrambling to retrieve his lifeline to his physical world, I was shocked that not one member of the staff had emerged to respond to his cries. Was everyone in white taking a nap with his or her elderly charges? Shouldn’t there be screens or monitors to witness the comings and goings of the residents and their aging guests?

  “Where the hell is help when you need it?” I hissed loud enough to send the robins pecking the dirt to a higher perch.

  Racing back just in time, I wrapped my arms around his wavering frame. Hugging him with every ounce of strength I had, I shook, terrified I might lose him over the edge.

  “Here, Dad. Here’s your cane,” I whispered, kissing him on the cheek and placing his cane back in his one good hand.

  While sweat ran in rivulets through the canyons deeply imbedded on his seventy-four-year-old face, he regained his composure long enough to say, “Thank you, honey.”

  Then, like a bomb exploding, it happened. The grenade of his greatest fear was thrown in my face.

  “Jackie, promise me you’ll never do this to me. Please!”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you’ll never put me in a home,” he cried again. “I don’t want to live like this.”

  For a moment, the world fell off its axis. What happened to my parents’ earlier insistence about putting them in a home when the time came and not wanting to be a bother? Then I remembered. It was only my mother who had ever said those words. True to his nature, Dad sat quietly devouring his dinner as she made plans for both of their futures.

  Cupping both my hands around the gentle face of the man I called Daddy, I knew in that divine moment what I was being called to do.

  Taking out the imaginary gold pen I kept for the forever vows—like my marriage, loving my children until the day I died, and living a life of faith—I held my dad like I’d never held him before and declared, “I promise, Dad. I’ll never put you in a home.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Day of Reckoning

  Returning home late that afternoon, I relayed my father-daughter conversation to my children’s father, Dave. Noticing an all-too-familiar bleeding-heart look in my eyes, the same look I gave him when I brought home a stray animal that needed loving or gave extra money to the homeless on a street corner, his obsidian eyes narrowed into paper-thin slits. Without hesitation, he announced firmly, “We’re not taking care of your parents!”

  “What if they need us?” I asked, fearing the confrontation.

  “Nope, we’re not doing it.”

  “But . . .”

  “No, Jackie.”

  “I’d help you take care of your parents,” I said, hoping to persuade him to come around to the idea.

  “Do we have any beer? All I see is milk in here,” he shouted, sticking his head in the refrigerator.

  “Dave, did you hear me? I said I’d help take care of your parents.”

  “Where’s the remote, I can’t find it. You know the game is on tonight.”

  Determined to gain his attention, I declared, “I’m having a serious conversation here.”

  With an exhausted look, he attempted to be the voice of reason, “Jackie, we have our hands full with four kids; we’re not taking care of anyone else.”

  “Wouldn’t you want the kids to take care of you when you get old?”

  “I’m not going to get old.”

  “What are you talking about? How can you say such a stupid thing?”

  “Nope, I plan to die before I become like your parents. Is there any beer in the garage refrigerator?”

  Tearfully, I turned away.

  I always knew marriage would be a complicated union. We had met as dreamy-eyed young adults, barely in our twenties and ready to embark on a lifetime adventure together, a shimmering vow with dreams of prosperity, excitement, and healthy babies—in our case, lots of babies. But I forgot that nowhere in that oath did it say, “to love, honor, and cherish your in-laws in their sickness and health until they depart.” Our lives together were meant to be just that: us together, with no external interference.

  I tried again, delving into the reasons as to why this was so important to me.

  “What if in the middle of the night, one of them got scared and there was no one to soothe them? You know Mom and Dad don’t sleep together anymore since they both became crippled. Old people get nightmares too.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Jackie, I know you’ve got a good heart—that’s why I love you. You always want to save the world, but we have to think about our lives. Now, where did you say you put the remote control?”

  Turning his attention to a long evening of Monday night football, joystick firmly in hand, he ended the discussion with, “When the kids are out of the house, I want it to be just us. Besides, your parents were fine sticking your grandmother in a home.”

  While I hated to admit it, he had a point.

  Nonetheless, I carried on. “Dave, you haven’t seen that place. It’s disgusting. All the people are slumped in their wheelchairs drooling, and there are bugs everywhere. I bet it’s even infested with rats.”

  Without even a glance in my direction, he stonewalled me. Silence suffocated the room as he grabbed the remote and pointed it at the TV.

  “Okay,” I mumbled, realizing this was not a good time to push the idea any further. Throwing in the towel, I did my best Scarlet O’Hara impression. Despite the rage swelling in my heart, it was best to worry about it later.

  Escaping to the grocery store, I fumed in private, feeling as if the subject had been stomped out like a discarded cigarette in the gutter, with no hope of re-igniting.

  After collecting my berries, yogurt, and toilet paper, I found the longest line to stand in, just to kill more time before going home.

  How could he not see how important this was to me? I get that they’d be an inconvenience, but isn’t that what life’s all about? Caring for those who need our help?

  Gathering up my purchases, I drove home breathing deeply just like in Lamaze classes. They relieved pain during childbirth, why not the angst over aging parents? But as I pulled into the driveway, reality hit as I noticed our four-year-old on the roof, inches away from possibly careening to her death.

  “Lauren, what are you doing up there?” I screamed at my baby girl, tiptoeing across the peak of the roof in bare feet. Like her three siblings, Lauren was a free spirit, but this child loved to trip the light fandango with absolutely no fear. Children, more than old parents, needed to be constantly watched.

  “I’m looking for the ball, Mommy.” She smiled, as if her death-defying location equaled the simple task of scrounging behind the elderberry bushes that grew at the front of our home. “I climbed the tree in the back to get here.”

  “Don’t move! I’m coming to get you.”

 
; Dave was right. As a parent, I was on call every waking minute of every day (and well into the night) to not just the needs and desires of my four children, but keeping them out of mortal danger too. I had more on my plate than was manageable. How could I ever take care of my parents as well?

  In those early child rearing days, I found myself constantly chasing my tail trying to keep everything moving in order. Each morning as I looked at the colorful dots on the calendar (each one representing a different child) letting me know their comings and goings of the day, I struggled to manage not only schedules, but cranky moods.

  But at the end of the day—well, most days—I loved being a mother. I knew they were the greatest joys of my life.

  Despite my four children coming from the same gene pool, each not only looked but acted dramatically different. Michelle, the oldest, was always the leader, strong and determined, setting the example for her siblings. She was my confidant from the moment she was born with a kind and empathetic nature. Polite, popular, and an overachiever in school, she danced semi-professionally for years, and cultivated an acting career in San Francisco during her high school years which she continued after college. There was nothing she touched that didn’t turn out flawless and her siblings not only adored her but looked up to her.

  Jenni was two years younger and while Michelle was tall, blonde and blue-eyed, Jenni was short, dark haired, hazel-eyed, and gentle in spirit. From the moment she was born, each day held magic and excitement for Jenni and could be witnessed by her squeals of laughter that bounced off the walls in our home with deafening volume. She loved fairytales, birthday parties (especially her own), Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny. And, like her mother, she was a people pleaser and would do anything or give up even her prized possessions just to make someone else happy. If ever there was a model for the innocent child, that would be my dark-haired beauty.

  Then there was the spirited one. Lauren’s birth came as a surprise, just twenty months after Jenni. Regardless of the fact her father and I were using protection, this little bundle of energy was determined to be born and made herself known everywhere she went with her magnetic personality, amazing athletic ability, and fierce sense of humor. She began walking by eight months, and I spent her entire childhood racing to catch up to her. Without a fearful bone in her body, there was no tree too high to climb, no raging river too deep to swim across, and no garage door she couldn’t hang onto as it went up and down. I often thought she would kill me one day from laughter or exhaustion.