Hope
CQ
Having to repeat oneself, repeatedly, is easily one of life’s more exasperating experiences.
Once again, “But surrender is not the same as giving up Dad. All surrender means is -- acceptance.”
My father has been relentlessly coaching and vocally pushing my infirmed mother to get out of her wheelchair. To please take a step. All morning, all week, his mantras of alleged cheerleading have reverberated throughout our small house. Which feels like it is getting smaller and more cramped every day, the walls closing in to his “Come on now honey, try again!” Or “You absolutely can do this! Just try one more time.” Then there’s the alternative “God-damnit! Alrighty honey, let’s go. Keep at it, one more time. No giving up.”
My mom leans heavily to one side of the wheelchair, pillows buttressing her in a faux attempt to keep her upright. I think she looks almost jaundiced. But she maintains the façade of exhausted resolve to give it another go. Dad won’t take no for an answer, even though her body cannot offer any sort of a physical yes.
Years ago, as a much younger version of myself, I asked my highly educated and ethical father – what did he consider to be the worst sin a person could commit?
Without hesitation he had replied, “To give up hope.”
I was caught completely off guard. “Um okay…really? But how about blackmail, or betrayal? Racism or rape? Abuse of children?”
My father was unwavering. “There could be nothing worse than giving up hope. To surrender your trust in God’s infinite possibilities would mean one had lost their faith.”
Now as I listen to him instruct my mother to resist her permanent paralysis; demand she not dirty her grown-up diaper; telepathically will her to defeat the malignant odds…I scoff at my father’s faith.
And hence my own. Or lack thereof.
I pull my father into the den, practically hissing at him. “Dad, you gotta give mom a break. Look at her. She can barely swallow, she can’t bathe herself, she’s emaciated – why are you trying to get her to walk? Wake up! It’s ridiculous!” He starts to answer but I’m not having it.
“Dad, you gotta face reality here.”
My father looks incredulous. I can see he is fighting the urge to smack me across my face. His eyes drill into mine as he steps towards me. “It’s never time to give up!”
I touch his arm. “Surrender is not the same as giving up Dad. All surrender means is – acceptance.” My father sternly removes my hand from his arm and returns to the kitchen. I trudge in after him.
My mother looks at me, wincing, pleading with sunken eyes for a rescue from my father’s inevitable forthcoming pep talk. I’ve got her back.
“I think Mom looks about ready to nap. Let’s return her to bed.” My father looks as if he wants to throttle me.
Together we lift this formerly statuesque woman, now atrophied and boney, from the wheelchair to the hospital grade bed. “Thank you so much,” my mom says, with her usual quiet gratitude.
Why my father persists in this daily rotation of moving her from the bed, to the wheelchair, then demand that she walk, back to her wheelchair and then back again to her bed, is beyond my comprehension. As if it will do anything except frustrate the hell out of all three of us. My mother does not argue the pointlessness of it with him. Dad leaves and in his wake I feel his internal seething from my scolding.
I remain standing by my mother’s bed, which permanently resides in the kitchen now. To remove stair climbing and for the convenience of – well, all three of us. It’s a tight fit. Whenever the fridge door opens, it frequently swings back and crashes into the protective bar on her hospital bed. Making a jarring metallic sound that sends shivers through each of our brains.
As usual, the kitchen emits an odor of alcohol wipes, baby powder and soiled Depends. I often brew coffee, just to cover the smell. I set about doing so now as I could some caffeine. I stare out the kitchen window, watching the snow float down as it has for hours. Continuously. Smothering everything with its beauty.
I pour a cup of coffee for my father as well. I know he is exhausted. Keeping another human alive is a taxation of the body and soul unlike any other. Faith has little to do with sustaining someone’s life – the latter is only achieved through backbreaking labor, minimal sleep, and dogged perseverance.
With my father out of the room, out of earshot, out of patience, and at a safe distance for Mom to postpone her pretend-for-his-sake optimism, she beckons me with her eyes once more.
I go to her and she reaches for my hand. Our roles have been reversed for a long time now; with me mothering my mother since I was twelve. She has been wholly dependent on those around her these last years, much like a little child. It is a constant battle for me to suppress the resentment that this has caused on those many days I ache to live the carefree life promised to teenagers. There have even been the God-awful moments when I have had the fleeting desire for my mother to simply get it over with and die.
Because at times, frequent times, it can feel like too much. Because it is unbearable to watch the person you love most in the world be in pain. Be incontinent. Be in distress. Be bullied by my father’s blind determination that my mother must recuperate.
Because I often do not feel up to the task of being the cook, the nurse, the listening ear for my mother and the venting reciprocal for my father. Such momentary moments coexisting right alongside those of when I am astonished at how I juggle the shopping, and my tears, and my father, and my homework, and my field hockey practices. And yet I sense my mother is proud of me. I try mostly to savor every good minute we have left of our countdown.
I search for a flush of color, of strength, of recognition of who she once was, in the skeletal face that somehow still manages to beam. I hold my cup of coffee out to her so she can wrap her hands around it to warm them.
After, she laces her fingers through mine. We remain like that, me standing sipping coffee with one hand; my other hand entwined with my mother’s fingers.
Until she whispers, “I am so afraid.”
I squeeze back her hand. “Of course you are Mom. Who wouldn’t be? I’m totally terrified.”
My mother sighs. I pull away, setting down my cup, and retreat my hands stubbornly into my jeans. “But Mom, you show no fear in front of him. Ever. It’s Dad’s place to hear that you are frightened, not mine. I’m the kid! Why are you telling me, instead of him?”
My mother rolls her eyes in a manner suggesting I am being ridiculous, and then pats the bed beside her inviting me to a sit. “Ssshhh. You know the answer to that question,” she hushes me.
Now it is my turn to sigh. “Because Dad will not allow himself to be afraid?”
My mother affirms with the slightest nod, and together we smile. Small, sad smiles, recognizing our shared commonality in our great affection for this man. Whose fear right now is more massive than his massive faith.
My mother turns to the window, eyes clear with the clarity that death brings. “But if your father cannot accept the fear, then he cannot accept the reality. And then, he cannot know the grace.”
Good God. In my mother’s weakest hour, still her wisdom gloriously flourishes, and even in that hush – it explodes.
With backbreaking acceptance.
I kiss her on the forehead and then leave to take the coffee to my father. He grabs it from me without meeting my eyes. I go to kiss him on the forehead as well, but he pulls away at the last second, still fuming from my earlier lecture.
That evening, after the lights have been put out, my mother sponged down and tucked in, the coffee machine unplugged, and my father deeply snoring nearby on the couch in the den, the winter moon aglow glistens on the glassy snow. There’s a constant chill in the air, both outside and within the home. The snow, determined not to melt, has hardened itself into thick frozen clumps.
I feel like even my breath is icy. Lying restless and awake in the middle of the night, I hear movement from my parents’ room. I slip out of bed, grabbing my mother’s robe, and go next door.
My father is kneeling by their queen bed that my parents haven’t slept in together for months – ever since all of Mom’s things have been kept downstairs in the kitchen and near the hospital bed. My father is rocking back and forth, weeping. I go to him and take his hand.
“Oh Daddy.” My father stills himself, freezing his body. “It’s time. Time to give in. Someone told me it’s giving in to the grace. Doesn’t mean there isn’t any more hope Dad? Hope, and your God are there still. In miracles that disguise themselves as un-miraculous.”
He looks at me finally, for the first time since our confrontation this afternoon. “Miracles?”
“Yes Dad. In Mommy still being able to communicate, even though she cannot and will not, ever be able to walk again.” He goes to speak, to disagree, to challenge. But then, he lets his words evaporate into the night air between us.
“Dad, it is ‘miraculous’ that homemade scones and blueberry muffins just appear on our doorstep. Just dropped off. Like manna. And that nurse showing up every single day, on time, singing country ballads. She makes Mommy laugh. Right?” My father smiles. “And the morphine has given her body some comfort?” His nod is heavy.
“And me and Mommy? We don’t argue, anymore.”
He gets up from his knees and sits on the edge of the bed.
I cross my fingers behind my back, the way I did when I was five years old, when I hoped and wished for something. “Mommy is not ‘giving up’ but I think she is giving in. To the grace. Maybe it’s time for us to do that too?” My father’s body becomes slightly less rigid. I continue.
“Don’t miss out on these little “miracles” while you push for things that cannot be. Give in – and be hopeful, like you taught me? Just for one more tomorrow. Of Mommy’s gentle, weak hugs. For another morning coffee when you get to warm her hands around the cup. For another chance to curse the snow with her. Ask your God for another opportunity to make your soft yummy omelets for Mom. Pray for one more sweet breath – together. These are the quiet graces that live in very tiny, very sacred moments. Give in to those Daddy."
The father looks at his daughter, thirty years his junior at her ripe old age of seventeen. He remembers how she chastised him this afternoon.
And how at that time he’d wanted to slap her.
Now he wonders how she got so smart. Must be from her mother.
The next morning the snow began to thaw. And while the coffee percolated, and his daughter slept in, the father said to his wife, “Before I get you up and walking today, first we’ll go for a stroll together.” Following behind her happy confusion, he pushes her through the house in her wheelchair.
Meanwhile, I sit bolt upright awakened by a dream in which my mother had just died.
And in that moment, I don’t know if I hope for that to be true.
###
CQ worked as a professional stage, film and television performer; took a hiatus to raise two amazing children and to travel; recently acquired an MFA in Creative Writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University. Recipient of an Honorable Mention in the National Humana Festival for 10 minute plays; another short play produced in NYC; Huffington Post requested publication of CQ’s first story; contributor to the collection Reaching Beyond the Saguaros; and just had three public readings of selections from CQ’s thesis, a collection of short stories entitled Those Moments of Connection.
Having to repeat oneself, repeatedly, is easily one of life’s more exasperating experiences.
Once again, “But surrender is not the same as giving up Dad. All surrender means is -- acceptance.”
My father has been relentlessly coaching and vocally pushing my infirmed mother to get out of her wheelchair. To please take a step. All morning, all week, his mantras of alleged cheerleading have reverberated throughout our small house. Which feels like it is getting smaller and more cramped every day, the walls closing in to his “Come on now honey, try again!” Or “You absolutely can do this! Just try one more time.” Then there’s the alternative “God-damnit! Alrighty honey, let’s go. Keep at it, one more time. No giving up.”
My mom leans heavily to one side of the wheelchair, pillows buttressing her in a faux attempt to keep her upright. I think she looks almost jaundiced. But she maintains the façade of exhausted resolve to give it another go. Dad won’t take no for an answer, even though her body cannot offer any sort of a physical yes.
Years ago, as a much younger version of myself, I asked my highly educated and ethical father – what did he consider to be the worst sin a person could commit?
Without hesitation he had replied, “To give up hope.”
I was caught completely off guard. “Um okay…really? But how about blackmail, or betrayal? Racism or rape? Abuse of children?”
My father was unwavering. “There could be nothing worse than giving up hope. To surrender your trust in God’s infinite possibilities would mean one had lost their faith.”
Now as I listen to him instruct my mother to resist her permanent paralysis; demand she not dirty her grown-up diaper; telepathically will her to defeat the malignant odds…I scoff at my father’s faith.
And hence my own. Or lack thereof.
I pull my father into the den, practically hissing at him. “Dad, you gotta give mom a break. Look at her. She can barely swallow, she can’t bathe herself, she’s emaciated – why are you trying to get her to walk? Wake up! It’s ridiculous!” He starts to answer but I’m not having it.
“Dad, you gotta face reality here.”
My father looks incredulous. I can see he is fighting the urge to smack me across my face. His eyes drill into mine as he steps towards me. “It’s never time to give up!”
I touch his arm. “Surrender is not the same as giving up Dad. All surrender means is – acceptance.” My father sternly removes my hand from his arm and returns to the kitchen. I trudge in after him.
My mother looks at me, wincing, pleading with sunken eyes for a rescue from my father’s inevitable forthcoming pep talk. I’ve got her back.
“I think Mom looks about ready to nap. Let’s return her to bed.” My father looks as if he wants to throttle me.
Together we lift this formerly statuesque woman, now atrophied and boney, from the wheelchair to the hospital grade bed. “Thank you so much,” my mom says, with her usual quiet gratitude.
Why my father persists in this daily rotation of moving her from the bed, to the wheelchair, then demand that she walk, back to her wheelchair and then back again to her bed, is beyond my comprehension. As if it will do anything except frustrate the hell out of all three of us. My mother does not argue the pointlessness of it with him. Dad leaves and in his wake I feel his internal seething from my scolding.
I remain standing by my mother’s bed, which permanently resides in the kitchen now. To remove stair climbing and for the convenience of – well, all three of us. It’s a tight fit. Whenever the fridge door opens, it frequently swings back and crashes into the protective bar on her hospital bed. Making a jarring metallic sound that sends shivers through each of our brains.
As usual, the kitchen emits an odor of alcohol wipes, baby powder and soiled Depends. I often brew coffee, just to cover the smell. I set about doing so now as I could some caffeine. I stare out the kitchen window, watching the snow float down as it has for hours. Continuously. Smothering everything with its beauty.
I pour a cup of coffee for my father as well. I know he is exhausted. Keeping another human alive is a taxation of the body and soul unlike any other. Faith has little to do with sustaining someone’s life – the latter is only achieved through backbreaking labor, minimal sleep, and dogged perseverance.
With my father out of the room, out of earshot, out of patience, and at a safe distance for Mom to postpone her pretend-for-his-sake optimism, she beckons me with her eyes once more.
I go to her and she reaches for my hand. Our roles have been reversed for a long time now; with me mothering my mother since I was twelve. She has been wholly dependent on those around her these last years, much like a little child. It is a constant battle for me to suppress the resentment that this has caused on those many days I ache to live the carefree life promised to teenagers. There have even been the God-awful moments when I have had the fleeting desire for my mother to simply get it over with and die.
Because at times, frequent times, it can feel like too much. Because it is unbearable to watch the person you love most in the world be in pain. Be incontinent. Be in distress. Be bullied by my father’s blind determination that my mother must recuperate.
Because I often do not feel up to the task of being the cook, the nurse, the listening ear for my mother and the venting reciprocal for my father. Such momentary moments coexisting right alongside those of when I am astonished at how I juggle the shopping, and my tears, and my father, and my homework, and my field hockey practices. And yet I sense my mother is proud of me. I try mostly to savor every good minute we have left of our countdown.
I search for a flush of color, of strength, of recognition of who she once was, in the skeletal face that somehow still manages to beam. I hold my cup of coffee out to her so she can wrap her hands around it to warm them.
After, she laces her fingers through mine. We remain like that, me standing sipping coffee with one hand; my other hand entwined with my mother’s fingers.
Until she whispers, “I am so afraid.”
I squeeze back her hand. “Of course you are Mom. Who wouldn’t be? I’m totally terrified.”
My mother sighs. I pull away, setting down my cup, and retreat my hands stubbornly into my jeans. “But Mom, you show no fear in front of him. Ever. It’s Dad’s place to hear that you are frightened, not mine. I’m the kid! Why are you telling me, instead of him?”
My mother rolls her eyes in a manner suggesting I am being ridiculous, and then pats the bed beside her inviting me to a sit. “Ssshhh. You know the answer to that question,” she hushes me.
Now it is my turn to sigh. “Because Dad will not allow himself to be afraid?”
My mother affirms with the slightest nod, and together we smile. Small, sad smiles, recognizing our shared commonality in our great affection for this man. Whose fear right now is more massive than his massive faith.
My mother turns to the window, eyes clear with the clarity that death brings. “But if your father cannot accept the fear, then he cannot accept the reality. And then, he cannot know the grace.”
Good God. In my mother’s weakest hour, still her wisdom gloriously flourishes, and even in that hush – it explodes.
With backbreaking acceptance.
I kiss her on the forehead and then leave to take the coffee to my father. He grabs it from me without meeting my eyes. I go to kiss him on the forehead as well, but he pulls away at the last second, still fuming from my earlier lecture.
That evening, after the lights have been put out, my mother sponged down and tucked in, the coffee machine unplugged, and my father deeply snoring nearby on the couch in the den, the winter moon aglow glistens on the glassy snow. There’s a constant chill in the air, both outside and within the home. The snow, determined not to melt, has hardened itself into thick frozen clumps.
I feel like even my breath is icy. Lying restless and awake in the middle of the night, I hear movement from my parents’ room. I slip out of bed, grabbing my mother’s robe, and go next door.
My father is kneeling by their queen bed that my parents haven’t slept in together for months – ever since all of Mom’s things have been kept downstairs in the kitchen and near the hospital bed. My father is rocking back and forth, weeping. I go to him and take his hand.
“Oh Daddy.” My father stills himself, freezing his body. “It’s time. Time to give in. Someone told me it’s giving in to the grace. Doesn’t mean there isn’t any more hope Dad? Hope, and your God are there still. In miracles that disguise themselves as un-miraculous.”
He looks at me finally, for the first time since our confrontation this afternoon. “Miracles?”
“Yes Dad. In Mommy still being able to communicate, even though she cannot and will not, ever be able to walk again.” He goes to speak, to disagree, to challenge. But then, he lets his words evaporate into the night air between us.
“Dad, it is ‘miraculous’ that homemade scones and blueberry muffins just appear on our doorstep. Just dropped off. Like manna. And that nurse showing up every single day, on time, singing country ballads. She makes Mommy laugh. Right?” My father smiles. “And the morphine has given her body some comfort?” His nod is heavy.
“And me and Mommy? We don’t argue, anymore.”
He gets up from his knees and sits on the edge of the bed.
I cross my fingers behind my back, the way I did when I was five years old, when I hoped and wished for something. “Mommy is not ‘giving up’ but I think she is giving in. To the grace. Maybe it’s time for us to do that too?” My father’s body becomes slightly less rigid. I continue.
“Don’t miss out on these little “miracles” while you push for things that cannot be. Give in – and be hopeful, like you taught me? Just for one more tomorrow. Of Mommy’s gentle, weak hugs. For another morning coffee when you get to warm her hands around the cup. For another chance to curse the snow with her. Ask your God for another opportunity to make your soft yummy omelets for Mom. Pray for one more sweet breath – together. These are the quiet graces that live in very tiny, very sacred moments. Give in to those Daddy."
The father looks at his daughter, thirty years his junior at her ripe old age of seventeen. He remembers how she chastised him this afternoon.
And how at that time he’d wanted to slap her.
Now he wonders how she got so smart. Must be from her mother.
The next morning the snow began to thaw. And while the coffee percolated, and his daughter slept in, the father said to his wife, “Before I get you up and walking today, first we’ll go for a stroll together.” Following behind her happy confusion, he pushes her through the house in her wheelchair.
Meanwhile, I sit bolt upright awakened by a dream in which my mother had just died.
And in that moment, I don’t know if I hope for that to be true.
###
CQ worked as a professional stage, film and television performer; took a hiatus to raise two amazing children and to travel; recently acquired an MFA in Creative Writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University. Recipient of an Honorable Mention in the National Humana Festival for 10 minute plays; another short play produced in NYC; Huffington Post requested publication of CQ’s first story; contributor to the collection Reaching Beyond the Saguaros; and just had three public readings of selections from CQ’s thesis, a collection of short stories entitled Those Moments of Connection.