Belief.

I recently went to a funeral that was too soon.  I'll always find a reason for any death to be "too soon" but this truly was too soon.  I'm pained that this happened to one of my sweetest and dearest and warmest friends.  One of those friends that sort of blindsides you on a thursday afternoon.  The one that you passed here and there and think, "We have NOTHING in common" and than you're sitting in class talking about life and she's as deep and powerful and brilliant as anyone I would love to call "friend".  I'm already a very terrible funeral go-er.  I hate them and I think they're horrendous.  But this one was especially difficult because #1: it's that gem of a friend I'm talking about and #2: I've never had to witness what it looks like to have someone I love lose the same thing I lost.  My friend's mom's death has nothing to do with me, I never met her mother, in fact I didn't even know what she looked like.  But life and death makes a person think about life and death and naturally, I've been brewing in a hot cup of religion ever since.

I have to ask you now to stop worrying because I'm crossing that bridge into religion.  I'm not crossing that bridge.  Seriously.  I'm not.  There will be nothing political about the following paragraphs:

The funeral I went to was at St. Charles Bartholomew.  My mom used to run her tiny little legs up and down the sidewalk outside of this church when she was just a young girl and come to think of it, so did my friend's mom, whom I attended the funeral for.  I can picture my mom now with her jet black, stringy, thin hair and much too short bangs running to catch up to her older siblings with a school bag two times too big.  She was the youngest and the youngest always gets the "too big for you" hand-me-downs.  St. Charles was my mom's church where she was taught the ins and outs of Catholicism.  She went to school there too.  She was locked into closets by nuns, slapped across the wrist by rulers and even pulled the fire alarm to get out of her fifth grade speech.  The church is epic with the tall beautiful blue ceilings, the crown moldings that look meticulously carved, the pews that slant just enough to feel like you're reclining ever so slightly and the enormous steeple that when you stare up into you wonder who built it and how long it took.  It is breathtaking to sit under it's roof.  The pictures of my mom's wedding day in this church don't do the place justice.  I don't think any picture could. 

My parent's raised me Catholic.  I was baptized and confirmed under the dogma of Catholicism.  Looking back now, I'm not sure how much I believed of my following.  The things I were taught never quite made sense to me but to question what I was being taught as the truth never occurred to me.  Church was an every Sunday event and it was never an option of whether I could stay home in pajamas or not.  I followed my parents orders and held my mom's hand during the service, yawned, played silent games with Taylor next to me, yawned more, fell asleep on my dad's shoulder and asked multiple times if we could leave after the Eucharist (communion): the answer was always, "No and don't ask me again."  

In seventh grade I had a nun for a teacher.  She was magnificent.  I knew exactly how to get back on her good side if a bad grade proved I might not be in her good graces: bring an Almond Joy for her.  The best thing about this was she knew exactly my intentions when I showed up with that chocolate candy bar wrapped in blue and she was totally okay with it.  She was delightful and funny and told the most wonderful stories.  She was the one who told me every time I hear sirens I should pray.  I've never been one for prayer.  It's never made me feel full or relieved or satisfied so instead I would think.  Instead of pray I would think about the family who might have just lost their loved one in a car accident or in a drowning.  I would wonder how they were going to make it through their night, if they were going to be sitting in the hospital for 3 weeks or if they would be planning a funeral the next day.  And than I would get hopeful and think that maybe the ambulance was responding to something minor.  My teacher was also the teacher who told me every single snowflake is different and we should relate people to snowflakes because we all fall into the same pile of snow yet we are all different.  Yet I sat in that same classroom and learned about a religion that I was supposed to belong to and told about a belief that was right and true and naturally I got to thinking, "If someone else doesn't believe this religion thing is right and true than aren't I separating myself from the rest of the snowflakes?"  

I've witnessed firsthand what belief and faith can do for a soul.  My mom believed, more than I am comfortable with, that there was a God.  Her journals prove that every bit of her fiber was doused in spirituality and belief.  And I've also witnessed what a community that works together can do.  They can feed the hungry, build homes, move entire cities and stir up dirt.  A Higher Power is one of the greatest reasons Alcoholic's Anonymous works: take your addiction and hand it over to "someone" else (God, Allah, Buddha, a doorknob).  When you put the spirituality and community together you have a religion in the name of something.  There have been many wonderful things that have spawned from religion and there have been many awful things too.  Nope, I'm still not getting political.  I have just always wondered if people can do good together just for the sake of doing good and not in the name of anything higher or bigger than us.  

I lived in apartments my freshmen year of college and two of my roommates were Muslim, both of them from Malaysia.  They were two of the most gentle women I have met in my life.  They were intellectuals and intuitive and they were strong as tacks.  I watched people insult their religion and I heard tears from both of them as they comforted one another from the snickers outside our door.  They believed, with all of their heart, that their religion was right for them but I never once heard them tell me that what other people believed was wrong.  I watched in awe as they prayed and fasted and sang.  One night, I sat on the countertop in the kitchen while they made delicious food and listened to them talk about their religion.  Everything they said made sense to me and the passion they spoke with was infectious but I realized something that night: that I have never felt that passion for my own religion.  And another thing: I was okay with it.  I could not sit there and tell them, with all that fire in their eyes for their belief, that they were wrong.  

I stopped attending Church after that and started questioning my beliefs.  I started reading about Atheism and started dating a man (and father of our child) who fiercely believes that death is the end of life (period) and that when you die, you stare at the back of your eyelids and you feel and think nothing.  The soul does not do anything, in fact, I'm not sure a soul exists by his beliefs.  "So" I asked him one day "that would mean my mom is...nothing?"  "Yes" he said to me "your mom is nothing.  But you know what?  She lives in your stories."  Well that was sweet and maybe I could live with that but I tried it and I can't.  I found recently that I don't like Atheism for the same reason I don't like organized religion: it claims to be just as "better" as all those religions that claim they know the "truth."  I can't seem to win.  

The only church services I have been to in the last 8 years have been for weddings, funerals or baptisms.  Sometimes I sit and listen to the Bible readings and wonder why all the followers relate the Scripture to present day, sometimes I sit and think the story is beautiful but leave it at that and sometimes I'm angry because I believe in the goodness of people regardless of religious rules and regulations.  I have a dear friend who grew up behind me who is the epitome of what I believe to be a good Christian.  She's a treasure to me (another one of those friends).  She believes with all her heart in Christianity and when we have conversations about it and she knows exactly where I stand (and it's not anywhere where she stands) I never feel inferior.  She listens to me and nods her head and smiles and she believes this is what's right for me and Christianity is what's right for her.  I've paged through a book she created while in Discipleship Training School and felt the same awe I felt when I listened to my Muslim roommates speak about their religion.  These have been some of the few moments that I have never felt like I had to defend my beliefs.  

So I sat at St. Charles the other day and watched the ritual of my given religion with new eyes because one of my truest friends believes her God has a plan for her deceased mom and I believe her belief in that.  I listened to people saying the prayers of the rosary as their fingers played with each bead that signified a new Hail Mary and observed an incredibly old woman pull a rosary from a small leather bag and keep it pressed to her lips for minutes.  Just by observing this woman I could see that she truly believed in what she was praying for.  I watched people at the front door dip their fingertips into holy water and make the sign of the cross, they genuflected before taking their seat, we sat, stood and kneeled more times than I cared to count, they received the Eucharist and we offered each other a sign of peace.  I listened to the woman sing at the alter and I was captivated, not because I suddenly believed in religion for myself, but because her voice was magical.  All of these rituals have a long history of meaning and they feel right to those who practice them and they do it beautifully.  

I was a disaster after the funeral of my friend's mom.  My eyes filled with tears faster than I could wipe them away.  I selfishly left immediately after the funeral because I could not pull myself together for the life of me.  I was consumed by grief, something I have learned to live with since my own mom died, but having to watch my friend live what I've experienced killed me.  I went to the cemetery immediately following the funeral and cried harder at my mom and dad than I have since I was 18 and realized something while I drove home.  She (my mom) is who I have faith in and I believe exists even though I can no longer see her.  I feel the same way for my dad.  I'm not sure where they reside other than my heart because I don't believe in two separate places when we die.  I like the idea and I like the story of heaven and hell but to me and my beliefs, it's just not reasonable.  While I sat at the end of the funeral service and observed the family of my friend and listened to the prayer for her mom's safe arrival to heaven, I believed for them in what we were asking and hoping for.  I may not believe in religion (for myself) or the Jesus Christ my mom believed in or one single and all-knowing God but I did believe my mom was sitting right next to me with her arm around my shoulders across the back of the pew.  And I do believe she grabbed hold of my friend's mom's hand and said, "Sit back and relax - this new life is a breeze."   

St. Anthony Parkway and my dad.

I write for a lot of reasons but one of them is so I don't forget.  And recently, I forgot.  

I forgot that I had a "secret route" to the hospital when my dad was at North Memorial for 3 months.  It's a not so secret route, as people take it every day to various places, but it was my time of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of 694 and 100.  It weaved through St. Anthony Parkway, through a Camden park and up Memorial Parkway.  It is a beautiful route, one in which I would get lost staring at houses, driving down this street or that to avoid the hospital where he was fighting for his life.  Now I know why I forgot that route.  

I live right by St. Anthony Parkway and as I was driving down it today with my daughter asleep in the backseat, I had a flashback of me in my maroon Geo Prism.  I had been here before and it made me sad.  I felt like I was in a prime-time drama: uncovering something that I kept hidden away because when I felt it, I didn't like it.  I followed my intuition, over the train tracks, across Marshall, over the River and that's where it hit me.  The long parkway to the hospital where his leukemia diagnosis was waiting for me.  I forgot what it felt like to pull into the parking ramp with the always familiar face smiling at me when I took the card from the automatic machine, the same face who would be there four hours later asking me to "have a nice day" when I left.  I forgot about the walk to the elevator where I would repeat the number of the level I was parked on.  Only 4 levels but after an emotionally draining day, the level in which my car was parked on was the last thing I remembered.  I forgot about the gigantic revolving door on the left after I stepped out of the elevator, the one that always awaited a discharged patient fresh from having babies or an oncology surgery.  I was always envious of the person pushing the wheelchair, knowing they were the "next of kin" and anxious to be able to kiss the hospital and their overpriced cafeteria food good-bye.  I forgot about the gift shop on the right and the deli on the left with the divine blueberry muffin and turtle mocha that I could always trust to walk me the rest of the way to my dad's room.  He changed rooms so frequently that on more than three occasions I went to the wrong room, knocked on the wrong door and walked in on the wrong ailment.  Once I found him, he would be sleeping, waiting for nobody.  But the great thing was, he was always surprised to see me.  I was a surprise party every time I crossed the threshold into his room except I didn't come with balloons and confetti and presents.  Afterall, this is a hospital, not a place of celebration.  After staring at the white walls, the same television, complaining about the showers that he had to take, the dressing changes he had to have and the bed he had to stay in, I probably felt like Muhammad Ali to him.  I was always going to be his surprise and I liked it.  

I forgot what it felt like to see him in his hospital bed.  I was never sad but looking back now, I'm saddened that it wasn't painful to watch my dad suffer.  His suffering and agony was all I knew.  

You won't hear me speak of my dad in the same way I do my mom.  I love them equally, yes, but I grieve them differently.  She, although her fight was far from over, was ready to accept her fate.  He, confused and bewildered, probably felt relief from the life he was leaving but didn't know why.  My mom was my mother and I still need her every day.  Almost nine years gone and she still knows how to make my bad day good because she left me with these memories:  When she reached for my hand in the middle of church and rolled her eyes at the lengthly homily or the bunny rabbit birthday cake that I requested she make four years in a row.  And on the fifth year, she refused.  She was the best at tucking me in at night and the best at being careful not to wake my dad when I was supposed to sleep on the floor in her room instead of in her bed with them.  And even four days to her death, she was still mom, reassuring me how similar we are and that I don't see it now but I have to let my brother's live their own lives.  That I have to not worry about them and that it would be my lifelong struggle to stop carrying around the weight of their pain along with mine.  She saw the adult I was going to grow to be and as she reached for my hand and closed her eyes, I could feel her satisfaction.  

I know he was not always this way but as long as I can remember my dad was completely dependent on my mom.  My dad and I vied for my mom's attention.  We even fought over television programs.  I don't have many memories of my dad as a caregiver or as his responsibility.  I know he was always proud of me and loved me unconditionally because you could see it when he looked at me.  The part I struggle with is the memories.  When I reach into that vault of happiness, I more often reach for my mom.  Except there's this one that is always waiting to be reopened: It was March 27th, 1992.  I was in room 100 at Immaculate Conception School and we were having show and tell.  I sat in the circle, ready to share my purple wand from Disney World when I saw my dad's cane and legs through the window.  I remember being flustered when it came my turn to share because I was sure I saw him.  Soon enough the whole class had shared their goodies and there was a knock at the door.  My Kindergarten teacher told me to answer the door, at which point I was sure the legs and cane were not my dad's because it had clearly been hours.  I was not catching on that it was him at the door.  When I opened it, he was there on one knee with six red roses.  I shut the door because I thought we were in trouble and I went back to the circle with cheeks as red as those roses.  He opened the door and the classroom erupted in gasps and than my teacher insisted it was okay he was there.  I ran to him, asked him who the flowers were for (duh) and wrapped my arms tightly around his neck.  He leaned on his cane for support and I shifted my weight to balance, his mustache grazed my cheek and everyone heard the whisper that was meant for me.  

And there's this one too:  When I was in fifth grade I purposely dove face first to slide across a patch of ice on the playground.  The bell had rung and I had gotten careless, worrying about not making it to the line and being scolded for putzing around.  I dove, my chin hit the ice and I stood up with an "ow."  My friend Joe Roith had witnessed the entire thing and put his glove under my chin to catch the blood, "You're bleeding" he said.  I knew it hurt but stitches, I thought, were a bit extreme.  The nurse called my dad who told him I needed to go to the emergency room, that the gash was deep enough to see bone.  I waited in the nurses office for his phone call from his car phone.  Stairs had become too much of a hassle at this point so if he picked me up from school he called the office to inform them of his arrival and I had a personal escort to his car and in this case, it was the nurse.  She leaned into the car after I had hopped into the passenger seat, "I can't believe her pain tolerance.  She was ready to put a band-aid on it and call it a day."  My dad laughed and patted my knee.  We said thank you and goodbye and we drove off in his Lincoln Continental through the empty parking lot.  We stopped at the exit onto the one-way and he pulled a Snyder's bag from the glove box, "Here, let's throw these on there" he said.  "What are they?" I asked.  "Butterfly stitches.  Same thing as a regular stitch, sort of" he said as he applied the sticky white strips to my chin and concluded, "Wanna go to Circus-Circus?"  

Unlike my mom, I miss what he could have been.  And of course, I miss who he was.  I will always wish to have had an adult relationship with both of them but it's my dad who I wish I could have been his little girl because the years I experienced being his little girl were so minute and short.  My child always morphed into adult because the circumstances called for it.  Our dynamic was unique, discouraging and sometimes painful but it was "us" which I can settle in accepting.  In spite of all the hardships his poor soul endured, he always smiled.  Any terrible diagnosis was forgotten within minutes.  No grudges were held or bad blood was shared for the friends and relatives he lost in spite of his diagnosis.  He was a fighter from the beginning to the end.  "Same shit, different day" was his motto and oh how true it was.  His view of life was extraordinary and In the words of one of my favorite musical artists: He had no other offers or options.  Monotony was his life but smiling broke it up, especially to the average person who couldn't fathom a smile in his condition.    

Rather than mourn for the dad he couldn't be, I will celebrate the dad he was which was couragous, optimistic, funny but most of all proud.  He was proud.  Proud that even though they didn't work: he had legs.  Proud that even though he thought his address was his childhood home: he had a memory that could remember every football game or boxing match.  Proud that even though she was gone: he married his best friend.  Proud that even though he couldn't be the dad he wanted to be: he helped raise us, loved us and knew we would carry his legacy with us just by being the people we are.  Dad, I wouldn't trade the short years I got to have you as an active dad for a lifetime of one because those short years taught me the value of a dad, the value of a childhood and the value of a life.  You are remarkable dad.