Time Tricks

Deep breath. Mind sorting. Another deep breath. Sigh.

Time. What a strange concept. I would say that time didn't really exist if it wasn't for the sun and moon playing peekaboo each day to night. And with the seasons warming and cooling with the leaves green to red to dead and back again. But really...what is time?

I celebrated my daughters 2nd birthday this past weekend. I was able to manage a day-long extravaganza for her with young playmates to adult smiles, lots of food and Blues Clues cake and presents that made it feel like Christmas again. I always wish that more friends and family would fit into my home and that celebrations never ended. I needed those laughs and conversations more than I knew. I understand now that my social butterfly sat beneath the bell jar for too long, and for one day that freedom simply cleared my cobwebs. Anya is older now and needs less suffocating attention. I was able to sit back and converse and have a relaxing drink and enjoy my friends and family. I was smarter this time and had food brought in and had the kids play at Gymboree so that my stress level could remain at handle-able versus overdrive.

I looked at my little baby and realized for the first time she was different to me. New in her features, the way she held herself, the tone of her voice, the exotic facial expressions, the language she was beginning to control; she was a little girl, like magic, turning two. She holds my cheeks in her hands and says, “o mommy.” She squeals with excitement and babbles a story that is half English half gremlin like she was conversing with Loreli Gilmore, then runs off into a million directions. I’m fascinated how 2 years have passed and I am lost finding those minutes, hours, and days that got me here. I am in awe of this being that came from love and grows and thrives and amazes me every moment of every day. I can’t allow myself to consider how fast forward my life will continue to morph or that I can’t protect her all the time and the anxiety as I must let her experience life. One day she parasitically melded with my body, the next she emerged as a separate entity.  She will continue to grow and change and develop and make friends and enemies and make memories.

I went to a fundraiser for a dear friend, a sister of hearts, my youth’s twin. The memories came flooding back as we pull into the DQ parking lot. The line already wrapped around the door and passed the other stores. I feel my heart skip a beat and my lungs compress and my muscles tense. For a moment I allow myself to be a teenager, walking from my house around the block on Moonflower, arm in arm with my partners in fun, in the warm summer evening, hearing the gathering grow in the light breeze before twilight. We would arrive in the mini strip with enough cash for a slice of pizza from Mark’s, a medium coke, and a blizzard from DQ, carrying only a pack of smokes and gum. Inevitably the crowd of crazy teens would frighten the store owners or family-type folks that saw the potential for a mob and teens up to no good and the cops would breeze through chasing us out with little success. We would scatter, hide out in the Village Mall across the street or walk the neighborhood for a few minutes only to return and dance with the cops again. Occassionally, they would ticket the brazen of the boys for saying “fuck” or “shit” or generally cursing, a fineable offence in the 80s - at least that’s what they told us..

An eternity of summers passed in that parking lot. Some nights we were stormed on and others we melted into the pavement. But always there. Together. Being kids who wanted to be grownups who didn’t know the rules or even cared to consider them. How could we be any different? Time doesn’t exist when you’re 16…you never get old and nothing bad ever happens and all we need is each other. We gossiped and lost virginity and cried and had fights. We kissed, smoked pot and snuck beer and thought that we ruled the world. It was ours after all.

Tonight I saw familiar faces, but recognized the years, more than 20, that separated most of us. We introduced spouses and children and suddenly two decades vanished, but reflected a different universe. We crowded the parking lot and filled the air with chatter. Old man winter blasted the evening air with a spring cold snap near freezing, making the ice cream event seem odd, yet you felt the determination that we wouldn’t consider being chilled out of our purpose. My eyes shifted back and forth scanning the crowd for my partners, my friends, my strength, fearing that I couldn’t accept what time was doing to pieces of my heart.

Once we settled in the back of the line, three stores down the strip, I looked up and in an instant saw her. She looked strong and radiant and beautiful as ever. Each hope she saw in the gathering made her seem taller and more grounded, yet overwhelmed. I couldn’t wait in the back for the feet to shuffle close enough to touch her fortitude. I left Rich and Anya to hold our place and held my breath in fear that she was leaving not greeting, I had to grip my panic and urgency. I couldn’t let another minute pass without holding her close and trying to take away all the suffering and pain she experienced. My bff stood there teary-eyed holding the gatherers tight for herself, and even more so for them.

I saw her brother leaning against the DQ window. He shadowed her and stood like he always did: strong and protective and imposing. He was the best big brother a girl could want. And seeing him there, knowing that he couldn’t protect his little sis from her disease, made our hug hello bittersweet. I didn’t know what to say, and felt apologetic for life putting years between our inseparable memories, but we are grown up now, and we know that love doesn’t tell time. I missed this other family of mine and I hate seeing them again under such stressful circumstances. I hated that even though we all stood there, crowding the parking lot of our childhood haunt, the warp of time had screwed it all up: it was cold and orderly and sedate.

Finally I wrapped my arms around her back and worked the smile of warmth that came over me. We hugged and cried and held each other up. I didn’t want to let her go. I could have stood there an eternity cleansing the demons from her. Her sorrow broke my heart and I wanted everyone and everything and all this suffering to disappear. I wanted to be back at the shore on Memorial Day weekend in our bikinis and a case of beer and the boardwalk after hours on the beach. I wanted to pick her up for a cruise through town on a Friday night and a party. I wanted to skip across the carnival with her, laughing and believing that nothing could tarnish our happiness. I wanted to beat and maim all that caused her hurt. I wanted her to know that I loved her so much and that I know that we have plenty more memories to make together and that life works in strange ways and to never let go her strength and hope and love.

Slowly the hum and buzz of the crowded lot broke through. People were hungrily waiting to donate their strength and health and I wanted her to take as much as her body needed to fight. I got back in line with my husband and daughter and let myself breathe in and out slowly. I couldn’t make sense of the upside down vortex that we were sharing in this place of happy memories. I knew not to try.

After our ice cream treat and Anya anxiously wanting to be free of the crowded inside of DQ we went back outside to see more phantoms of my memories continue to arrive. I looked over and saw my surrogate mom beam at the crowds gathered for her daughter. Now, a mother myself, I felt something new for this woman whom had been an integral matriarchal figure in my youth. I felt her hurt and her need to protect and confusion over her baby girl growing up and being consumed by a disease that we still understand so little about. I want her to know that I love her so much and want to help her in any way that I can that she will allow me. I don’t want her to burn up from the stress and pain. I know what she feels as the caregiver.

I circled the lot a few times confused and lost. My husband gently reminded me that it was time to go, and that he and Anya would be waiting in the car. I am grateful for his nudge and direction; otherwise, I may have taken up the block and walked into a stranger’s house that I once called home. I waited for her to catch her breath in between supporters and took my chance to hold her tight again. This time I wanted her to know that on good days and bad days and all of them in between I was here for her. We are sister and we stick together. We cried some more and hugged even tighter, but we knew that I had to go or we would never leave that moment. I had to share her with all of the other loves there for her tonight, and this whole week. I wanted her to be healed by the love that we all brought her. I kissed her hand as we reluctantly let go, waved a quick goodbye to her family, and ran for the car and to breathe again.

I can easily look back on last night and know that my mind was unable to close on time’s tricks. There I was in a place with people that bring back summer breezes and laughter to my heart, but none of us could hide from the sober reason we all amassed. The location was fitting and familiar. We could use the ghosts of our youth to strengthen and reclaim her health. She will fight and we will fight with her. We won’t let time dictate how we perceive or use or experience life. It’s ours after all.

You Never Get Used to It

I woke up this morning with an ice pic stabbing my cranium above my left eye.  I rolled over confused and saw Anya all snuggled up in her footies on daddy's pillow.  She had thrown up at bed time and no matter how much resolve, odor eating shampoo formula, fabreeze and open windows the smell requires atomic cleansing to remove...so she slept with me in the big bed and daddy found himself on the couch.  The yogurt she found on the table after her nap yesterday had been sitting out for hours, forgotten, we had figured out this morning.  I went to put her into her crib for bed after a verse of Twinkle Twinkle, she looked at me blankly and swallowed hard a few times....blllllaaaauuuwwwk....and for me, since puke is something I've never been able to tolerate, and don't let them fool you that it's different with your own...bullshit...this was the worst ending to a bad day!

We stripped down as she shook and shivered, whimpering while I controlled my own impulse to add to the slop running down the crib bars and drip drip dropping onto the rug.  It was everywhere...across the room, on the bedspread, on me, oozing off her.  I grabbed old receiving blankets and tried to collect the chunks and give a compulsory wipe down before we cleaned ourselves in the tub.  I grabbed my phone unconsciously and called Rich while the tub filled with water and bubbles. 

"How much longer do you think you'll be?"

"I don't know.  Why?"

"Puke-tastic.  But it wasn't on purpose.  Seems like something she ate."

Overly loud disgruntled (and disgusted) sigh, "I'll get home when I can, but you'll have to figure it out."

We hung up and I sunk deep into the bubbles and cursed to myself.  Anya relaxed, stopped shaking and started trying to pop the bubbles.  The best part of a puke-tastic night is sliding into the warm, bubbly bath tub.  I haven't taken a bath in about 20 years (I do shower daily, mind you, so no snarky euwws), so this bit of heaven for me is pure entertainment and happiness for Anya.  She takes the wash cloth and I ask her to wash each part of herself and am amazed how much she understands.  Too bad our tub is a fake, miniature, fiberglass, excuse-for bathing and I can barely get myself back to standing for the wash and rinse off.

I dry her off in a fluffy purple towel and dress her in a new pair of fleece footies and get her snuggled on her rocking chair with some Wonder Pets.  I grab some paper towels, greenworks, oxi-clean resolve, the shampooer with industrial strength odor removing formula and struggle up the steps in dread.  I'm already psyching myself out.  Come on.  You're a grown up.  You've done it before.  Just get it over with.  I start with the dripping bars and crib contents.  Slowly I pluck each corner of the sheet and mattress pad from its corner, realizing that the ooze will also be behind the bars and essentially get on the mattress, albeit covered in plastic.  I step on something cold and fight the image of vomit on my clean toes.  I wrap everything up in the sheet and put them in a plastic bag, then attempt to wipe down the bars and O God I don't think I can do this and saturated them with Greenworks and used too many paper towels, but felt fairly successful in finding all the crevices.  Next I got on my knees with a soaked wash cloth and aimed at getting all the milk fats up so that the shampooer could actually clean the carpet.  I kept turning my head to the side to get a fresh breath of air from the open window, then turning back to the carpet and scrubbing the next spot with a glance.  I dowsed the carpet with Oxi Resolve and took all the mess to the washing machine downstairs.

On my way back up, I stopped and hugged Anya to make sure she was okay left alone downstairs so I could clean up.  She was so tired and was asking for more milk, but O no I wasn't making that mistake tonight.  I let her drink some water and told her I'd be back in a few minutes.  Thumb in mouth and fingers twirling her hair she nodded yes.  Back in the bog of stench I plugged in the shampooer and began to flood the carpet with super-powered cleaner.  I felt like I had beaten the monster and I did so by myself - instead of George the dragonslayer I was mom the Puke-slayer.  But I know he will return again and again to test my strength, making me weary and drained.

Anya fell asleep on my shoulder as we made our way upstairs.  I texted Rich to change over the washer to the dryer when he got home and that I think I did well cleaning up - this morning proved otherwise as the stench still eminates from beneath the closed door even with the window cracked open.  Anya curled up fetal on daddy's side of the bed and I just closed my eyes and drifted off into Neverland.

This morning I know the Puke-monster wounded me.  I managed to get myself up, dressed and off to work, but very late and in a state of torpidity.  For a moment I considered working from home, but instanly thought better.  There is no way anyone would let me get away with working from home on a Friday with the reason of: migraine - perception = taking advantage of the cat being away. 

I wanted to write something extrodinary today, but I want to do that everyday.  Who the hell am I to consider myself more profound or exceptional compared to the mass of bloggers around the world.  In reality the wound to my left brain will take some healing time, and until then I am without elite storytelling skills.  Enjoy my adventures in puke-tasticness.

Eternal Memory Closing

So there you have it...my morbidly depressing obsession with death.  I couldn't help it: 3 people in 12 months poofed and they kept dying.  When Anya was born I squirmed thinking that I had 3 full sets of grandparents - both maternal, paternal and great grandparents; Anya has 1 full set and her matriarchs.  The Estrogen House...perhaps there's something to be said about the women in her blood line.

Reading over my piece I heard my heart weeping; I felt pangs of ache being transported to a time that seems foreign to me now.  I'm glad I have these writings,  otherwise,  memory distorts the emotions and images and scenes.  Every year when the anniversaries arrive I know I am sad and it feels like yesterday, but the deep, penetrating sorrow has morphed into quiet reverence.  In some respects I feel guilty, like I'm betraying my ancestors or denying their due, like the expectations at a "Greece" Greek funeral. 

I also consider my post partum world...it was not much different than the place I found myself during the year of The River Styx.  I felt unreal.  During my father's last year and the one that followed there was no ability to comprehend the reality of life and inevitability of death and loss and being alone, and during my post partum year-ish the pain of change, confusion and physical suffering brought me back to that world of suffocating and abyssmal existence.

If I were to hold some philisophical discussion with myself I would bring out the big hitters and see how they would disect and process my perceptions.  Perhaps for another day as I'm too spent.  It's also, my birthday...a day quickly losing it's flavor in my annual celebrations - merely a reminder that one day my little Anya will hurt as I have and I can't bear to fathom those concepts.

Today I close my closet door, asking that my gremlins and trolls and furry monsters grant me a day or two of sunshine and smiles as I enter into the year before I am...not young any longer.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 9

Meditations

I’m sitting here, watching the snow melt as the winter season succumbs to the freshness of spring. I’m listening to songs on the radio, looking through my CD stack and a pile of poetry books that I need to find a shelf for. I notice a connection, or perhaps merely my own superstitions, in what surrounds me. For years I’ve recognized the sorrow I feel when I listen to my City of Angels soundtrack. The lyrics speak my story. Books that I’ve collected over the years contain quotes and verse that touch my soul.


Sweet sweet Impermanence,
The world is lightened by your presence.
- Azam Ali

I have found that life can threaten many things, but promises only one – death. The only promise life keeps is that at some point, some where, some time, some way, death will come. A life is born, but there are no guarantees that they will marry, have children, a job, have friends, or know their family. These are chances, not promises. A life is born, but may have to overcome abandonment, loss or lack of love, solitude, misery, pain – no promises of happiness and harmony exist. The only assurance is that at last death will come.

We can be sure of nothing. Yet there is one fact that is certain, namely, that a time will come, a morning or a night, when you will be called to make the journey out of this world, when you will have to die.
- John O’Donohue

Death is partial to no one. It does not distinguish between religion or culture, location or age. Death finds no prejudice or discrimination. As one is born, they will find death.

The destination of human time is death.
- John O’Donohue

People attempt to cheat death in their search for the fountain of youth and the immortality granted by the golden apple. These quests to escape death had failed.

We witness the death of strangers, friends, family, animals, life. The pain felt is universal; it tears at the heart; tears flood the void; emptiness prevails. No matter that a spouse lends a hand for strength, the last breath frees itself from the body, the heart drum fades, darkness comes; pain ripples through the senses. No matter that a child peers pleadingly at their groomed parent’s coffin; agony and confusion suffocate.

I buried my father on his 59th birthday, and it made no matter that he suffered his last years; I felt the pain of ages gone by. I cried with all those that had cried before me and with all those that would in times to come.

The life and passions of a person leave an imprint on the ether of a place.
- John O’Donohue

If this is true that death leaves behind something for the living. If this is true then we must go beyond the five known senses and reawaken our unknown senses to find comfort from those who have gone before us. Are these the hauntings and ghostly presences that people claim to witness? These imprints must be strong to recapture the physical-ness of life past. I seek each day for my father’s imprint, but I do not sense it or maybe I have not reopened my inner self to feel him.

Because my father and I shared little more than blood prior to the last year of his life, I do not know where to look for him—where his mark may be. I look to the sky for an image in the clouds; I listen to the wind for his voice; I breathe in his cologne for a sense of his smell; I sit in his chair hoping to feel his essence, but he is gone; only his memory haunts me.

Memory is where our vanished days secretly gather.
- John O’Donohue

Will his memory be my only comfort? The thought pains me. Where is the key to open my soul to find him once more to not feel so alone?

The death of a loved one is bitterly lonely.
- John O’Donohue

The mind is full of what could be, but no one knows for sure. I fear the possibility of nothingness.

All of human life stands under the shadow of nothingness, the umbra nihili.
- Master Eckhart

But I revel in the thought of a beautiful and peaceful afterlife with the possibility of reincarnation. My hopes lie in the idea of destiny, a purpose for living.

To be born is to be chosen. No one is here by accident. Each one of us was sent here
for a special destiny.
- John O’Donohue

I find comfort in believing that my father’s purpose was met; his destiny achieved, and that his time on earth had passed accordingly. This I hope so that there may be a place where I can hug him tightly once again.

In all the answers that we seek only one is true – death WILL come. And when death takes one of us a connection is forged between the spirits of the mourning people: a shared pain throughout the ages.

There is the darkness of the unknown at our origin. We suddenly emerged from this unknown, and the band of brightness called life began. Then there is the darkness at the end when we disappear again back into the unknown.
- John O’Donohue

We don’t know or understand, but we feel what is in our soul.

There are things that are known, and things that are unknown: in between are the doors.
- William Blake

Death is the door between life that we know and beyond - the unknown.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 8

Catch me as I fall

Say you're here and it's all over now
Speaking to the atmosphere
No one's here and I fall into myself
This truth drives me
Into madness
I know I can stop the pain
If I will it all away
- Evanescence

I have a mahogany jewelry box with a pewter fairy, resting atop, protecting its contents. This box hold three items: my father’s gold cross that only left his neck upon his death, engraved with his initials, a blue, beaded necklace from my mother, and an old, white, cotton handkerchief. The handkerchief is my maternal papou’s. It was given to me by my grandmother the day I arrived in Greece too late.


“Yiayia, hold tight. I’m on my way. See you in two days. I love you.”

Passport…tickets…suitcase…strength...Ok. Into the car and off to the airport I go.

Just over a month before, my maternal grandfather - who lives in Greece - went to the doctor in Athens because he had been losing weight, had problems swallowing, and wasn’t feeling quite right. Mind you my grandparents still climbed their own olive trees for picking and making fresh olive oil – I am lucky enough to get a few gallons each year, savoring the flavor brought out through their labors. My papou hated doctors, refusing to go to one of “those butchers” ever. But this time was different. They found that he had esophageal cancer, so advanced it necessitated surgery. The surgery left his immune system weaker than the cancer itself, and over the next six weeks he declined at an exponential rate.

My Aunt Elaine was already with my yiayia, taking turns with her at my papou’s bedside. I was speaking with them daily, sometimes two or three times a day, wanting to understand. I wanted to know each and every thing that was going on, and how I would be able to help.

“Come, Renee, come if you can. And come quickly,” was the only response I received from my aunt. I arranged my tickets, and asked my bosses if they could help me with my time off. Everything was set, including planning my reluctant mother’s trip 10 days from then. My aunt called just as I picked up my suitcase and headed for the door.

“Renee, we’re going back to the island.” She began. “We’re leaving tomorrow. See if you can catch the flight with us, if you get to Athens on time. They said papou could travel, and he wants to be home.”

I stopped in Heathrow first, and scurrying through the endless terminals to find my connecting flight. Why does Heathrow seem like such a nightmare? I have time for just one smoke, but I have to find one of those new smoking areas. Geesh. Ridiculous.

The second leg brought me safely to Athens. As I got my bags I heard the boarding call for the flight to Ikaria. I can make it. I know I can. I ran up to the counter and explained that my papou was on the flight being transferred to the hospital in Ikaria.

“Se parekalo, o papouV mou eina mesa stin aeroplano, eine poli askimoV, parekalo, borw na pou?”  I beg the attendant at the Olympic booth to get me on the flight. But no, they couldn’t or they wouldn’t, I don’t know if my broken Greek was getting me anywhere but laughed at. I tried a few more times, and they even claimed to have called down to the plane, but refused my boarding. Damn me for not continuing my Greek studies.

I went to the Sofitel in the airport and got a room. I picked up some biscuits and water in the lobby store, but I was too unsettled to wander far from my room. I flipped through channels and caught some English on a BBC channel. With each new program or news segment, I surfed the channels again, looking for familiarity and distraction while waiting to try my aunt’s cell to ask about the flight to Ikaria and my papou.

I fell asleep sometime during the Greek news, which I couldn’t understand anyways. I awoke from a pounding heart and nasty head pain. How long had I slept? What time was it? I dialed my aunt’s number.

“Thea, how was the trip? I tried to get on the flight, I really did. They wouldn’t let me, but you guys were still boarding. Is everything ok? How’s papou? Is yiayia doing all right?”

“I can’t believe they didn’t let you on the flight. We thought you would make it. Stupid idiots! The flight wasn’t too bad and it wasn’t full.”

“And papou?”

“He’s home. He’s home now. I told him you were coming. I told him and he smiled.”

“Is he ok?”

“We’ll see you tomorrow. I have to go. I love you, baby.”

And that was it. Nothing else.

Several hours of tossing and turning, fear and anxiety, finally passed, getting me to the terminal for the Ikaria-bound flight. I boarded the four thousand year old plane, held together by rubber bands and superglue, and settled into my six inch seat (the planes that go to the island are small, carrying maybe fifty people max). The island is close by plane (9 hours by boat), basically, if you blink, you’ve landed already. However, these planes don’t allow you that luxury – of blinking. You hold your breath ascending, praying that a rubber band doesn’t snap, and the paper outer layer doesn’t crumble from wind shear, and as soon as you are ready to let out that breath, you can see a few hundred yards long, dirt path at the end of the island in the distance. One more inhale and you’re descending, begging any gods out there that the plane doesn’t miss that dirt path up ahead because what you see is supposed to be the landing strip. Plop…stop. These pilots are amazing.

I exited the plane and entered the small building known as the airport. My aunt and yiayia were waiting for me. They hug me tightly and ask me about my flight. I looked at both of them, and instantly knew what they desperately tried to hide.

“Yiayia? Yiayia, no.”

“Yes, baby, oh yes. I’m sorry, Renee. He’s home now.”

Yiayia’s paleness was more pronounced by the stark black head-to-toe outfit she was wearing. For the first time I saw lines in her face and realized that her hair was no longer Lucy red; her eyes were shallow, pronouncing circles and bags. My yiayia always looked fresh and well kept - now I didn’t see my yiayia only the idea of the woman whom I loved so dearly. Yiayia and my aunt unfolded the sorrow while holding me tight to their chests.

They arrived in Ikaria, and the ambulance took my papou to the hospital. My yiayia checked him into his room, gave him a kiss with love, and left to get their car. When the doctor came into his room to check on all the wires and machines, he leaned in to my papou and said, “Eftases, Xhrsto (You’ve arrived / you’re home).”

Papou smiled, took two breaths, and left us…moments before I called.

I was too late. The storm gathered strength in my mind and heart. I never got to see him, to tell him I loved him. Along the winding S-paths and cliff edges, we drove to the village of Pangia, silently. I looked out the car window telepathically calling my grandfather:



Not so long ago in a place not much changed
pain brought the mountains to the sea.
The winds raged chaotic change
relentlessly, unfeeling
The bitter numbness could not raise the fallen rubble, not calm Neptune’s caps
The stretch of village was veiled by somber stirrings
flooding with rising waters
The mahogany phoenix sprayed lovingly in fragrant offerings of devoted love
A shell lost at sea
The tempest sprang from within engulfing, consuming souls.

My memories of Ikaria were of warm sunshine, busy promenades, and soothing air, my summers full of vitality amidst an island far removed from modern life. My current arrival in Ikaria contrasted these images of joy and freshness with harsh winds, bone chilling cold, and grey; winter obscured my pleasant thoughts of my home away from home. The dead of winter.

My papou would be buried the following day, my grandparent’s anniversary. I tried to help where I could; funerals in Greece were much different than here in the states. We went to the market to purchase the needed food and beverage for the mourning to be held after the burial, next door at Popi’s; through the barren platia we walked store to store, looking for the best prices, and receiving condolences from villagers out in the winter chill. They praised my yiayia for having a daughter and granddaughter by her side during the somber events.

We awoke the next morning to ominous clouds in the sky and winds whipping around the mountain. I looked out the window from my yiayia’s dining room to where the mountain met the sea, the dark water, broken by white caps, churned, baring the fury of winter. The atmosphere of the outside world reflected our inside emotions, raging pain. We went down to the hospital to follow the car, which would carry my papou to the church just beyond their home in Panagia. As we entered the church the pall bearers placed the mahogany box on its stand, and we, my yiayia, my aunt, and me, were shown to the few chairs beside the coffin. Despite my sobbing, I still managed to observe how beautiful the wood-carved images of the phoenix, symbolizing perpetual rebirth, looked decorating my papou’s eternal bed.

The service was brief, but my tears met the ocean waves below. Many villagers from near and far arrived to share my yiayia’s grief. I knew so few of my grandparent’s friends and family that spent their lives on this small island in the eastern Aegean Sea. Their sorrow was pronounced, and mourning was real, not merely a term applied to those who have lost. Not a smile dotted lips or eyes meeting others’ tears; a grand respect for the dead demanded complete discipline.

The ancient world of Antigone and Medea rose before me. The ideals of time past still reigned in these mountains; there were dos and donts, rituals, expectations, and demands on the family that to my American upbringing stunned me. Skin must not show; all garments must be black; eyes must drown in sorrow; wailing expected; no raised heads or pleasant greetings. Love for the deceased would be measured in self-effacement. The wife, children, and immediate family have no entitlement to strength; the death of a man reflects the greatest, most unbearable loss and suffering. My yiayia will be subject to these laws for all her days in the old country, never turning from the pain, never recovering from loss, never to be whole again. Archaic and barbaric.

Once the ceremony concluded, the pall bearers braced the coffin on their shoulders, and we followed, all on foot, down the road, up the hill, step by step, to the cemetery, a parade of mourners, shadow forms, trailing the mahogany phoenix. They placed the coffin in the freshly turned dirt, and opened the box. I was warned by my aunt, “Don’t look!” But how could I not. O, I wish I had not. I thought they made a mistake; the man in the box was not my papou. How could it be? The face was grey and sagging, no embalming fluid or mortician placed makeup, frail, bones. The image haunts me. Some dirt, a few drops of oil, and a single flower, tossed in by my yiayia, rests with my papou for eternity.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 7

Life gets so confusing

And hard to figure out.
I’m growing up so fast
What’s it all about?
Things are changing quickly,
Time is flying by.
I’m becoming a different person,
Sometimes I wonder why.
Sometimes it gets real scary
And I want to run away.
But I know things will fit together,
Somehow, sometime someday.
- Anonymous

My metamorphosis began (unawares to me) on the day I lost in the hospital waiting room with my mother; the day I entered my cocoon where I spent years undergoing a transformation. Heart beat by heart beat I changed, realized, awoke; I left my fiancé, moved back to my childhood home, went to college, cared for my grandparents, then my father, then found my family and myself.


The sicker my father became the more withdrawn my mother was. I had to make up for all those years of pain I inflicted on my family: my penance. I took on multiple responsibilities, including nursemaid, confidant, peace keeper, household leader - a whirlwind of responsibilities that I would never have believed humanly possible or personally capable of managing. Wasn’t I still a child? I didn’t understand what was happening in my unconscious mind; how the pieces of my life were putting together the intricate puzzle that began the day I was born. How I survived I can’t explain. I look back in wonder at the stress and confusion, and still can’t paint a picture. Then again, some consider me more than slightly off balance, but a sane insanity.

One night in my father’s room I was crushing his meds to be put through his feeding tube followed by the nutrient formula that was his only sustenance. He sat there looking at me with a look I was unfamiliar with.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“For what, dad.”

“For ruining your life and my family.”

“Why would you say something like that? We want you to be better. You’ve ruined nothing. Stop that.”

“My wife hates the sight of me, my children can’t be in the same room with me, and you…you I’ve been a monster to. I’m so sorry for all the things I said to you growing up; for you I was the most scared, but you are the only one here for me now. I’m so sorry.” His head fell into his hands and he cried, ashamed.

“Daddy, please, you didn’t know, and neither did I that all I went through was going to make me who I am; it made me strong for you. It made me strong for you,” fighting back my own tears I knelt down and hugged my father’s shuddering frame.

Why now when it was too late to enjoy the newfound father before me? Now that I had a father who I would be honored to walk me down the aisle; now that I had a father who was proud of me, loved me, his delinquent and rebel; now that I had a father who would beam looking into a grandchild’s eyes. Why? Why? Why!! None of this would he experience; none of this would I ever be able to share with him.

And who was I? I was a stranger to myself, feeling emotions that were foreign and developing ideals that I never before considered. Had I reverted back to my innocent childhood perspectives of family and responsibility? Or was I someone all together different? I didn’t have the time to ponder these questions at that time, nor did I until many years later, when I had time to focus on me and my experiences, when I was forced into solitude, confronted with grief and chaos; I came to understand and respect me.

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.