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 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.