When I was a
child staying at my grandmother’s in East Texas, inevitably I had to take
food to Mrs. Douglass’ house.
I viewed this as
penance for some yet-to-be-committed sin, in part because Mrs. Douglass and I
had nothing in common and I was not interested in a career in the
pharmaceutical industry at age 11. At this point in the story – Mrs. Douglass
was a white haired, frail widow in her early 80s – conversation revolved around
the variety of doctor’s appointments and prescriptions she was taking.
Mrs. Douglass
was inevitably polite – although bitter about her lot in life, it seemed to my
childhood self – and she always seemed to enjoy my visits. The pattern rarely
deviated: I sat on the couch and, after a 30-second description and
acknowledgment of the home-cooked meal my grandmother had made, listened to her
describe her various ailments and what they prevented her from doing. After 15 or
20 minutes, I was escorted to the door and told to come back soon.
“I never want to
be like that,” I told my grandmother more than once.
She nodded,
pursed her lips slightly, and gave me a half smile.
••••••
“You can give away some things. That you
never will get back. One piece at a time. And you never will get them back.”
My father-in-law
is 80. Over the 15-plus years I’ve known him, the conversational window has
narrowed considerably. At one point we could talk about photography; recently
he barely looked at the pictures I showed him, even though most were of his
grandchildren. At another, he could provide you with a dissertation examining
the merits vs. the weaknesses of any sport involving the University of North Carolina.
Now he barely talks about his beloved Tar Heels.
The relationship
Jill and her brother have with their father is fractious, prickly, and tense.
This is nothing new, but rather an extension of feelings that have been there
since childhood. The undercurrents of lives that constantly overlap and
occasionally intersect are never far from the surface.
Jill (I know) and
her brother (I’m sure) have spent countless hours trying to figure out the
enigma who is responsible for their place on this planet. And while it’s not my
place to say what they think, I believe it comes down to this: Don’t mistake
gratitude for kindness.
Like Mrs.
Douglass, Bob’s life seems to revolve around two things — his visits to the
doctor and the various prescriptions that he is taking to extend his life. He
too is bitter, so focused on those things that he doesn’t seem to care about
much else.
Recently, I
drove to Boone as part of a Virginia/North Carolina trek that also involved
parents’ weekend at Nicholas’ college (more about that in a separate post).
Jill and her brother are trying to see Bob at least once a month and this gave
me an opportunity to help.
Bob appeared
grateful. He appreciated my taking him to the doctor and taking care of the
things he has on a never-ending list. He talked of wanting to leave the
assisted care facility to return to his house full time, although he’s not in
good enough health for that to happen.
His charm with
others not close to him remains intact. The person who has cut his hair for
years spoke of his wit (and his love for Carolina sports). As he shuffled
through the lobby, where a community band honked through the “Gilligan’s Island”
theme at a 5:30 dinner concert, a couple of his fellow residents perked up,
said hello, and waited for his acknowledgment. He gave them a nod, but didn’t
sit with them.
Meanwhile, his
temper simmered just below the surface, and he struggled not to bark or bellow.
His temper, while infamous, is not something his children talk about, and you
can tell he struggles to control it.
On more than one
occasion, I’ve heard Jill mention that her father is not a kind man. I didn’t
see it fully, however, until this visit, when I realized all along that I had
mistaken gratitude for the kindness I had hoped to see.
••••••
“You need a strong heart. You need a true
heart. You need a heart like that in a world like this. So you don’t get
faithless.”
Four years ago,
on Sept. 11, my second “mom” passed away. In many ways, she had died 3 1/2 years earlier.
If you follow
this blog for any period of time, you will discover that I had two sets of “parents”
— my biological ones and Fran and Bill, who lived across the street from us
growing up. We moved into my childhood home on 22nd Avenue in Texas
City when I was 4, and my parents became fast friends with the couple across
the street and one house over to the left.
Much more than
my parents, Bill was my personal familial enigma, although unlike Bob we
reached a much more peaceful resolution in the end. With my mom facing a much
more difficult juggling act (work, kids, sick husband) than any of us knew, I
often turned to Fran for advice and support.
And Fran freely
dispensed it, in what my mom called her “Yankee” way. (Ironically, it took me a
while to realize that mom’s definition of Yankee includes the south side of
Chicago.) Fran was always quick with an opinion and never afraid to share it,
whether it was about my choices in music or literature. Unlike my grandmother,
she didn’t partake in the rock and roll era (more about that in a future post,
too).
Like my father,
Fran had health issues for much of her adult life, and it took me some time to
realize just how much she relied on Bill for everything. Without children of
their own, all they had was each other, even though they treated us like their
kids.
Fran marched in
lock step with her Catholicism, never missing a mass and politically aligned
largely with its beliefs. But after Bill died in 2004, she started questioning
everything, including her own belief about the end of life.
One afternoon,
during one of my 14 trips to Texas in 2007 to see my dad in the hospital, I
stopped by Fran’s house for a visit. She was using oxygen, largely confined to
bed or her chair.
Like Bob and
Mrs. Douglass, most visits with Fran at the time were conversations about
doctors, her various caregivers, and her medical treatments. The conversations
had narrowed so much that a person I once could talk to at any time ran out of
things to say in just minutes.
But on this mid-May
day, we sat in her bedroom, went through pictures of the kids — unlike Bob, she
remained interested — and talked about life’s trivia. She even endured a song I
could not get out of my head at the time — Jon Dee Graham’s “Faithless.”
She put her head
back on her chair and listened, eyes closed.
“In the deep blue dark down under. Tell
me what you’re thinking of…”
She smiled.
“The things we find. The things we lose.
The things that we get to keep. Are so damn few. And far between. So far
between…”
She teared up,
but rebounded at the conclusion.
“You need a strong heart. You need a true
heart. You need a heart like that in a world like this. So you don’t get
faithless.”
For a moment,
she seemed more confident. “That’s how I feel on so many days,” she said. “I
get so frustrated. It’s so easy to do.”
Fran told me how
much she enjoyed the visit. I gave her a kiss and let myself out. In less than
four months, she was dead.
“ … I AM NOT FAITHLESS.”
