Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 6

♪♪ I grieve
For you
You leave
Me
So hard to move on
Still loving what’s gone
Said life carries on ♪
- Peter Gabriel “I Grieve"

August 4th, my father’s 59th birthday. How truly karmic being buried on your birthday. I drug myself into the shower and got ready for the church. I walked around promising everyone in the house that I would bark at anyone who pissed me off. They cocked their head and nodded, saying, “Uh, yeah. Sure you will.” I was monstrous and unwilling to accept the day’s planned events. Not even my yiayia, who arrived from Greece, sometime during these blurry days, could console me.


Arriving at the church, I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. Through the doors I could see the casket set in the middle of the marble floor before the altar. I could see the bright array of flowers that we had ordered for my father—we had told the florist, “think roy-g-biv” for a color scheme, a rainbow—my father would have expected nothing less from his wonderful harem of women. But I couldn’t go in there. I couldn’t see him lying there—dead.

I had a cigarette before going in and forced myself to stand beside him. He looked good, but it wasn’t him. No matter what version of life after death I choose to believe in, the fact remained that it wasn’t him lying there; it was just the physical shell of what I called “Daddy.”

I stared at him for a while when I leaned forward to kiss him as I always had on the forehead. Not only was he cold, but he didn’t feel human. I recalled Reenie’s voice in my mind saying, “Whatever you do, don’t touch his skin. At yiayia’s funeral I tried to hold her hand, and I will never get the feeling out of my memory. Don’t do it.” His skin had become taut and felt strange beneath my lips. I began to gently stroke his arm and head and again talk to him, speaking the same words of the past few days, like a broken record, replaying the same phrase - echoes in the scratch of the recording - running numbly from my lips and tongue. Again I felt I couldn’t leave him. I thought I’d stay there forever. But the masses were gathering, friends, family, strange faces surfaced from the back of the church, searching for recognition, blundering over hellos and grief-filled embraces. I reluctantly kissed him again and walked away.

I went to the front pew where my mother and sisters sat greeting people. I couldn’t bear it, all these people that kept coming up to me with red eyes saying, “I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to deal with all these people: my father’s co-workers, family that I hadn’t seen in years, friends of mine and my sisters, an endless parade of grievers, but they couldn’t know the depths of mine. Where had they been all this time while my father suffered? Their absence during my father’s last months began to anger me. I hated them for visiting him after he was gone.

I started walking out of the church. On my way someone grabbed my arm. I turned around to see one of my oldest and dearest friends, Argie. We had lost touch about twelve years before and I missed her terribly. We hugged each other so tight and for so long I felt the twelve years compress into nothing. Just seeing her and holding her so close to my heart brought monsoonal tears of joy and sorrow. No words passed from our lips while inside the church, just tears and embraces. We walked outside arm-in-arm like the school girls we used to be. She had to leave to go to work.

“I love you, Renee. I had to come here to see you.”

I didn’t care what had come between us; friends, good friends are hard to come by, and she was one of them. The arrival of past, present and future gathering for my father’s memory had begun.

For the next two hours I stood out front smoking cigarettes and greeting people before they went into the church – I couldn’t bring myself to return to the front pew. My dull recognition of faces allowed little more than a numb hug and absent voice saying, “yes,” to the figures passing before me. I felt safer out there in front because no one had seen him yet, so I greeted people still in denial, not after they had faced crushing reality. The flow of people seemed to never end. I saw family from both near and far. I saw all the people who belonged to the church whose lives my father had touched in so many ways, most of which I hadn’t realized, since I had left the church in my teens. People just came and said goodbye to a man whose immortality rests in not just his family, but friends and strangers too. For the first time I saw my father as the man he really was: a strong leader, a compassionate heart, a man of will, a power to achieve goals thought unthinkable, a father, a husband, a friend. I had never realized how loved my father really was—and still is.

I was ushered back into the church when services were about to begin. I took my seat beside my mother and stared off into the distance in hopes to catch a glimpse of my father looking out at all the love that was around him. I hoped for just a moment to see him smile and know that he was alright, and that he knew we would be alright because of the fantastic extended family that he had created for us. But instead, no, I felt empty.

The priest made the most wonderful eulogy. Father Bob shared my father’s conversations with him in hopes that my father’s voice could be heard above the sorrow. He gave a message to my mother saying, “George knew that times weren’t always that good, but he loved Maria with all his heart, and hoped she could forgive him for his not always showing it.” He went on to talk about my father’s 35 years of employment at Raytheon: his accomplishments and the friendships he had made. Beyond this he called our home the “estrogen house,” something that my father always said because he was the only male in the house with five women and four female pets. He shared with the many people there that day all my father had done to help the church and make it what it is today. When he spoke of my father he made him shine like a bright light, and made me realize that if I could only be half of what my father was, I could move mountains.

When the ceremony was over everyone was invited up for one last goodbye. I couldn’t bear to think that in a few moments I would stand up there too for mine. I watched the people gaze upon my father with such love that I couldn’t be more proud to say “that man is my father.” I felt each painful goodbye because all these people were linked through my father. He had touched them too.

The moment finally came when I had to stand with my mother and sisters before the casket for one last time. I would never hold his hand or kiss his forehead again. As I looked at him I realized that he wouldn’t be there to see me graduate from college, or walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I knew that he would never hold a grandchild or retire with my mother. He was gone, and I could never share my future with him. I had a Daddy no more. One last kiss and the casket closed.

The cemetery service was brief. Yet again I couldn’t bring myself to walk away from him. I stood there and watched them lower the casket deep in to the ground. The clank of the rotary and belts supporting the casket rang in my ears: dirt, bugs, ultimate solitude, death, how, why, confusion, fear, incomprehensible. If I listen hard enough I think I can still hear the crank grind as the weight of the casket bared down.

A lot of people came back to the house for a luncheon afterward. It was wall-to-wall people who loved my father. A few of us even joked that since it was my father’s birthday he would have been eating a steak and singing like crazy because that would have been the best birthday present that he could have ever gotten.

In many ways the house reflected life, not death: a celebration, a birthday party, my father’s life and legacy. Traditional Greek funereal fare of fish and cheese filled the tables, which friends had set up while my family was still at the cemetery. Wine and Metaxa wafted through the air as people toasted to memories and love.

My sisters and I lost ourselves in our own sense of madness with our friends by our side to guide us through this stage of grieving. We laughed together over evermore drunken comments and antics – the numbing of the soul. Erica, drunk on migraine meds and wine, fairy danced about the porch, thus inventing the “interpretive dance” that became her trademark for expression, unable to comprehend her emotions; Chrissy mingled in and out of friends and family numbing herself with whisky, conversation and spiritless laughter; Connie, still in her prime youth, sat mostly silent, regarding the chaos in her home, the spectacle of life, lacking the ability to cope with the sensations running through her heart. I can’t remember myself. The surreality of my condition lacked a connection. I was watching the movie of tragedy and pain unfold, unable to create sense in a senseless time.

Later that night when the house was quiet again, I tried to close my eyes and rest. I kept tossing and turning and feeling like I wanted to be in the cemetery sleeping next to him. I felt as if I had broken a promise—to be there. But deep down I knew that I was there for him, I just wasn’t ready to let go. For many months I continued to wake abruptly at four o’clock in the morning just as I did that first night. I don’t know if my dad was saying, “hello,” or some other strange coincidence. It happened, and sometimes still eerily occurs in the darkest nights: the mysterious wonder of the mind.

I drive myself insane wondering where he is now, if he can hear me, see me, and what is out there in the beyond.

If I’m locked away somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind someone will be able to tell my story. The insanity never rests, haunting me, tormenting me each day of my life. I wonder if I will find my peace and come to understand this hollow in my heart; the pain is still so great—I should feel relief for the release of my father’s suffering—but I don’t. Selfishness...it’s a disease.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 5

♫ I need some distraction or a beautiful release

Memories seep through my veins
Let me be empty and weightless and maybe
I’ll find some peace tonight ♪
- Sarah McLaughlan “Angel”

♫ If God will send his angels

And if God will send a sign
And if God will send His visions
Would everything be alright ♫
- U2 “If God Will Send His Angels”

I woke up the next morning to find the house quite still. I didn’t know who was home and who wasn’t. I just knew it was quiet. My aunt walked in the door a few hours later and told me that my father had a very difficult night, and that my mother was there with him now. She said that she was going to sleep for a while, and then as she sunk into the sofa, she was fast asleep. She didn’t give me any information about what had happened through the night hours: she was too overwrought.


I called my mother about 11am or so just to see how everything was going, and to tell her that I would be there by 2.

“I don’t think I’ll be leaving today, hon.”

“What Ma, why not?”

“I…I just don’t know…I (sniff) don’t think he’ll be here much longer…” She trailed off.

“How?! He was fine yesterday. What’s going on? What, please tell me.”

“Well, I think he’s gone into a coma or something. He’s…he’s not responding to anything…I just don’t know.” And she started crying.

“Mom, I’ll get the girls up and ready and we’ll be there soon.”

“Call people…you know…just tell them to come…ok?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

I began to pace around the kitchen, not sure what to do. I woke my sisters and told them to get up and dressed quickly. While they were getting ready I started making phone calls. I called Aunt Elsie first, no answer, and then tried to call my father’s other sister, Aunt Peggy. I had no luck there either, but I did get a chance to talk to my cousin. I told him what was going on, and to try to find his mother quickly. I was frantic and I knew it. I didn’t care. I don’t know who I called next or if I even called someone after that. I thought, “How would I find my aunts? What should I do next?”

I decided to call my cousin Reenie. She might know where my Aunt Peggy was or at least she could take over phone calls from there for me. While I was talking to her I could hear the other phone line ring in the house. I knew my aunt or sisters who had finally gotten up would pick up on another phone; they knew I was on the cordless outside, besides, it was probably my Aunt Elsie.

I heard the screen door open behind me and I turned around to see my aunt Elaine standing there. Her face seemed a little distorted, she was trying to hold back emotions. I knew it. I could sense it.

“Renee,” she hesitated, “that was your mother…”

“No! Damn you, no!” I screamed, forgetting that I was on the phone with Reenie. “Don’t you say it! Don’t you open your mouth! I can’t hear you…go away! Stay away!” I just kept screaming and yelling. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move, “Damn it, NO!” My aunt started to come towards me, but I yelled at her to go back inside. I didn’t want that moment to be real. If she never said it, it wouldn’t be true.

“Alright, alright, just please give me the phone.”

I forgot I had the phone, handed it to her, and began circling the yard, sobbing, hyperventilating, saying “no”. I felt trapped. I didn’t know where to go. My fenced yard made me a caged animal, pacing frantically. My aunt caught up with me and I turned my back to her.

“Please don’t say it. I didn’t even get there to see him yet. I wasn’t there for him. No! It’s not time. I’m not done taking care of him. They said he was coming home. Oh please, please don’t say it…”

She grabbed for me and hugged me tight, “I know, baby, I know. It’s ok.” She just kept saying it and saying it while I cried and sobbed and convulsed.

Maybe if I screamed and cried loud enough he would hear me and come back. Maybe the angels would send him back because I was his angel not them. Maybe I was having a nightmare and my own sobs would wake me up.

My aunt began telling me what happened through the night; she hoped that maybe by hearing what he had said to her I might be able to accept what it was that had happened. She told me that he had sent my mother home about 1 o’clock in the morning, but he asked my aunt if she would stay with him. My mother left reluctantly, and my aunt had stayed willingly. She said that he talked with her for a while before he fell asleep, and woke up to the nightmare of his last hours. She said that he turned to her and said, “Did you see what I had here today? Did you see my wonderful family? I am the luckiest man in the world with all my beautiful girls. Today was the best day I have had in a long time.” She said that as he said these things, he beamed and was radiant with energy and love. She said that he was at peace with his life, and that he loved us more than life itself.

Aunt Elaine said he had gone to sleep after that, and he slept more soundly than he had in days. But after his brief sleep the pain woke him and he fought for breath. The doctors offered him options to ease the symptoms of the transition period, but he said, “no, just make me comfortable,” so they did the best they could. My aunt said he was fitful and reached out to the air. We figure he was arguing with his mother, sharing a twilight world in between life and death. She told me that when morning came with the sun coming over the horizon that he asked her what time it was and to be bathed. She answered that it was 7:30, and he replied, “good.” No one knows why he asked this or what it meant. Maybe he knew he’d get to see my mother again since she was coming soon, or maybe he knew that it would be over soon, and wanted to prepare. No one will ever know.

The nurses came and washed him, gave him more medicine and he fell asleep. My aunt said that he was sleeping when my mother got there, but he was clean, and then she left to come home and knew no more.

I’d like to believe that my mother and father actually got to see each other again, before he died. I want to believe that they got the chance to say ‘I love you’ one last time. I have to believe that he knew she was there by his bedside when he left his body. I never asked my mom any of these things because I’d rather keep my image of peace if that’s not how it happened. I also wonder if it was when I called that morning that he died. It was so soon after I had talked to my mom that she called back with a broken heart. I’d like to believe that he made me call somehow to say goodbye. You see…I was linked to his room through that phone line. It was like I was there. It could have been my goodbye.

I walked into my father’s room behind my sisters and hugged my mother and my Aunt Elsie who had gotten there just before we had. She was on her way to visit my father when I had called her, getting her answering machine. She arrived too late.

I went to my father’s bedside and looked down at what was left of him. His lips had already lost their color and appeared yellow. His cheeks blended in with his lips, and his hands looked shriveled and white. I bent down to kiss his forehead and felt the cold of death. I knelt down on the floor beside him and stroked his head as I had done just the night before. The tears began streaming down my cheeks like waterfalls. They ran down my neck and saturated my shirt. I couldn’t stop them. I began whispering to him, “Daddy, oh Daddy, I love you. You’re gonna have to be my angel now.”

In my mind I was saying, “I’ll never leave you. I’m sorry. I promise this time. I was supposed to protect you. It can’t be your time. Oh, it just can’t. I love you, Daddy.” I couldn’t stop my mind’s motion. In my denial I was hoping that I would have gotten to the hospital and found him still alive. But once I got there and saw what I used to know as my father, I was lost. I was grief stricken. I kneeled there next to him, stroking his head and arm for almost forty-five minutes. I just couldn’t get up. I couldn’t leave him.

Finally everyone came over to me and got me up and mostly to my senses. We all said goodbye and “I love you” one last time and left the hospital.

I didn’t want to talk to or see anyone. I wanted to be alone, but no one let me. People kept coming to the house and asking if I was ok. I barked, “No I’m not!” I really was grateful that so many friends and family came, but how could they know how I really felt?

Late that night, when everyone left and the phone stopped ringing, I tried to go to sleep but failed. Over and over I could hear myself say, “I’ll never leave you. I love you, Daddy. No!” I couldn’t make the images of the past months go away. These were the bad images, the ones that told me how great my father’s pain had been. They were the images of my frustration and exhaustion with caring for him. They hurt. They all hurt so terribly I felt that my heart would burst and my head explode if they wouldn’t let me be.

Four am came and I sat up in bed with a start. There was no closing my eyes anymore, resistance was futile. I was awake. I went to the kitchen and made myself some tea, grabbed my cigarettes and lighter, and pulled a beach chair out to the middle of the yard. I sat there sipping my tea, smoking, and crying. I let myself drown in the ocean of tears. I looked out across the sky, watching the sun peek over the horizon. The air smelled clean and sweet with summer wild flowers, and a soft breeze whispered all around me. The sky was bright, baby blue with only a spattering of clouds, dancing across it. The higher in the sky the sun rose, the brighter and more peaceful I felt. Instead of crying in pain I just cried. The birds were awake and singing their morning songs. At first I was angry at it being such a beautiful, new day, but then I began reaching out to it. I started talking to my father.

“Where are you, Daddy? What happened? Can you hear me and see me? I love you. I miss you so much. I wasn’t done taking care of you, Daddy. Why did they come and take you away?”

While I was talking to him I was searching the sky, as if heaven would allow me a glimpse of my father one last time. Few clouds dotted the blue landscape, and one loomed omnipresent in my line of vision. I rubbed my red, swollen, bleary eyes and looked again. There above me I saw the perfect shape of a hand. I giggled to myself (or to my father) and raised my right hand up to meet it. There before my eyes I held my father’s hand one more time. I held it tight and smiled until it disappeared into the sunrise.

It was him. He wanted to tell me he loved me and to reassure me that he would be my angel now. He would protect me and it would be alright. I fell asleep in my beach chair in the middle of my yard, feeling comforted and secure and close to my father once more.

It was a brief sleep I had out in the morning dew, but it was the only sleep (peaceful sleep) that I would have for the next few days. It was Monday then, and all the preparations for the funeral needed to be taken care of. Thank heavens that everyone else kicked into gear when I shut down because I was worthless. My sisters and mother along with friends and family began cleaning and making phone calls. The funeral director came to settle the newspaper announcements and funeral arrangements.

Tuesday came and went as if it never really happened. The only accomplishment of the day was buying a dress that was not black—I had wanted white but couldn’t find one. Yes, neurotic as I am, white, I wanted white; I refused to wear black; I always wear black so what good would it do to wear it to the funeral: it’s lost its meaning in that respect. I must have tried on at least fifty dresses and found nothing.

My sisters and I wandered from store to store in New Hope, looking through racks of potential dresses. I went to the dressing room with at least four dresses each time, but they either didn’t fit correctly or weren’t pretty enough. My sisters joked that I had finally gone off my rocker, and reminded me that the older, very Greek, family members would reprimand me if I didn’t wear black. Erica pulled a blue dress from the fifth store, saying that the color was nice for me – I think she was exhausted from my fruitless quest. I tried it on, floor-length and delicate, chiffon fabric. I bought it.

I was miserable on the drive home because I couldn’t find white. I wanted white, I was morosely adamant that my father wanted me to wear white. And who was going to argue with my mental state. Why did I have to wear white? Some attributed it to be the wedding dress my father would never see me in or, perhaps, simply the façade of my angel status in his eyes, and even, maybe, my desire to be childlike and virginal for him on that somber day.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 4

hold on to me love
you know i can't stay long
all i wanted to say was i love you and i'm not afraid
can you hear me?
can you feel me in your arms?
holding my last breath
safe inside myself
are all my thoughts of you
sweet raptured light it ends here tonight
- Evanescence



My father, my daddy, who has been lost to me until the past year, has again left me…this time forever. He’s dead, damn it, dead! My mind screams, “Why?!” over and over again, yet no one offers an answer that I can accept.


My father died on Sunday, August 1st. He died in the cold, sanitary hospital not his warm and comforting room at home. This fact disturbs me just as much as all the others. You see, he wanted to be at home.

On Friday, we rushed him into the emergency room because he was having difficulty breathing. It was a very frightening night. It was almost 11 o’clock or so and I had just come home from coffee with Kimberly. I was excited to be home because I knew that my aunt Elaine would be there. She’s my most favorite aunt and I was glad that I would be able to visit with her for a few days. No sooner had I given her a hug hello and sat down to chat when I heard my mother’s anxious voice yell down the stairs. I could sense the worry in her call and darted up the steps instead of returning with a holler.

When I reached my parents bedroom everything looked normal, but felt unsettling. My mother’s pupils were large. Her eyes darted back and forth. Her hair had a static halo. Panic. My father sat in his oversized armchair in the corner. As my breath calmed from running up the stairs my heart slowed its pounding in my ears, then I heard it. I was a grotesque gurgling sound, resonating from my father, a rattle (later we learned that it was the combination of pneumonia and the tiny pinhole opening in my father’s esophagus).

I went over to his side and gave my father a kiss on his forehead as I had done so many times before. He touched my arm in recognition. I held my father’s hand nervously. I kept running my fingers over his and rubbed his back with my other hand. The nurse my mother called told us to get my father to the hospital for oxygen.

My father didn’t want to go. He started to panic; he wanted to go to the bathroom so we helped him. He tried and tried but nothing came. I helped him walk back to his chair only to be asked to take him back to the bathroom again. My mother ran around the room gathering pajamas and robe and slippers, medicines. My aunt was getting caught up in the insanity too. She woke up my other sisters to tell them what was going on, but that it would be better for them to wait at home than to all pace around in the hospital waiting room for god knows how long. My youngest sister, who was still awake, just stood there confused, watching us all run around in shock.

Once everything was together it was time to get my father down the steps and out into the car. None of us had any idea how we were going to accomplish this task. My mother and I helped my father to the top of the steps one on each side of him, but that wasn’t an option for going down. Through his gurgled breathing and paralyzed vocal cords my father’s rough whisper said, “I’m going down on my butt.” My mother, my aunt, and I simultaneously looked at my dad then at each other and let out a giggle. Through all of the craziness we found a bit of light-heartedness. My mother got in front while we helped my father into a seated position on the top of the steps. I sat down next to my father’s frail body, put my left arm around his back, and held his right hand with mine.

“Okay, dad. Whenever you’re ready. No hurry,” I said holding my breath, waiting for him to say that he couldn’t do it.

“On the count of three we’ll go,” my father replied in a harsh whisper.

“One…(I rubbed his back)…two… (I clenched his hand tighter)…three.” Thump!

And that’s the way we went down the next twelve steps. He was a child again, and it was his last childhood game.

We got him into my mom’s mini-van. I tucked his robe in from the door and fixed his positioning in the seat. I gave him a big kiss on the forehead and told him that I would follow in my car.

“Thank you honey, thank you,” he said and let a tear roll down his cheek.

“No I’m not going to cry,” I said, half to myself half to the warm night air. This couldn’t be it, I thought to myself. We’ll get him to the hospital and they’ll fix him and send him home. My aunt offered to drive but I insisted. I’m more like my father than I ever believed. My mom sped up the street while my aunt and I were still fastening our seat belts. My aunt tried to help me relax, joking that she hadn’t planned on such an exciting visit and how this would be the latest she’d stayed up in years. I cracked a few smiles and went the same direction my mother had only moments before.

We were driving down Crestview, two blocks away from my house, and the sky caught my attention. Initially focusing on the object above me I saw a shooting star, but unlike a brief trail in the sky, it didn’t disappear when I blinked. Instead a ball of fire glared at me revealing a twinkling, sparkling tail. It looked like it was directly in front of me but above the horizon. I held my breath and blurted out, “Oh my God! Did you see that?...we’re still alive right?” It had dawned on me that what I had seen was a really large meteorite that had broken through the atmosphere. August is the month of meteor showers so this was feasible to believe, but highly unlikely that someone would actually witness.

“What are you talking about, Renee, I didn’t see a thing. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” was my aunt’s reply.

“No, no, I’m ok. I don’t think I was hallucinating. I hope that wasn’t a bad omen.”

“You’re nuts, kiddo.” My aunt snickered.

Superstitious, yes, I am. To me this translated to the angels coming to take someone home with them. The rest of the ride to the hospital I kept telling myself that it wasn’t his time…I’m just nuts, me and my dumb superstitions. The rest of the ride was spent in silence.

Once at the hospital my aunt and I chain smoked outside the automatic ER door -- buzz…buzz…buzz -- a steady open and close, normal for a Friday night. To lighten our heavy thoughts my aunt cracked jokes about my superstitions, and periodically checked the waiting room TV for news of my “meteorite” – my aunt will never let me live this one down. I kept asking the nurses if I could go back to where my father lay, but they kept telling me not to worry, they’d let me know when I could go back or if anything was critical. Hours went by and not even my mother came out to the waiting room.

At five thirty my mother finally came out to us. The expression on her face was a solemn one. I had expected some sign of relief as an indication that all would be well soon or at least some sign that it wasn’t time yet. But I got none. Instead she explained that not one of the doctors that had been in to see him could understand what was going on. She wanted me to go in to see him and then go home and come back with my sisters after a few hours sleep. She looked terrified and offered me no comfort.

When I walked into his room, I saw the two nurses off to the side, preparing needles and medication for my father’s IVs. Instead of a reassuring smile from him, I was greeted by an ashen complexion and a vacant stare. His gurgled breathing was now accompanied by beeps and buzzes from the machines recently connected to various body parts. The nurses didn’t even look me in the eye when they saw me go up to my father’s bedside.

I grabbed his hand in mine and stroked the fuzzy hair on his head. I bent down and placed a kiss gently on his cheek this time and said, “I love you, Daddy.” He moved his other, working hand over mine and said, “I love you too. Remember you’re my angel.”

I just stood there hoping that in some miraculous way I could give him some of my strength and energy. I could feel him slipping away and I wanted to stop it. Just outside his room I could hear the nurses talking to the doctor then they called my mother out. I couldn’t quite make out what they were telling her, their voices were too low. I watched all the legs walk away from under the drawn curtain, but my mother’s remained: she was composing herself before she came back in.

“Maria…Maria…” came hoarsely out of my father, “tell me, please, tell me what they said. I have to know.”

“They don’t know, George. They are still running some tests.”

My father pulled me close and I could see the tears welling in his eyes.

“Renee, honey, I think this is it. I can feel it. Please…go home and get some rest and bring all the girls back. I want to talk to all of you. Please, it’s ok. I love you honey.”

“You know I am so proud of you. I don’t know what I would have done without you all these months. You’re my angel never forget that. Go home now, ok.”

My aunt walked me outside and gave me a hug.

There was a dense fog distorting the outside world, shadows marked buildings and white eyes crept along the street. The sun peaked through above the horizon, casting an eerie glow. Birds chirped and tweeted, echoing through the mists; they too seemed to be haunted and haunting under cover of the fog. I got in my car and drove slowly home in the surreal morning.

Once home I went into my parent’s room and curled up on my father’s sheet-protected, over-sized recliner. I couldn’t stop the tears. I wanted to pretend that I was a child curled in my father’s arms. I wanted all of the terrible adolescent memories washed away, all the arguments and hurtful words swept away in the flood. I wanted only to have known my father as the man I knew now. They seemed like two different people; one a harsh, strict dictator, an ugly monster; the other a loving, caring, strong man, my daddy. Why did it have to come to his cancer becoming terminal for us to make peace with each other and our individual natures? It wasn’t fair. It isn’t fair.

I awoke at ten o’clock, hearing my mother and aunt come in the front door and smelled eggs and bacon in the frying pan. My mother looked worn and disheveled: eyes swollen, Einstein hair, and her body slumped. She said that the doctors were more at ease because he had made it through the night and actually seemed a bit better. She told us what room he was in and staggered up to bed.

The four of us, my sisters and I, rode silently to the hospital. We found my father awake and waiting for us. His face lit up as we walked in and stood two on each side of his bed. He had prepared himself to speak to each one of us a special message, holding our hands in turn.

“I’m so happy that all of you are here together. You’re my girls and I hope you know how much I love you all. I am proud of all of you.

“Renee, you know how much I feel for you. You’ve been the best that I could have ever asked for. I know you’re my angel. I know that you are strong and smart and will take good care of yourself and everyone else. Take care of our family.

“Erica, I’m so proud of the beautiful music you play. You’ve worked very hard and done very well. You’re a good girl. It will be alright. You will do well for yourself doing what you love most. And even if you don’t believe it, I’ve always supported you.

“Chrissy, honey, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t finish getting you through school. You are so intelligent I know you will find a way. You’re a strong girl. I’m sorry that things turned out this way.

“Connie, oh my Connie, I am afraid that you have gotten the worst of this. There is nothing I can say that will make things better. You are a wonderful artist and fantastic with karate. They will help you sweetheart. I hope that you can forgive me.

“All of you, I love you so much. I know that you will be ok because you are all so strong. I know that if ever you need anything Renee will be able to help you. Please, take care of your mother. I love her dearly and always have. I want you to be good to her and help her. You are all so beautiful and smart…you are my wonderful girls. I love you.”

All of us had planned on spending the day with him. We brought books to read while he was sleeping and coloring books to keep us occupied; we were like his children again, playing in innocence, keeping a proud father company during the long hours of a weekend. We wanted to laugh with him and put on a show like we used to as young children at family gatherings. We cracked jokes to (and about) one another, making my father laugh. We reminisced about times past. And with each tale, my father’s eyes sparkled, small bits of his life energy.

After a few hours my mother and aunt came back. They seemed rested and refreshed and were tickled when they saw the laughter filling my father’s room. The nurses always hesitated when they passed, catching a glimpse of this family, who were fighting to make life win. We had seven people squished into a tiny room, yet the room appeared large, overflowing with love.

A few more hours passed and everyone else left for a while except me and Chrissy. My father seemed tired so we quieted down and let him sleep. Seeing the doctor walk past the room, I ran out to talk to her. I had hoped that since the day seemed so good that she would bring me good news as well.

“Doctor…doctor, hi, look I was wondering…how are things…I mean really how are things? Is it hours, days, weeks? Can you tell me?”

“Well, I don’t know anything for certain, but right now everything looks good. I plan on sending him home in a couple of days…I expect a few weeks, but they will get progressively worse. Hang in there, okay?”

Relief. I thought that for at least this time the worst had passed. I went back into his room and sat down to read when friends began arriving. My father woke up now and then to visit with familiar faces and shared some more giggles and smiles, but he was more tired each time and went to sleep sooner. My friends, and friends of each of my sisters, flowed in and out of my father’s room, a parade of the extended family. The family my father had grown to cherish, reminiscing how time had kissed his family with strength and comfort, surrounded by loved ones.

Over time I noticed his forehead beading with sweat. I went to the bathroom and moistened towels to pat and wipe his forehead and neck. “Thank you, honey, thank you.” And he kissed my hand. I noticed that every twenty minutes or so he needed me to wipe him down again and I was much obliged to do so. I wanted him to be comfortable and know that I was there for him. Over the past months as he gotten worse he wanted me there with him. He always wanted to know where I was going and when I’d be home. He needed to know because he said, “I always felt safe when you’re with me.” That is why he called me his angel; he said that I protected him and that somehow I always knew just what to say and do to make him feel better. On days that he was feeling worse or had too much pain or was really sad, he would always ask me to stay with him. He would say, “Please don’t leave me right now” or “don’t leave me alone, please, don’t leave me alone.” I wanted him to know that while he lay in that hospital bed that I wouldn’t leave him. I was there for him. I would protect him.

Around 8:30 pm Erica came back to the hospital with her best friend Rosie. The day nurse was just getting ready to leave and decided to check in on my father to say goodnight.

“My heavens, Mr. Pappas, how many daughters do you have?! I’ve seen at least seven in and out of here today.”

“Oh no,” he smirked, “I only have four, but I guess I have a very extended family.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Pappas.”

When she left the room we all started laughing. We decided that my father through the years had acquired at least 14 surrogate children, and all of them daughters.

My father turned to me while I was wiping his forehead again and said it was time for me to go home and get some rest. He said that he had a wonderful day and wanted me to go and relax. We would visit again the next day. I protested a big, "But…” then I realized my exhaustion and relented.

“Are you sure, Daddy? I could take Chrissy home and come back.”

“No, honey, you go home now. I love you, ok my angel.”

“Ok, Daddy, I love you too.” I kissed him on the cheek and he kissed mine. Then I leaned over, hugged him tight, said “I love you, Daddy” one more time, and left.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 3

These wounds won’t seem to heal

This pain is just too real
There’s just too much that time cannot erase
I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along
- Evanescence

Getting older: responsibility, relationships, career, realizing mortality. I am barraged everyday with yet another strike to sanity - the insane are normal and all the rest are merely fools. You want me to smile and laugh and sing, and smell the flowers and watch the birds soar, maybe even get out of bed? Put a lime in the coconut and then we’ll talk.


Really. Drinking laws, smoking restrictions, drug abuse, skyrocketing therapy and happy pills, murder, theft, earthquakes and tsunamis, starvation, homelessness, pollution, guns, everywhere sadness and pain. I can’t wake up out of insomniac sleep and hug a tree now, can I? I did as a child. I was protected by parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, and surrounded by cousins and friends. I never thought that those protections would crumble and leave me exposed to life. And no one prepared me. You just can’t teach life, you have to live it.

My cousin Reenie gave me a single star sapphire earring to wear. We are both named after our grandmother, Irene. Irene is Eirhnh in Greek, meaning peace. The earring is a memory, reflection, bond that ties us together and to our family; it reminds us of the symbol we stand for, and perhaps a secret key to my identity.

Eirhnh si ton agnonti= Peace be unto you.

I found myself waking up on the morning of March 3, 1999 a bit groggy and worse for wear. I had spent the night before celebrating my birthday with friends, consuming too many Amstels, enabling me to numb the sadness of my grandmother’s death. Upon waking, reality began to slap me around. My stomach barked, not just from over-consumption, but nerves. I could hear the movement of my parents, siblings, and aunt trying to get ready for the funeral: six people fighting silently for showers. Even with all the commotion, an eerie silence filled the air. I got out of bed and fumbled about the shower, accepting the inevitable.

After preparing myself, and finding my appearance appropriate for the church and respectful of my grandmother’s memory, I took my black-clad self upstairs to see if my father needed any help. I was not surprised to find him feeling weak and anxious. His new experimental chemo treatments had left him drained of life and as helpless as a child. On top of this physical torment he would be burying his mother. His emotions, similar to my own, were a mix of relief that she would no longer be suffering and sadness for her loss. The depression that was growing inside him debilitated him even more.

My mother and I helped get him dressed and cleaned up. We attached his suspenders to his dress pants, helped him button his shirt, put on his socks, clipped his fingernails, and attempted to tie his tie. I could not help it when the tears welled up in my eyes. This was my father.

When I arrived at the church, I looked around and saw all my cousins, now grown with families of their own, and many of my father’s boyhood friends. Over the years a large rift had developed between my father and his sisters and brother-in law. I remember the days of family gatherings and feasts around my grandparent’s table. Lately, none of the holidays were celebrated around a festive table; no visits over coffee and dessert were had. The Grand Canyon separated cousins and aunts and uncles. Now at the matriarch’s funeral we were united for the first time in uncountable years.

I finally brought myself to say, “Goodbye,” to my grandmother. I walked up to the casket with Erica for support. For the first time since I was told she had passed, I felt an ocean form in my eyes. She looked beautiful. I saw her just two weeks before; she had looked less than human: her hair was stringy and oily, face drawn and pasty, as she slumped in her wheelchair, cluelessly staring out the window. She smelled of age and neglect. Now she had a peaceful grin, her hair fashioned as it had been in my childhood, her make-up was soft and natural, and she was dressed in her favorite dress, a bold purple and fuchsia flowered party dress. This was the grandmother whom I had loved. She was finally at peace and accepted it. I was glad to have this as my parting image of my grandmother. I felt our connection even more so at this moment, for I was named after her, and she had now passed it on to me.

The priest finished the service with a eulogy that actually made the family snicker. He either didn’t know my grandmother that well or he was just trying to console us with beautiful words. He talked about my grandparents as a team and never speaking harsh words to each other, which was laughable; their relationship of 60+ years was never without raised voices or name calling (we wondered if the priest just really didn’t understand Greek). Then he went on to say that my grandmother never complained, especially about her miserable condition in old age. This, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth. My grandmother would constantly say, “What life is this? Why did God do this to me? Why can’t I just die instead of living like this,” and others just as these. I looked around at my father and his two sisters to see them shaking their heads and even giggling over this. It lightened the somber atmosphere.

After the absurd eulogy everyone went up one last time to say, “Goodbye.” I hadn’t realized how many people had come into the church during the service. There were friends of the family that I hadn’t seen since my adolescence; people that my father grew up with and were his best friends, with whom he’d lost touch. At this point the sorrow seemed to shift from that of my grandmother’s death to my father for his pain and the consuming cancer that afflicted him. Wave after wave of people would give their condolences to my father’s family, then would face him and clasp his frail frame. They didn’t want to move on; they were holding onto my father as if they were holding onto his life. It became the morbid foreshadowing of his death. And the tears welled in my eyes. Even though my father has always been a difficult man these people still loved him. Everyone seemed to share the same guilt for letting the insignificance create gaps in time. When people came up to me they hugged me too tightly and said, “I’m sorry.” When I looked into their eyes I knew why. I understood the years and the human ways of trying to ignore and conquer time. I felt the pain of people regretting the things that had been placed between themselves and unconditional love. It was not my own life that flashed before me, but my father’s.

The burial was quick as the March wind attempted to blow the sorrow away from us. The rain that was expected waited until we filled our cars and drove on. The flowers that we placed on top of the casket were as bright and colorful as the dress my grandmother wore inside her bed of white satin. There were no more tears. She was at eternal rest. We were going to miss her, but now there was no more suffering. The crowd of family and friends departed the cemetery with arms around each other reminiscing about the grandmother whom we all loved.

Everyone reconvened at Alexander’s for the memorial luncheon. My father went home because he couldn’t eat or swallow. When I told his friends this they were sad because they wanted to spend time with him, to wipe away the years that had passed between them. Before the meal my uncle, my father’s brother-in-law, made a speech. He gave this long-winded speech in Greek, but then followed with the important parts in English.

He said, “George and I may have never seen eye to eye or gotten along very well, but we do share something that goes beyond personal differences: we deeply loved the same woman, his mother, Irene. This woman did everything and anything for her family, and sacrificed much of her self for it. It is time to learn this lesson that she left for us; love each other, family is most important, and never let differences interfere with this love.” Then he came over to me, gave me a hug, and said, “Your father and I may not like each other, but I love him, please tell him that.” No one else heard these final words, but I spoke them to my father when I got home – a tear followed a line in his cheek and he smiled.

My cousins and I sat together, comparing stories about our grandmother. We laughed at her superstitions, smirked at her incessant candy distribution, and chuckled at her unwavering faith in the uses of Jean N’ate. We walked down memory lane, talking about the family feasts during the holidays at my grandparents’ home. We poked fun at each other as if we were children again at our grandparent’s house and took turns rambling over our grandmother’s words of wisdom. The morning had faded into afternoon and now evening. We were celebrating our grandmother’s life by allowing her to bring our family back together.

Life’s lessons are what we choose them to be.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 2

A furious Angel swoops down like an eagle,

Grabs a fistful of the infidel's hair,
And shaking him says: "You shall know the rule!
(For I am your good angel, do you hear?) You shall!
Know that you must love without making a wry face
The pauper, the scoundrel, the hunchback, the dullard,
So that you can make for Jesus when he passes
A triumphal carpet of your love.
Such is love! Before your heart becomes indifferent,
Relight your ecstasy before the glory of God;
That is the true Voluptuousness with the lasting charms!"
The Angel who gives punishment equal to his love
Beats the anathema with his giant fists;
But the damned one still answers: I shall not!"
-- Charles Baudelaire

Why as children do we believe that parents know everything, can cope with all life’s challenges, and do all the right things? Because: we need them and depend on their skills and blanket of protection. I remember thinking that as I grew older some magical force would instill life’s wisdom in me. Reality check. I know that parents are no smarter or capable or enlightened, just seasoned. I still harbor resentment and anger and frustration and sorrow over my relationships with my parents, how they morphed, unraveled, crossed, were human. Who was I before now? I don’t remember. Trauma is a changeling. This shouldn’t be news to anyone unless you think you’re sane.


Photographs are amazing thieves. They capture a moment in perfect unreality. They shock your senses and send them reeling to a time passed. Comments, people, places, memories return with the clarity of a DVD, and you watch your movie of life in replay. My albums contain stolen pictures of my parent’s secret lives before children, childhood portraits, friends gathered in intoxicated merriment, and pets long since resting under the lilacs in the back yard; all episodes of my comedy, drama, and horror life. One in particular was taken at my parents’ 28th wedding anniversary.

My father sits center surrounded by his girls and wife. We are smiling and casual: a family. What the picture actually says to me is another more graphic truth. I focus on my mother to my father’s left. His arm is draped around her shoulders, but she does not sink into his embrace; her arms are in her lap and her body language is stoic. The reason for my venom returns – her spite is evident.

“Mother! What the hell is your problem?! You’re so inconsiderate to dad?!” I barked following her around the kitchen as she darted from my fire.

“What do you mean?” she replied, hoping to get away with a ‘what-innocent-old-me?’ act.

“You’re treating him like shit!”

“How am I doing that?”

“You procrastinate with his needs, and practically ignore his very existence!”

“I do NOT!”

“Don’t give me that crap! I’m tired of this whole thing! I’m in the middle of both of you!”

“You don’t get it, Renee, do you?! For the past twenty seven years I’ve put up with his attitude and inconsiderate actions. I can’t do it any more. I really don’t care!”

“Shut up, Mom!...like I haven’t lived in this house too? I know that he hasn’t been the model father or husband, but he needs his family now. He needs us to forgive him and help him. He’s trying to reach out, but you’re being too much of a bitch to see it!”

“Renee! Just back off! I don’t want to hear it anymore,” she said as she conveniently disappeared into the noisy laundry room.

In 1994 my father went for surgery at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. He was going to have the valve in his esophagus removed because of severe damage done to it by what most people think little of, Acid Reflux Disease. He had recently undergone several blood tests, cat scans, and MRI’s to make sure there was nothing else wrong; they all came up negative. For some unknown reason I decided to take the day off from work to keep my mother company in the waiting room. Both my parents tried to talk me out of it, saying that the doctors assured them that the surgery was standard, and they didn’t predict any complications. But I was going with them.

We were up and out the door by 5:30 am. The sun was just barely peeking out, and the morning dew rested heavily on everything outside. My father insisted on driving, exclaiming, “I’m not an invalid! I’m just going for surgery.” So we let him drive. I sat in the back seat beginning to dread my decision to spend the next five hours in the hospital waiting room. I looked out the windows, watching the few other cars on the Schuylkill drive by on their way to work.

Occupying my misery with watching the travelers on their way to city offices, I was presented with the stomach-in-throat view of witnessing an accident: a little grey compact passing a bunch of cars, weaving in and out of lanes, well over the speed limit, then three-sixties, crash, crumple, bang and whew…we were too far ahead.

“Dad, someone’s watching over us today. We just missed that accident.”

“See, that was a good sign,” he said and drove on.

Once checked into the hospital we sat silently in a waiting room, passing the wee dawn hours, not wanting to speak our anxieties. My parents sat down next to each other in a closeness that must have reflected their pre-marital affections; ones that I had never seen or known, and grown to disbelieve the existence of. I could feel the tension and the fear in their closeness and solemn silence. I knew I had made the right decision to come. My mother needed me; though we fought sometimes we were always close, and today maybe I could offer her some of the comfort that she had given me all these years. She was my best friend and comrade in schemes, allowing me to be an American girl, not a silent, restricted, traditional child.

About a half an hour passed and the nurse called us to our next stop. We went to my father’s room and were told that we only had a few minutes before they started his IV and pre-surgery meds. I kissed my father and said I loved him, wishing him well during the surgery. Then my mother walked over to him, shaking slightly, double checking that he had everything, and that he was ok.

“Ok, George, we’ll be in the waiting room,” she said to him, giving him a kiss on the cheek and holding his hand.

“Don’t worry Maria. I just wish you didn’t have to wait around so long.”

“I brought my crocheting with me. I’ll be fine. If you need anything have the nurse get me.”

“I’ll be fine. They know what they’re doing.”

Another kiss and “Bye, daddy,” and we were out the door.

The waiting room was somewhat comfortable with carpeting and cushioned seats. The pictures on the wall offered relaxing tones of blue and grey, an escape from the sanitary hospital decor. We sat for about an hour and a half, shifting in our seats, trading magazines, and exchanging small talk. A nurse came in and told us that they were prepping dad for the surgery, which would last about four hours, and then she disappeared from the room.

Hungry and already stir crazy we wandered down the maze of bright, sterile halls, looking for the cafeteria. It was high morning now, and the hospital was buzzing with movement: pagers echoing down the corridors, medical staff power walking from room to room. When we finally found the cafeteria we surveyed the fare offered us; hospital food…less than yum. We sat down across from each other and picked at our so-called food – burnt toast - and sipped our watered-down coffee.

“Mom, is everything going to be ok?”

“I think so. The doctors are really positive.”

“Are you going to be ok?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You just seem weird.”

“I guess I never thought about your father and I getting older and having medical problems, that’s all.”

“I’m glad you and dad are getting along these days.”

“Me too…me too,” she said as if drowned in the milky darkness of her coffee.

On our way back up to the waiting room I picked out a book—a five hundred pager, Judith McNaught’s Whitney, my love (a brainless beach book to keep my fears at bay) —and some snacks. The eternity of waiting before us, we shifted in our seats and moved around for different perspectives of the four walls caging us, reading and crocheting the hours away.

Four hours came and went. My mother leaned back and closed her eyes. I noticed worry lines crossing her face. She looked drawn and tired. When she opened her eyes again she stretched and asked how much time had passed. We asked the nurses’ station for information, but they sent us away with nothing.

“Mrs. Pappas…I just found out that your husband is still in surgery. I don’t think that there are any complications, just that it is taking longer than expected,” a nurse explained finally attending to us.

“Well, do you know how much longer it will be?”

“No, they didn’t say. But the doctor assured me that he would call on you as soon as they are through.”

My mother busied herself again to avoid being overly concerned. I went and sat down next to her while I read my book. After a while I realized that I only had a handful of pages left, and my mother was asleep again. Another three hours had passed without a peep. As I finished the last page of my book the nurse came in, my mother woke up, and we were directed to the doctor’s office without another word.

Once seated in the doctor’s office, I leaned over and held my mother’s trembling hand.

“Maria, the surgery went fine, George is in recovery now…but…we did find a malignant tumor. We removed it as well as a few lymph nodes in the surrounding area. Now, I don’t want you to get too upset. Since all his tests were clear we believe that the cancer was very isolated, and we feel strongly that we removed all of the bad tissue.”

“But…how…what happens next?”

“We’ll talk to your husband tomorrow once he has more of his strength back. There will be chemo and radiation, but that is just to be sure that there are no renegade cells.”

“When can I see him?”

“I have to warn you that he is attached to machines and IVs, and isn’t very coherent.”

“I don’t care. I want to see him.”

My mother stood next to his bed and rubbed his hand; a few tears trickled down her face. I tried to do the same, but blackness crept and my ears echoed. I moved towards the doorway only 5 feet away, but seeming a thousand steps, just as the eerie abyss took control – losing the lights I began to pass out. A nurse realized what was happening and offered water and smelling salts.

“Is that your mother and father?”

“Yes, I don’t know what happened to me. I was prepared…I…I…”

“Don’t worry, dear. Take a few deep breaths, and don’t let them on to your surprise. It will be ok.”

At his bedside, I held on to the rail with one hand and rested my other on his shoulder. He turned bleary eyed towards me and nodded his head in recognition. “I love you,” I said to him. Then the nurse took my arm and led me back out of the room. This time I dropped. Weakness, profound fear, incomprehendable emotions took a hold, and I couldn’t return to his side.

My father received numerous treatments after his return home, and was given a clean bill of health. Over the next five years my parents reverted back to their miserable selves – though in a deeper and more complex way - as my father alternated between succumbing to and triumphing over his cancer.

My father’s temper veered towards ruthless and irate in speech and action. Time was eroding my mother’s patience and movie-esque vision of marriage; she had enough of his almighty ego and bad attitude.

“George, I’m busy too.”

“God damn this house and the people in it! Can’t you do anything?!”

“Oh, shut up. You have no idea…”

“Don’t tell me to shut up! When I’m dead you’ll see…you’ll see…”

Most arguments mimicked this scene, including banging on walls and tables and stair stomping. Dishes would clang and doors would slam all along with their murmured words of resentment - their self-made, miserable lives together. My father wasn’t the knight-in-shining-armor that she dreamed him to be, and my mother wasn’t the perfect-suzie-homemaker or the good-little-Greek wife that he wanted her to be. The bitterness kept growing inside them, consumed them.

The sicker my father became the more my mother’s anger grew. The more dependent on her he became the more she purposely ignored him: she’d forget to call in and pick up his prescriptions; she wouldn’t make phone calls for him when the paralysis of his vocal chords left him no voice; she stopped cleaning the house and doing his wash. She never spent time with him, not even to periodically check on him to offer assistance. Little by little, my sisters and I took on various responsibilities. Our mother faded into the background: a shadow of a mother and wife, sulking, lurking around, embittered and raging inside.

By the spring of 1998 my father had taken a turn for the worse. My mother at this point couldn’t be bothered; the simplest, humane action was a chore. I had become my father’s aide, taking care of phone calls, wash, bills, doctors, letters, preparing him for bed, including dressing him, calling in nurses to bath and prep him, filling his feeding bag with his nourishment, being his daughter and friend, and then collapsing myself.

My mother, once my best friend, I resented. My father, once my mortal enemy, I tried to save. I realized that my father did love us; he just didn’t know how. I forgave him, the man who never let us want for anything, who worked 70 hours a week to give his daughters and wife the world, but failed emotionally. I’d spend my nights tossing and turning, trying to make sense of this life turned upside down and inside out. My mother and father had somehow traded places in every way imaginable. It hurt, made no sense, and created a chaos that still does not rest.

One cold morning my father rang his bedside bell for me to come up; he was cold maybe or looking for some companionship to warm his spirits. He was three days into a new experimental chemo that made death more appealing. I found him in his oversized armchair, looking frail and ashen. He pointed me towards the edge of his bed, motioning me to sit. As I did I saw something I had never before, a well of tears in his eyes. Overwrought with emotion I knelt down in front of him to hear his trembling, raspy voice.

“Am I such a burden on my family…Do I ask too much…Do I ruin all your lives with my sickness…Do I disgust every one so much…”

“No, dad, no! Don’t ever think that…”

“Why, why do I feel like this…”

“Please, dad…”

“I can’t go on like this any more…I can’t take the pain.”

“Dad, please…we love you…don’t feel that way…I know it’s hard…that’s what a family is for…don’t ever think anything else…”

“What have I done to my family?” What…what…what have I done to my wife…she...sh…”

“No, dad…it’s just too hard on her…she’s trying to figure it all out…please dad, don’t take it that way…we don’t want you to be like this…”

“I can’t…I can’t…have…I done this…oh…God…what has happened…”

“Dad I love you, we all do, please, we want you to be better…just…know that we love you…”

I tried to hug him, to hug all his tears and pain away. A torrent flooded down his face, his eyes swollen and red, and he just cried and shook and cried and shook.

“Thank you, Renee…I’m sorry…I’m…” he hugged me then pushed me away.

I left his room and ran down the steps with my own tears threatening to drown me. I found my mother in the kitchen and spewed venom. I hated her at that moment. Each time she tried to dodge me I hated her more. I chased her around the kitchen until she hid in the laundry room. I ran outside for air, begging for answers, understanding, comfort.

“Why…why…why?!” I cried out the sky.

I understand that I couldn’t understand anything. And struggle with the fact that I will never understand, merely learn to cope. I don’t remember those days anymore, the ones where my mother and I were inseparable, friends, partners in youthful energy. I don’t even remember the girl I used to be. The change I experienced was the great Pangaea separating, and I live in a new world with new boundaries and landscapes that I battle to survive to find my place and make sense.

Commentary on Eternal Memory

So I haven't read my Precious in about 5 years...I wrote it, presented it, and hid it away.  I remember being afraid of letting those mentioned in its ink know my reality and soul.  I cringed thinking that I could bare no more of me without tearing my skin from my bones.  The history is simple:  as a teen a good therapist and someone I will hold dear to my heart forever gave me my first journal.  She said write, share if you want, keep it private if you prefer.  I took her suggestion to heart an put my teen angst to paper and committed my poetry and some short stories to its pages.  I still have this journal, the only one I ever really kept, and as time moved along I would spend a few hours hand copying my collections into the safe confines of its binding, a compilation of mish mosh - of me.  And if by chance some new verse comes to mind I will place it there as well.  I laugh reading through my early pages now, but that's what growing up is all about.

I really never wrote beyond that little pink cloth book with a bouquet of something fresh on its cover until undergrad.  Those years at Penn State Abington changed my life in so many ways.  I would compose a novel on that time alone, but perhaps that's better left behind closed doors for now.  There are several teachers with whom I credit my crystallis: Seesholtz, Miller and Simon the most.  I learned to be a writer and be personal and free with my pen.  And in those days it was a pen and lined paper.  I started standing up for myself, my beliefs, principles and perspecives: I found my voice.  I was able to use this magical time to piece together my soul in pages of dreams, memories and papers.  By grad school I emerged and produced my Precious.

I look back at this blog from the depths of my post-partum madness and recognize that same fear of exposure and truth I had on printing day.  Over these past two years I've been able to release most of those ghosts and even though they hang around and remind me they will always be a part of my Mindspace I don't fear them, they are a part of me and helped create me and they can be friends not hauntings now.  So today I introduced my old ghosts to the new spirits and they can have a party, drink vodka in my honor and do a little dance...I know they will get along just fine.  I am curious though...if they will invite me to tea.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Memory Eternal) Chapter 1

In a world where all is borrowed,

And time like elusive dust seems to
Just slip through out fingers,
All we really have are these precious moments
Where we can make fertile the soil
In the garden of our hearts,
That here love may make its home
And here the mortal seed may flourish.
For life like a magnificent mysterious cloud holds
Its shape and form only long enough for us to blink,
And all our precious memories are but shadows of
Time that will drift away like fallen leaves returning
To the emptiness from which they came.
Thus we are, like innocent children flowering
In the garden of souls.
-- Azam Ali


It’s a curse to think sometimes. How many years have gone by and I know nothing more and nothing less. Of course that’s a lie. I know much more, but feel as though it is much less: more information only leads to more questions – never-ending, cycling.


The crystalline flakes fall from above, resting like cotton on the yard. It’s been snowing all day, and now as the sun is low on the horizon, I hear neighbors starting up snow blowers in harmony with shovels scraping the pavement. The seemingly futile effort to remove the whiteness from sidewalks and driveways has begun. These sounds are an intrusion in the quiet. I always say, “It sounds like snow.” Snow sounds like nothing: peace, solitude, wiping away all that exists, a non-space and non-time, a pure moment when you understand the vastness of life and your presence in it. As far as you can see the dirt of everyday life is erased and a new world emerges. Normal commotion on the streets is paralyzed and for a time families sit together and watch a movie or share a meal; parents teach their children to sled and make a snowman and snow angels. The frustration and stress of our modern world becomes frozen in time. We can simply “be.”

As the sounds of the blower engines and shovels continue to echo, I’m reminded of my father bundled up head to toe, looking like the sta-puff marshmallow man with all his layers.

“Come on, girls!”

“It’s still snowing…”

“Too cold…”

“I’ll come out when this is over.”

“Yeah! Can we build a snowman?”

My sisters and I grumble or hesitate or jump at my father’s request to help him clear away the snow. There are four of us: me, being the eldest and most troublesome of the lot; Erica, the quiet Schroeder; Chrissy, spunky and playful; and Connie, too young to see any reason why being outside in the snow wouldn’t be fun. My father is so excited to “play” with his new snow blower, he hands us all shovels, like this is really sand and we want to dig. He doesn’t really give us any instruction, just to clear the porch and off he goes, strutting along, making pathways, and piling up snow-rubble for us to make forts. He doesn’t really care that we’re running across the street to assemble a neighborhood snowball fight because he and the other dad’s are shouting pleasantries across the way.

“Morning, George. Get that from Sears?”

“Sale. I’ll help you with your sidewalk if you’d like.”

“Thanks! I might get myself one of these babies.”

For some reason they are enjoying the “work”. After the sun dims in the sky, my father calls us back in the house. Dad and daughters track into the laundry room - leaving a trail of soiled water, hats, scarves, gloves, boots - sniffling as the blast of warmth emanates from the fireplace where we huddle together crimson-cheeked next to the fire.

I wonder when those smiling memories began to fade, when the moments of snow ceased to bring my family together in this wonderland. I really don’t need to look farther than my years as a teenager that linger darkly in a cave that I keep contained behind a boulder. Not that I was any better or worse than your average teen; it was the times and my upbringing that collided, and the result was painful to both myself and my parents, especially my father. Teen angst set in and me, his eldest, his star, his angel of purity, was turned into a stranger before him. Neither he nor my mother could comprehend the enigma before them that was me, and I didn’t make it simple, rebelling against my culture, religion, tradition, and myself. That’s when the snow irritated me.

“Renee, get down here and help.”

“I’m on the phone. The girls can help you.”

No more would I run outside and take the shovel handed to me as a toy. I didn’t want to play, I wanted to go shopping, hang with my friends at the mall, and didn’t want to be suffocated by family togetherness.

Then again, what would you expect from a child sheltered from the streets by Greek Orthodoxy and traditions, and sent to a private Catholic school for a better education – at least better than the public schools at the time. It was the seventies and my parents were new to the whole parenthood event; I was the honeymoon baby after all. I may have been sheltered, but only because they too were confined by their Leave it Beaver ideals. I opened a month-old Tupperware of leftovers in their faces when I turned 15 and a year of public high school had enlightened their precocious little angel.

I can’t help but to wonder if my parents’ June-and-Ward-Cleaver mentality instilled a slight romantic view of family in me, or perhaps, it is adult acceptance of my Greek heritage that makes me seek a blood-bound family cohesion. Mind you, I didn’t spend my teens in a remotely ideal functioning family, but for some reason I believe in one.

I hold onto the notion that even though my father considered me demon seed and possessed by Beelzebub himself, it was merely because I grew up in a different time, and love was all I needed. And guaranteed, I didn’t know it myself. I wanted to experiment and explore, curiosity was my downfall, resulting in years of family and personal therapy and distaste of all things familial. Was it me or the fact that my parents didn’t know how to teach love? Should it be innate?

I refer to the 12 months beginning March 1999 and ending the following February as the year of sorrow, but also the year of my new awareness. I painfully watched my paternal grandmother pass, followed by my father, who was in turn followed by his father - 12 months and an entire family decimated. I was in my late twenties and trying to grasp getting older and finding my identity while coping with mortality; it wreaks havoc on an already sensitive spirit.

I was angry at my father’s god for taking him and causing so much suffering; my mother’s nervous breakdown and her nonchalance; my sisters’ youth and its selfishness; my maternal grandparents for moving back to Greece; and life for being so incomprehensible. I was alone and without guidance – at least in my teens I thought I knew it all and was completely unaware that immortality was a thing for fiction only; I lived carefree and reckless. Now my world went topsy tervy and I began to confront the demons hidden deep under folds of grey matter.

As a child I spent Sundays witnessing the endless 3 hour religious services spoken entirely in Greek, or in Sunday school classes applying the differences between what I was learning from the private Catholic school I attended versus Greek Orthodoxy. The Christian belief system embedded itself in my consciousness. I was a model daughter to my father, innocent and wholesome, and capable of speaking his mother tongue after years of Wednesday night Greek school. He was proud of me.

eva, tdw, tria, tesera...deka penta - smack! I became a stranger and danger to my father and his sensibilities.

Let’s just say that all things Greek were evil to me, along with any traditions that I spit on as I applied the notion of rules-are-meant-to-be-broken.

“Renee, let’s go! We’re leaving. Get your ass down here.”

“I don’t want to go to church. I’m not sitting through 3 hours of babble.”

“Don’t you speak like that. Ungrateful heathen. You don’t have a choice. Renee, you disgust me! Get out of my face. You are not my daughter!!”

“You don’t understand me. We live in America; I hate those people at church, and I hate you!” These words regularly rang through the house; my father would belt at the top of his lungs and beat walls and doors, trying to exorcize the demon before him, the changeling that stole his precious first born. His face would contort and lethal steam rose from his ears, thus began the converting of simple life into an inferno.

At 19 a note left on the kitchen table advised my parental units that I no longer cohabited in the family abode.

It was the year 1995 and I found my image in the mirror foreign. I had been living with my boyfriend, Brian, who had just the Christmas before become my fiancé. I spent several years of my life with him only to realize that my dream of husband and father was crumbling under a lifestyle more suited for Lifetime TV. My rebellious teenage self was growing into a woman and learning that life cannot exist on beer and smokes alone, and I craved the family I had left behind 6 years ago. In May I packed my bags.

I stood in the center hall of the apartment I shared with my fiancé and took one last glance around. The dark paneled walls and brown carpets were gloomy, not warm, not home. All the flowers, paintings, and knick-knacks that once adorned my living space laid in boxes that lined the walls. I peered into each of the rooms to be sure that nothing was forgotten. The first bedroom was scattered with baseball cards and fishing equipment that had lost the organization of the cabinets and shelves that were moving with me. The main bedroom had only the bed and dresser. I decided to let him keep them since the bed stood for something we no longer shared. The kitchen was bare, save for a service for one and an old picnic table with broken and chipped boards. The family-room furniture was all that remained: his TV, an entertainment center, sectional sofa, and second hand coffee tables at least made the room bearable. I felt only slightly pained to realize that he was left with nothing, but the fact remained that we had created our home with my family heirlooms, and they were coming with me.

After my final check, I walked into the family room and found Brian sitting on the couch, drinking his cursed beer. He wouldn’t even look at me. OOOOOOO, how that enraged me!

“Well, I’m packed up…I…I guess I’ll put the last of my stuff in the truck and head out…”

“Whatever…humph.” His only reply.

I took the last box downstairs, and drove away - tears streaming down my face.

There’s truth to the saying, “When it rains, it pours.” For at the same time that my personal life was in shambles so was that of my family; my moving home coincided with my father’s parents moving in with us, and facing the shock of the return of my father’s cancer. Surreal, nightmarish, chaos - all at once our lives were upside-down.

Here’s the Dali for you. Grandfather - Alzheimer’s and Muscular Dystrophy; Grandmother – blind, dementia, and congestive heart failure; Father – esophageal cancer; mother – nervous breakdown; me – 23 years old with identity and guilt complex; Erica – living in Boston to attend college; Chrissy and Connie – teen angst. The house consisted of barely functional dysfunction: Greek and English seared the air in the confusion brought about by the lives forced together. My mother and I took turns being nurses for my grandparents while denying my father’s illness.

“Renee, please help your grandmother to the bathroom. I’m getting their dinner ready.”

“Mom, I can take care of them tonight. Go relax.”

“Thank you. You’re grandfather is having another episode today; he’s calling for Armando again. Who is this person?”

“We’ll never know.”

“Come on, yiayia, let’s get you to the bathroom.”

My father was so distraught seeing them in such poor health that he could barely be in the same room with them. Instead of being compassionate towards them he was angry, and suffering his own illness, which fed his anger further still.

“Dad, this is your home now. You are home. Stop talking like a crazy man. I did all this for you.”

“Where are my keys? I have to go home now. Who are you?”

“Dad, it’s George. See, there’s your TV and bedroom. Maria is getting you dinner.”

“Where’s my car keys? What craziness is this?”

“Stop that!” My father pounded on the wall yelling and stormed out of the room.

My grandparents became lepers in their own home because of the way my father acted towards them, and because of how our frustration and disgust with them became visible; we had become slaves to them. This was too much responsibility for an already troubled household; it was sad, shameful, and heartbreaking.

By the fall of this same year, my father had pulled through the cancer once again - remission. I decided to go back to school. My mother was losing her mind. The fighting and confusion generated a vortex of anxiety when you walked into the house. For three years following my move home I was living in a war zone: father vs. daughter, husband vs. wife, child vs. parent, health vs. illness, and sanity vs. chaos.

It was during these three years that I was constantly reminded of why I left home at eighteen. My father and I were always fighting while I was growing up. My mother and father had not had a happy marriage for years because of strong differences of opinion – Greek traditions versus American living. Not a breath of air in my house was taken without consequence.

“I’m out of here. Going to the mall.”

“You’re staying home tonight, this nonsense of you being out all the time is stopping now.”

“George, she’s a teenager. Let her spend time with her friends. She doesn’t need to be home tonight.”

“Shut up, Maria. This is your fault the way she’s become. She’s disrespectful and careless, and you allow this. I’m the man of the house. You listen to me.”

“George, your temper is the problem. You are the one at fault for our problems.”

My father would become so incensed at times that he would scream and yell, shaking the whole house. I remember counting the days until graduation not just to be out of school, but to be closer to leaving home. My father was a bitter man, no doubt due to his lack of childhood, from being an immigrant and working from thirteen years old to help support his family. He was angry at the world, and from watching how he treated his own parents, I saw that he was angry at them too. He was leading me into the anger and resentment track that he fell into himself. His inability to understand the nature of life was destroying himself and his family.

Now I was voluntarily back in the environment I escaped, and loosing grip slowly. The apocalypse was sure to be soon.

By the spring of 1998, whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, my father was taking a turn for the worse. He was having problems swallowing, was tired all the time, and losing weight quickly. He went to the doctor’s after accepting the fact that something was obviously wrong. When he returned from his appointment he walked in the door solemnly and went straight to his room. The tumor was suffocating his esophagus. He could no longer eat; a man once over 200lbs., was now looking at the scale reading 120lbs; he was skin and bone, frail and weak. My grandparents had no concept of what was going on around them and fed off our anxiety: my grandfather would violently strike at anyone who came into his section of the house with his cane, yelling, “Who are you? Get out of my house.” My grandmother would throw hysterical fits of her own, claiming “What life is this? Why does the God Almighty give me this life? This is no life.” My mother could no longer function in the household and the house became as chaotic looking as our emotions. She locked herself in her room, covering her head with the blankets and pillow to block out reality. My grandfather talked to the air, while my grandmother complained. My mother was shutting down, and I had to pick up the pieces.

Once the summer hit, my father had a feeding tube put in so that he could try to gain some strength back to fight his disease. It was also agreed upon that my grandparents would go into a nursing home. Now that the stress of caring for my grandparents was gone, it was time for me to face the denial I was in about my father. I knew he was sick, but I never really believed that it would kill him; he was a tough man, and I didn’t think that anything could bring him down. Even though I was always fighting with my father and harbored resentment towards him, I couldn’t accept the fact that he could die. I had spent so many years hating him for his condescending attitude, his perfectionist ideals, his irritated tone of voice, his overly critical expectations, and his anxiety over insignificant things that I never got the chance to love him. I was watching the powerful, authoritative man whom I called my father waste away and turn into a frightened child. I began to realize that all of his intimidating ways were just a shield to protect him. Having lived with his parents for an extended amount of time, I found that they didn’t know how to show love or affection either. My father had learned from them so these characteristics had been passed on. He had an unrealistic sense of control that led him to believe that he could control life and its circumstances and everyone around him. He had almost passed these ideas onto me until I saw through his facade. I began to love him.

When my father had gone into surgery to have the feeding tube put in, “something happened” -- he came out of surgery with paralyzed vocal chords. He was left with only a raspy whisper for a speaking voice. He couldn’t even do the one thing that he loved so much, yell. In trying to get himself heard, he would stomp on the floor or bang on the walls to get our attention or express frustration. The kitchen in our house tends to always be thick with conversation and activity. Here is where my father would become the most agitated. Since he couldn’t speak over the multiple conversations going on between his family members, he would become red in the face and knock things around ‘til it was quiet enough for him to be heard. I wonder if this was God’s way of silencing his unjustifiable temper? Eventually he learned that his temper was putting undue stress on his body and resorted to waving his arms in a “this-is-no-use…forget-it…to-hell-with-you” way. It forced him to listen to other people for a change instead of silencing them. I began to say, “I love you” to him whenever I was given the chance. I even would give him a kiss on the forehead to reassure him that I meant it. He never really said it back, but I could see it in his face the way it softened as he smiled.

By fall we learned that the chemo and radiation failed. The doctors decided to put him on an experimental drug that made him so ill and weak that it broke my heart to look at him. When he would get a treatment he would stay in bed for the next ten days. He would just lie there on his side with the blankets pulled up about his head. He looked like an ashen ghost of a human lying there in bed. The pain emanating from his body seemed to penetrate my own being: I would shutter upon entering his room. Sometimes he would sit in the big armchair next to his bed with his hands over his head and his elbows resting on his knees, leaning over a waste bucket, sobbing. His esophagus was blocked; he couldn’t swallow or vomit. This only added to his misery. There was no consoling the weak creature that replaced my father. There were times when I couldn’t even go into his room to set up his feeding tube for the night for fear of the tears that would roll down my cheeks. The odor of sickness in his room and his own graying aura would keep me at bay. Now that I wanted to love him, I was too distraught to.

We were on borrowed time already, and the owner apparently wanted it back. There were no other experimental studies available, and both Sloane Kittering and Fox Chase turned him away. All we could do was wait. Regardless of the pain, my father would still muster the courage to move on; he would be showered and dressed for four hours of work at Raytheon each day. He still tried to maintain that false sense of control; it was the only thing that he had left. Somehow it kept me going too. It gave me strength to watch him fight.

How to Release a Ghost

So I said I wasn't going to blog today because I just didn't feel like it.  I've been spending every spare second catching up on years of lost reading...my brain has been starved.  I wanted to talk about Anya's first official hair cut or how sucked in by the eReader I recently purchased wirh gift cards I've become and how I've turned off the TV at night and even disconnected from FB further than I expected in my experiment.  But I haven't felt compelled to detail all this insanity.  Yet 4 minutes before quitting time and a nanny to relieve I suddenly can't stop myself.  And here is my question...

I have a memoir that grew from Undergrad to my Graduate project that I'm compelled to introduce here on my blog.  I feel like my story is in too many pieces now and I must merge and meld them all together.  That being said...I'm curious...shall I plunk it all out in one gory installment, or shall I release a segment daily or weekly or periodically as I walk down my mindspace lane?

Dead Relative Society

Post tummy-sick day, complete with Pedialyte and minimal solids; I reluctantly taught my dance class and lumbered to bed. I settled in nicely considering the 3 hour nap from earlier in the day. Usually a nap means no sleep that night, but obviously I needed the extra down time. I turned on the reading light while Anya crawled over my head and book demanding to be the center of attention. She pointed to the black cuneiform on the pages, and when I said it was a big girl book she said, "Oh," and proceeded to lay upon it. I can only assume she was not amused by the dull pages her mommy attempted to devour.

I realized reading was not an option since Anya refused to curl up and sleep. Off with the mini light, page bookmarked and glasses to the head board. Snuggle. No you can’t pull my hair. Twinkle, twinkle little star…snore. Glasses, light, book, yay. I finished my first book in years. Coming from a previous English Master’s student I am a shamed of myself for letting life come between me and my secret lives. I am reclaiming my imagination. I am refusing the lure of the internet and TV after hours. I want to set an example for Anya. Soon I hope to read her more than 3 word books and bring her into my world of lands and people from beyond our backdoor.

I was hoping to watch The Good Wife before I called it a night, but I wanted to dwell in the new land a bit longer. The end of a book makes me sad…I’m usually not ready to leave my new friends and their home so soon: this was no exception. I drifted off considering their lives post The End.

I used to always remember my dreams. Actually, I typically kept a dream journal. I ran out of energy to track my mysterious grey matter encoding and decided that I should enjoy the blank memory or exciting adventure each morning. Last night got my attention. Of course the further removed I am from my REM time, the less clear and accurate my memory becomes. I’ve had time now to analyze and wonder and I note a whisper down the lane effect on the events already. But I must take a moment to jot down what is left. Perhaps it means nothing, or maybe later I will look back and understand.

Enter an enormous hall, like a banquet facility, and it had at least two rooms and a long hallway, non-descript walls papered a burnt sienna and round tables covered in white table cloths dotted with coffee cups, white napkins and what appeared to be the end of dessert. The tables were packed and all I could hear was the murmur of a room full of chatter. I couldn’t make out everyone, but I knew all those present. I found myself drawn to a table where my Yiayia Irene and Thea Foto were sitting. They seemed younger than I remember and they were both so happy to see me. I can’t remember them saying anything specific, but I know I see their mouths moving and they are smiling. For a split second I note I may be dreaming, after all our relationship with Thea Foto post dad’s death was the equivalent to Siberian exile. I recall going to hug them, but never actually doing so, and sitting down with them exclaiming how happy I was to see them and how well they looked. I also, strangely, recall placing an obvious baby doll in front of Thea Foto and her fawning all over it, but it had no name, and was definitely a newborn stand in.

I stood up and saw Uncle George A. seated at a table not far away. He seemed larger than life and I could hear his booming laughter. He turned to me and waved and I felt warm and safe. I can distinctly say this was a gathering of the Pappas clan, although my father was curiously absent. If I saw him sometime in my dream his image is lost now. I know I walked around and said, “Hello,” to many people that I hadn’t seen since they travelled on. I remember thinking how strange. I don’t remember any of my family from my mother’s side there, and thought that may be strange as well. I believe now is when I begin to understand I must be dreaming or why was I dining with dead relatives.

At this point the “feeling” of comfort and security fade away and I am in a hallway off the room. There are tables set up with big pictures of vacation homes and bright and showy advertisements. I immediately understand this to be a time share and a scam for all those present. I’m a bit panicked now and running around the place saying, “No, tell these people to go away. Don’t talk to them.” And I wake up when everyone is telling me trust the time share folks and to sign up too.

When I woke up I wasn’t afraid or even disturbed. I was fascinated about the Dead Relative Society that I visited during my sleep. I’m not sure that it means anything at all. It is just so strange to have seen and remembered some specific people, and wonder why certain people were absent or part of the blurry murmurs. I hope this is not a portent and I am curious what warning it may be. My unconscious mind hasn’t spoken in so long; I forgot it had opinions of its own. Perhaps I just woke up a long dormant part of my mind with the book I read.