Letter from my Closet

As I scanned my Facebook feed; I came across a topic of the day posted by a dear, old friend, dare I say, ex of my youth responsible for several closet skeletons.  I read the posed question, shook my head and scrolled onward.  Wait a minute.  Did I really just read what I think I did?  Ugh.  Now I understand that my high school years were far from the land of political, religious or moral fortitude discussions, in fact, my youth blazed behind me fast and infamously, but I don’t regret much, though some would say I should, because I am proud of the sum of my experiences both positive and slightly off balance - Elena always knew.  There was never a question of conservative or liberal, Jesus, Buddha or Allah; we all coexisted as bando, druggie or jock with random non-molders.  A boy/girlfriend was never expected to outline their perspectives on life, the universe, and everything before being considered worthy of making out in the park across the street after school - philosophy was better savored in college.

Where was I?  Yes, the posed question.  I shall paraphrase, “When does life begin?”  Pause.  Breathe.  Moment of unconsciousness. 

Letter from my skeletons: To the boy you once were.

Now a father yourself with a beautiful daughter, recovering from a life of debauchery and wickedness, I seek out that former self to lay ourselves to rest.  Many seasons ago you swept a girl away from naïveté.  For one moment allow yourself to see your daughter as a teenager when she comes home in love with the boy next door, from a good Christian family, who rocks her world completely and heedlessly.  Remember her and understand now what your former self could not comprehend.

You were twenty and I turned 16 that year: in my eyes you were an older, fast talker, larger than life…swoon.  I slid into your circle with ease and your family welcomed me as one of their own.  I believed the best in people and assumed I was protected and safe, that honesty directed all things and everything was right. 

This was the 80s decadence and drugs: cocaine, pot, hash, LSD, opium.  I dabbled and experimented, and assumed the same of everyone.  I had a line that I never stepped over, but inched ever so closely, not noticing those around me leaping well beyond the safe zone.  I was hospitalized one night from too much speed, recovering with a slight case of anxiety that haunts me to this day.  I smoked laced pot on several occasions that still seem like hypnotic dreams.  I don’t remember much of the Pink Floyd concert – the devil may know why.  I came from a conservative Greek household and never had the talk, and my parents trusted too much or were merely too afraid to find out the truth.  You took my hand and said it would all be ok.

At the height of our whirlwind I didn’t know your true poison.  Whether it was the good in you or selfishness not to share; I am grateful for your shielding me from the crack of your world.  A simple I’m sorry and make up adventures always brought my forgiveness and affections.  I felt full of life in your guidance and trusted your desires in our exploits.  Ahh the stump in the field, the basement sleeping bag, going through the toll booth, the boat, the beach…bahahahah some of my best stories come from those days.  Surprisingly for my naiveté I lived.  Abruptly, your world and my world crashed the day the police came, took you away, and I learned that I was pregnant.

       

Eddie came to my rescue with an ear and a hug and encouraged me to tell you.  With a child’s heart I didn’t even know how or why or what.  There was no feeling of options or happily ever after, merely a darkness and unreality.  Your parents brought me to you.  I never understood if it was prison or rehab: I just shut down and my mind thought of nothing.  I remember a large room almost like a cafeteria and everyone gave us some time alone to visit.  I can’t recall if we were across the table or side by side.  I don’t even see your face as I remember telling you.  I don’t know whose idea yours or mine, or if the decision was an unspoken agreement or of there was discussion.  I can’t remember if we talked about options or plans or possibilities.  I don’t remember walking away sad, but I don’t remember you beyond this moment.

That day.  That day so long ago in April was cool and Ed and Missy picked me up and took me to that place in Paoli.  My mom was afraid there’d be protestors and talked to them about how to shield me.  My mom, bless her for her patience with me.  I couldn’t let her come, I begged her not to come, and she agreed as long Ed and Missy promised to take care of me.  You were nowhere or somewhere and not there. 

The required counseling terrified me and robotically I said no thank you and why do you make girls feel so awful about a decision that they make.  The wait felt grey and numb.  I didn’t exist.  I don’t remember changing, but I remember that room.  It was cold and smelled overly-sanitized and was very small.  On the table, shivering, exposed, I heard voices, but didn’t want to open my eyes.  I remember them explaining each part, and thinking, “Why. Why. Why?!”  I wasn’t under general anesthesia because it was too expensive and this was all I had saved.  I heard the machine…r.rrrrr..rrrrr…rrrrrchug chug rrrr chug.  The pain that I wasn’t supposed to feel seared inside and out. 

After that day my memory fails.  The infection that followed brought anything left of me to the brink.  I hurt and screamed and cried and had nightmares that woke my parents from deep sleep.  I had an allergic reaction to the pain meds and wanted to die.  My father raged and sobbed that he failed to protect me.  He never said a word to me, but I heard him yell at my mother, and he bought me flowers as the only gesture he could bare. 

A family friend was looking for a nanny to take with them to the Bahamas to watch their little angels on vacation.  A free trip to the beach and I just had to watch the kids over dinner time so the adults could enjoy their vacation.  My parents agreed this time away would be great for my health.  Suitcase and bathing suit in hand I landed at Club Atlantis with such promise.  The kids beamed in front of their parents and turned behind their backs.  They spit, hit and threw things at me and yelled that they didn’t have to listen to me and I was nobody.  The parents went out to dinner and dancing and parked on the beach and left me to their entitled monsters who took advantage of my fragile state.  I remember the trip occured over Mother’s Day and I sat in the hotel room on the double bed while the kids screamed that they didn’t have to go to bed and they didn’t have to listen to me.  A typical Lifetime-esque show about mothers, their love of motherhood and their children brought me to my knees.  I called my mother gasping for air, crying for so many sorrows.  Worst decision ever.

You stayed in jail after your court appearance, and I think we passed a few letters or calls.  And after your release I went to Wildwood to see you.  In fact, our best picture together was there along the rocks of the bay.  We looked picture perfect, standing there in the breeze, arms around each other.  But holding on was useless.  I resented your lack of participation in the whole affair; the fact that you could never know the darkness I experienced, what lived deep inside because of our innocence - or stupidity.  It never happened to you…like a blowing wind and a whisper it passed you by without a mark.

I hospitalized myself that fall because I couldn’t come to terms with my pain.  It’s not that I ever wanted us back – the naiveté and school girl fantasies no longer resided in my heart.  I needed to understand life and everything I could know about what life meant: my ignorance of the ways of the world, my foolishness, believing so blindly, my anger at my parents for leaving me unprepared and exposed.  My desire to define the existential questions didn’t find answers: I was ill-equipped for my journey.  I hid myself from my classmates, friends, family, the world.  It took me a long time to realize that I went there to hide amongst the suicidal, drug addicts, the abused and neglected, since I felt unworthy of the normalcy outside the walls as well as needing protection from that scary outside life. But I didn’t belong there.  The anger I learned in therapy never left, seething beneath the surface, and prompted so many reckless and bad decisions thereafter.  I know now that I was punishing myself, not forgiving myself or you.

I carried that Scarlet Letter in my heart for too long.  It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my own little girl that the guilt and pain slipped back into my sub-consciousness.  How did one life deserve to arrive and another not.  I didn’t deserve motherhood.  And how would I look into her eyes knowing that she will be an only child, but shouldn’t have been.  I know now these were silly mind games to play with myself and left me wallowing in a pit of despair that I didn’t deserve.

So your question about when does life begin prompted me to reply that life begins when there are organs and a brain to support life functions.  I wanted to cyber scream, “You Bastard!”  I wanted to send you an email blasting your selfish question.  I wonder if you understood my position.  I wonder if you felt a pang like I did.  It’s not fair to hold you to that image of who we were then or expect that your closet holds these same demons.  But then I slipped into that time of long ago and realized you and I never made peace with that time.  I’ve held you accountable instead of asking both of us to forgive each other and share a moment of empathy for our youthful foibles.  I’m not here to have a religious or scientific discussion about the start of life, the difference between life or the potential for life.  I’m not here to guilt you or me into some sympathic apologies.  But I am here to ask you how you come to terms with your question yourself.

My skeletons have packed their bags and walked into the light.  I’m grateful for modern technology for bringing us cyber together and laying a potential life to rest.

My Phoenix

I spent a wonderful week with my daughter and mother and grandmother - 1 week, four generations, all women - in Pittsburgh swimming and going to the zoo and being away from my daily grind.  Nice, but lacking in the relaxation department.  I am happy to have this memory of my grandmother playing with my daughter in the early summer sun.  My time, however, was bitter sweet.  So much has changed in life and knowledge and expectations that I had to bite my tongue more often than not to prevent a generational war.  I yearned for that "wisdom" to reach our conversations, but, alas, in 86 years too much difference taints perceptions.  I smiled and walked away and did what my maternal instincts said was correct.  I snapped a few pics and looked from the outside so that my movie would capture the sentiment instead.  

As I watched time pass melding history and future I learned that a friend lay weak and worn in a hospice bed, waiting out his last days in suffering.  An odd fear gripped me as I dug through my long stored hey days for the memories of youth and immortality that held our shared time.  I remembered his kind face and troubled emotions and days that never ended.  I thought of friends long since tucked away and places and events better left in the closet of phantoms.  My heart aches for him.  At moments I think of him alone in his pain and confused, much like my father had been, and say a few words to the universe begging for his comfort and whisper to him all the love that so many of us have for him.  I want to see him, but want to remember him as my memories do.  I will contact his father today.  I'm afraid to call or write.  I selfishly don't want to know when he's left this place, but I want him to know it's time to move on and be free from the plagues of this world.  Another kind soul, an artist, a friend, fading to the other side. 

And while I cry for Mark I cringe every time a CaringBridge update arrives in my inbox.  Lisa fights the moster as well.  I don't know that my heart can take much more.  We all watched and followed her through her breast cancer treatments, disolution of her marriage and her young boys eyes looking upon their mom with adoration and strength.  We cheered as the results seemed to say she was free of the demon that assulted her.  Now it has returned with a vengence powerful and cruel, engulfing all but her beautiful soul.  I panic for her and want to take away all the pain.  I want her boys to hold her tight and her family to give her strength.  I want the dragon slayed for good.  I want a miracle to shine upon her.  I believe.  I believe.  I want to make new memories with her and our children.  I want to play on the beach together as we did what feels like so long ago.  I want us to laugh and dance and be free.

And now I wait, incapable of fixing, curing or relieving.  I am helpless and lost myself in the whys and hows and fuck this dirty world thoughts.  I think of my own feelings and fears and sadness and none are so powerful as what I feel for these friends.  I start to look at the puzzle pieces of my life.  I notice that where there were missing pieces, now the holes are filling in.  I think of the legacy that we leave behind and how immortality is nothing more than other's memories, the imprints passed on by the living.  A completed puzzle forms out of the requiem my father's voice sings for the lost souls.  I will follow this song and see where it takes me. 

Today my vision forms a place where I can offer help to those that suffer disabilities or illness and a place where the community can create their immortality in dance, music, art, writing, drama, and all the muses.  A place that can heal or comfort and make some happiness in place of the pain.  A place where children through seniors can create and explore their passions and souls.  I want to bring this place to life in honor of those who I love and miss.

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.