“If you must know the truth, going to church makes me sad.”
Stunned, his eyes grew wide and mouth gaped open. I could see by his expression he was thinking, How could this be? Going to church brings me such peace and joy. What did I do wrong?
“Dad, it has nothing to do with me not believing. My entire life I’ve wanted to live a Christ-like existence, so please, don’t go thinking you and Mom did anything wrong or that the nuns screwed up.”
Shifting in my seat, I suddenly remembered the day at the eye doctor when I decided he always deserved the truth. While he may pooh-pooh my reasoning, it was my truth all the same.
“To be perfectly honest, I don’t fit there anymore.”
He took a deep breath. He knew it was best not to argue but to console. “That’s silly, honey. The one place you always belong is in church.”
Tears fogging my eyes, I wondered how I could tell someone as devout as him that I felt that God had abandoned me. It was one thing to be rejected by my husband. That cliché happens all the time: boy meets girl, boy marries girl, together they have a beautiful family, and one day, girl no longer serves the purpose. Boy dumps girl. I was part of the 50/50 club—50% stay married, 50% get divorced. But God was supposed to help me pick up the pieces. I wasn’t supposed to feel this lonely or lost.
“Dad, I don’t want this to sound like a pity party. Well, maybe it is, but when Dave left, my life was a mess. Mom was dying, the kids were all teenagers and angry with him but taking it out on me, and I was scared of how I’d keep everything together financially. God was nowhere around to ease the pain.”
Dad was giving me an “are you serious?” look, and I could hear how stupid this all sounded. Sure, it was a crappy time in my life, but I had survived. I suppose I couldn’t have done that if God hadn’t been waiting in the wings.
The mist in my eyes began to turn into droplets. It seemed that since my father moved in with me, all I did was cry.
“Jackie,” he said, his tone now soft and empathic. “Church is the one place everyone should go to release their fears and sorrow.”
“Not when I’m surrounded by couples with their kids. I’m all alone.”
There, I said it—the real reason I didn’t want to go to church. When I got divorced, my social world changed too. I was no longer a couple and, in my tired mind, couples only did things with other couples.
Digesting my every word, Dad reached out for my hand. “Honey, I understand. You were once part of a huge social circle, and now you feel all alone.”
With his validation of my feelings, I let the rest sputter out.
“Dave and I always organized so many of the fun events, and not just for couples but the kids too. We opened our home up every weekend in the summer for potlucks and planned vacations where everyone came. Now, I’m never invited to those kinds of things. Unless it’s a group affair, like a wedding or celebration, I feel like I don’t exist.”
“Do you think you’d be comfortable going out to dinner or on a trip if you were the only single woman?”
“I don’t know, maybe. It’s not like the couples sit together. Women typically talk to each other while the men hang around at the bar. What harm would it be to have a stray along?”
Compassion washing over his face, my father said, “Honey, while I know this has all been hard for you, I have a feeling this is all stuff you’ve created in your mind. I know your friends love you. People just get busy with their lives and time goes by. Before you know it, a week becomes a year. It happens to everyone.”
Thinking about his words, I saw that once again, any emotions I had about the stations in my life were ones I created. No one ever did anything to me but be kind but, just the same, I hurt and I wanted to wallow in the pain.
“It’s just better not to relive the past, and that includes going to church,” I said.
Getting up to leave, I pulled my hair back from my face and leaned in and kissed him.
“Honey, I promise if you go back with an open mind you’ll find some happiness there. It’s where I’ve turned in my darkest hours.”
Seeing how important this was to him, and how I was determined to make his life perfect, I grabbed his headphones, got the CD player ready for the next chapter, and promised, “Okay, I’ll try.”
For the next several days, I stewed over the idea. I was already in so much pain as it was. Did I really want to pour gasoline on the campfire? I could just lie and say I went. Or I could go to church but sit in the parking lot. That wasn’t lying. I was there. I could just as easily pray in my car as I could in the building. But, remembering a promise was a promise, I called my neighbor’s daughter, Kelly, and asked if she’d sit with Dad for an hour. I’d be paying her to do nothing.
That Sunday evening, much to Dad’s delight, I left for 5:00 p.m. Mass, ready to deal with the past. Arriving five minutes early, I found an empty pew at the back of the church.
This was perfect. If I couldn’t stand it, I could just slip out, and no one would see me.
Soon, the choir began to sing, and a visiting priest paraded down the aisle with two young altar servers dressed in white like angels. Remembering Jenni in that same outfit, I smiled. Watching her serious face while taking on her duties on the altar always made me giggle. Like her mother, she was the über good girl who wanted to be close to God as a child.
After the music had ended, the priest began to talk in what might have been English but sounded more like tongues. I couldn’t understand a thing he was saying.
I come for peace, and now all I am is frustrated. I have no idea what the hell he’s saying with that accent. He could be telling a dirty joke, and we’d never know.
With my concentration fading, I knew I had about a half hour left and began to spend it doing more productive things. Macy’s was having a huge sale, and I calculated my finances to determine if I had enough to go on a shopping spree. Next, I made mental notes of the week to come, the appointments that were to be kept, and the Lifetime movie on Wednesday I didn’t want to forget.
Suddenly, we were all standing, holding hands and saying the Our Father.
Just a few more minutes and I’d be out of there.
Communion quickly followed. Like in all the years past, I walked up with the crowd, stretched out my hands and received the body of Christ. Making the sign of the cross, I struggled to swallow the sticky thin wafer as it stuck to the roof of my mouth and headed to the back of the church, past the holy water, out the door, and straight for my car, thinking about the glass of wine I’d pour myself as soon as I got home.
“Thanks, Kelly,” I said, paying her ten bucks for doing her homework. “Did he want anything?’
“No, he just slept.”
“What else is new?”
“If you ever need more help, just let me know. I bet you’d like to get out once in a while.”
Looking at the eighteen-year-old college student, I smiled. “You are so wise. I’ll do that.”
Well, maybe the one good thing out of all this is knowing I have a little freedom once in a while if I want.
Going into his bedroom, I watched the snoring gentle giant. I’d kept my promise. I went, and I didn’t just sit in the car. I was a good girl.
Seeing his sheet had fallen to the side, I carefully lifted it up and over to cover him. Sensing my presence, his eyes shot open.
“Well, what did you think?”
“I went. It was okay, but I couldn’t understand a thing the priest said.”
“That doesn’t matter. Take it as your time alone with Christ.”
Then, grabbing his beads, for it was now time for his Mass, he asked, “Are you going again next week?”
Are you kidding me? I did it once. Isn’t that good enough?
“It would make me very happy.”
Turning the TV on, I patted his shoulder and said, “Okay, for you, I’ll do it.”
“I want you to do it for yourself, but if it starts with doing it for me, then I�
�m good with that.”
As he wiggled his head deeper into the pillow to get comfortable, I left to get that glass of wine.
Dad, for you I’d do anything, but this one is tough.
For the following weeks, the routine was always the same. One of the three daddy sitters I discovered (Kelly Cheek, Cassie O’Hearn, and Elizabeth Cook), came so I could sit in the back and think about more important things like laundry, groceries, and clearing land mines the dog left on the lawn so the gardener could mow poop free. I grabbed the wafer, pretended it meant something, and immediately ran home for my wine. And each time Dad smiled.
“That’s good,” he said with his dimpled chin grin. “You made me happy.”
Five Sundays later, the idea of going to a bar instead began to tickle my fancy. They gave you wine in church. Dad would never know I went someplace else to get it. But that evening, something changed.
Sitting once again with the exit sign screaming my name, I was surprised to see Father Warwick was the presider. He’d been to the house several more times to chat with Dad, and I marveled at his patience over some of Dad’s questions. Dad was still working through his issues with leaving this world.
“Father, what do we look like when we die?” he had asked at the most recent visit. Most of his questions centered on dogma, but this was weird.
“Well, Jack, I’m not sure, but I don’t believe we will look like this.”
“So, we won’t have our bodies?”
“Most likely not. We will be in spirit form. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking. There’ve been millions of people since time began. I was just wondering, where does God put them all? It could get crowded up there.”
Hearing this, I laughed uncontrollably. My father always hated crowds. Was that what was keeping him from wanting to go? Every time we talked about the end, I’d hear a resounding “I’m not ready.”
Sitting in the pew, I felt it only polite that maybe this time, I would try to listen and be a little more present. After all, since he’d been so good to Dad, I owed him that much.
Listening to his thoughts about humanity and our blessings, I began to look around the church with new eyes. People of all ages—some married, some not, some with their children and some alone—were there to celebrate in kinship and embrace our higher power. Lovely memories washed over me as I watched children huddle close to their parents just as mine had so long ago, finding a way to snuggle in my lap as I lowered my head in prayer. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe church was the one place I did belong. I just had to let go of my ego and let my spiritual side celebrate.
Going home that night, I went straight to my father before releasing Kelly.
“How was it?” he asked hopefully.
“Dad, it was great. I’m glad I went. And, guess what? You’ll be happy to know I plan to continue going. It brought a lot of peace to my heart.”
“What about still feeling like you don’t fit in with your friends?” he asked, concerned I was still lost.
“Dad, I know my friends love me. I guess I just get lonely sometimes and want to blame the world for what I feel is lacking in my life.”
He smiled, closed his eyes, and with an appreciative nod of the head, said, “That’s good. You did just fine.”
CHAPTER 14
All in a Day’s Excitement
I once read that “Emotional stability leads to cognitive consistency. Cognitive consistency leads to behavioral predictability.” This is all well and good when it comes to wanting to know how people react in any given situation, but when predictability shows, like how our days unfolded everyday with the same damn routine, this just lead to boredom.
A pattern had developed over the past nine months. We were well into 2012 and each day began and ended the same—no deviation, no thrills, no ups or downs. Other than the temperature rising and falling, plus an occasional breeze to shake things up, our home life was quiet, and I was becoming antsy for a change.
“Maybe everyone was right, Michelle,” I said to my daughter on our daily phone call between Los Altos and Los Angeles. “I may not be cut out for this.”
“Why, Mom? With Enemi there you can still get out during the day. It’s not like you’re in prison.”
She had a point. By holding on to Enemi, I had some freedom to come and go between her new shortened hours of 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. But at night, when the house was still and the only sound that could be heard was Dad’s raspy snoring, prison sounded like a hell of a lot more fun. At least there the inmates created some excitement with an occasional riot or feeble breakout attempt.
“You’re right. I need to always remind myself this could be far worse, but I wasn’t prepared for the responsibility, nor the boredom. We talk about death a lot. At least I do.”
“That’s awful. Why are you talking about death? He’s not going yet, is he?”
I thought back to the time just before he moved in when I talked with a psychic about whether I should take Dad in or not. What she saw in her crystal ball and tarot cards felt doable: he’d be gone in three months. In a few days, we would be at four times that. Fearful it could now happen at any time, I wanted all the bases covered.
“No, he’s still healthy. It just makes me think about how I would have done things differently with your grandmother if I knew then what I know now,” I explained.
My mother died in a cold, sterile hospital with bright lights that never dimmed, even in the dead of night, and an IV protruding from her veiny arm dripping massive amounts of morphine to act as comfort care. Because of all the narcotics she had been prescribed in her earlier years to reduce the pain in her body, she was an unintentional addict. To give her any more would have been considered an illegal dose. Her time in the hospital was torture for all of us, especially her, and I was not about to let this happen to Dad too.
“Like what? How or what could you have done differently? They only gave Grandma twenty-four hours to live. Who knew she’d last a week?” My child attempted to ease my guilt.
“I’d have taken her home to die. I’d have planned the funeral differently and made sure all her friends could be there, even if I had to pick them up myself. I’d have never left her side, not even for a second.”
Hearing a pause on the other end of the line, I waited for my child’s wisdom.
“Mom, you didn’t know there were options, so stop feeling bad. Besides, it’s not yours or anyone’s responsibility to make death perfect. That’s a journey we all have to take alone.”
“But I need to know if he wants to die alone or with us with him. Does he want to be cremated? What music to play—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mom.” Michelle sighed, exasperated. “Look, Grandpa will die the way he sees fit. All you can do is love him.”
Words to remember, but challenging in practice. After all, I was a mom and moms fix everything for everyone, including their aging fathers.
Coming home for my lunch break a few days later, I found him in his usual position with drool seeping from his cracked lips onto a paper napkin strategically placed on his shoulder. Deep into his zone, I noticed how limp and still he sat.
Is he sleeping or in a meditative trance? I wondered. I’d heard you can have an out-of-body experience if you go deep enough. That’s one way to escape all this.
Tiptoeing to his side, fearful of startling him, I sat on the edge of the coffee table next to him. Studying the man who gave me half my chromosomes, the man I was named after, I thought about how little I knew about his life and all that was left to uncover. His introverted world was typically locked tight and I needed the right key to open up a conversation. In other words, he needed to be awake and in a talkative mood.
Tapping his arm, I whispered, “Dad, I’m home.”
As if shocked by a defibrillator, he instantly opened his eyes. “Hi honey! I missed you. Got any new listings?”
Giggling, I smiled.
“No, Dad. Not today. Maybe tomorrow,” I repl
ied, patting his arm. “Maybe tomorrow.”
For some strange reason, my father had the notion that getting a client to buy or sell a house was as easy as picking up the daily newspaper off the driveway.
“Yes, tomorrow.” He nodded. “Always know, you’re going to be just fine.”
“How did you sleep last night?” I asked, moving my fingers through his thick mane. His hair needed cutting.
Rubbing his forehead with his good hand, he squinted. “Just awful. I was awake all night.”
“You were? I checked you about 11:00 p.m. and you were sawing logs. In fact, you were snoring so loudly it sounded like you were taking down an entire forest.”
“No, I was awake until the sun came up.”
“But . . .”
“No, I’m telling you. I was awake all night.”
Not wanting to argue, for my time was limited and I knew I’d lose the battle anyway, I let it go and changed direction.
“Would you like to read the mail?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
Walking to the front door, I noticed a pile of unfolded laundry sitting on a chair. It was the same load that had been there when I left. In fact, it had been there since yesterday.
Annoyed, I wondered why it took Enemi so long to get the simplest of chores accomplished. She used to be on top of things. It wasn’t like Dad kept her running in circles. From the moment she placed him in his chair until he was back in bed, she had five hours to herself.
What does she do all day? Maybe I should do this myself. I’m already cleaning the house, cooking, and doing all the grocery shopping. All she has to do is fold his clothes and put them away. Where in the hell is she?
But knowing I could never lift my father’s body by myself, I knew I was trapped. I still needed help.
As I approached the front door, I noticed a brown mound curled up on the lounge chair in the living room. Rolled up as if she were about to do a cannon ball into the pool, Enemi had her fingers glued to her connection to the rest of the world, her cell phone, punching away on another game.
The Promise I Kept Page 12