Gethsemane

[dedalus_1947]

Then they came to a place named Gethsemane,
and he said to his disciples,
"Sit here while I pray."
He took with him Peter, James, and John,
and began to be troubled and distressed.
Then he said to them, "My soul is sorrowful even to death.
Remain here and keep watch."
He advanced a little and fell to the ground and prayed
that if it were possible the hour might pass by him;
he said, "Abba, Father, all things are possible to you.
Take this cup away from me,
but not what I will but what you will."
When he returned he found them asleep.
He said to Peter, "Simon, are you asleep?
Could you not keep watch for one hour?
Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test.
The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

(Gospel from Palm Sunday – Mark 14: 32-39)

 

 A deadly gloom hung over the front of the car as we drove home. No one had spoken since leaving the Motion Picture & Television Hospital in Calabasas.

“We didn’t accomplish a fucking thing by going there!” Toñito muttered, between clenched teeth.

I turned from my driving to shoot him a quick look of surprise. Toñito rarely cursed, and he never said “fuck” in my presence. His face was a rigid mask of anguish, as he stared straight through the windshield.

“What do you mean?” I asked; addressing his words, and not reacting to his emotions.

 “I don’t know what I mean” he said, impatiently. “I don’t know why I went; and I don’t know what we hoped to do by going. I sure didn’t think I’d feel more mixed after it was over”.

I recoiled from the bitterness seething in his words. I wanted to say something calming and soothing, but I felt as lost and confused as he sounded. Since leaving Frank, I’d been practically mute, as if struck dumb by the ghastly vision of a banshee reflected on the sliding glass doors of the hospital exit. I couldn’t remain silent any further.

“What are you doing?” Toñito interjected, as I impulsively pulled the car to the right.

“I’m going to park”, I answered decisively. “We need to talk about this, and I can’t do it while I’m driving”.

I pulled over on Valley Circle, just past the freeway, and turned off the motor. I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face Toñito in the passenger seat.

  

I’d arrived home that Tuesday to find only Toñito in the house. I was on Spring Break, but Catholic schools were still in session until Thursday. Their vacation would start at noon on Holy Thursday, the first day of the Triduum leading to Easter. As I passed his bedroom, I peeked in to see Toñito sprawled out on his bed, reading a puzzle book of some kind. He was still dressed in his school uniform. I tried recalling what Kathy had told me of her afternoon plans, but I was drawing a blank.

“Toñito” I called out, walking over to the oversized wall calendar in the kitchen, “do you know where your mother is?”

“She was still working in her classroom when I left” he shouted back from his room. “Prisa had softball practice”. Toñito’s news was informative, but it didn’t jog any more details from my memory.

“Did she mention when she would be home?” I pressed.

“No” Toñito said, walking out of his room and joining me in the kitchen. “But she did mention dropping in on Mary to see if she needed any help”.

“Oh yeah” I said, “of course. Now I remember”. We had talked about this the other night. Kathy could be delayed anywhere from one to three hours. From school she would probably go to Mary’s house or the hospital. There was no point thinking or worrying about time or dinner. Kathy’s itinerary would depend on Mary’s needs; and this week, they were very uncertain. I continued staring at the calendar hanging on the wall, looking for some new clue or inspiration. The only thing written was the address of Frank’s hospital and his room number. Kathy had written it at my request after learning that Frank was being admitted. When she asked me if I planned on visiting him during my break, I instinctively replied “Yeah”. But I really wasn’t sure when that would be. “Why don’t you write down the information for me” I suggested, “and I’ll try going over there”. It had been two days since our conversation and I still had not gone. I was dragging my feet, as if trying to slow the downward spiral of Frank’s terminal condition.

 

 

  Francis Xavier Killmond  was 58 years old. He was the father of 8 children, a former teacher, the owner of a religious goods store, and a working character actor on the popular soap opera, General Hospital. He was 5’9”, with salt and pepper hair, and a wiry, expressive face that could alternate from long and morose to lean and amused. He had aspects of a tall Irish leprechaun, or a colorful, Runyanesque character, when telling a joke or describing a story. I knew him best as Mary’s husband, Frank (see Beacons of Light). If wives are to form binding friendships, the compatibility of husbands is essential. Kathy and Mary’s friendship began as teachers in the same elementary school, evolved to a “best friends” level, and finally culminated in an “Irish sister” relationship. Along the way I got to know and like Frank, and his two youngest sons, Eddie and John, very much. His dry wit and charm were always a great counter balance to Mary’s intensity and passion. His varied interests and eccentric sense of humor always allowed us other topics of conversation when Mary and Kathy would “talk shop” and discuss parish politics and faculty problems. Frank, Mary, and the boys were regular visitors at our house on Fridays, and we were invited to all their family gatherings and parties. The summer before Eddie’s freshman year in high school, Frank had surgery to remove a mole on his neck, which turned out to be a malignant melanoma. I didn’t think further about it until January, when Frank noticed that a small lump had developed near the scar. The removal of that lump revealed that the cancer had spread to a nearby lymph node. The next three months were a blur of emotions: shock, despair, and hope; followed by a determination to battle the cancer on every possible front. It seemed to me, during this chaotic time, that the actor in Frank managed to perform all his regular routines and obligations – never betraying public evidence of his illness or treatments. He continued filming General Hospital until April, and stopped only to travel to Mexico to investigate some new exotic therapy. However, the optimism seemed to collapse upon his return, and Kathy learned that he was being hospitalized. She said that the prognosis was bad, and Mary was requesting that her out-of-state son, James, come home as soon as possible to see his father in the hospital. I looked again at the message in Kathy’s barely decipherable calendar-scrawl:

“Hospital

23388 Mulhouland Drive,

Room. 103”.

I felt it was mocking me – challenging me to keep my promise, or do SOMETHING.

“I’m going to the hospital” I declared aloud, surprising myself. “Do you want to come?” I added, turning to Toñito.

“Ahh, I don’t know Dad”, he said, hesitantly.

“Come on!” I coaxed. “You’re not doing anything important right now. Your mom will probably be there with Mary. We’ll visit for awhile and leave. It won’t take long, and we can find out what’s going on with dinner”. These reasons even made sense to me; they were buttressing my own weak and waning impulse to go. “Come on” I concluded. “You can keep me company”.

“Alright, I’ll go” he concluded, reluctantly.

 

The Motion Picture & Television Hospital is not far from our home, and it was an easy ride; but I don’t know if I would have made the trip alone. I was incredibly relieved when Toñito said “yes”. I feel small and vulnerable in a hospital. Fearful feelings from long ago scenes crash over me like giant combers in a stormy sea, whenever I find myself in a hospital or medical center: walking down a cavernous hallway, having left a solitary 4 year old sister, all alone in a barred hospital bed; spending a shadow-filled night, accompanied by nightmarish noises and sounds, only to have a tonsillectomy the following morning; waiting with my injured uncle Charlie, surrounded by half-naked, moaning patients in gurneys and wheel chairs, in the crowded hallway of an ER; and being told in a frigid, sterile waiting room, after an eleven-hour vigil, that my bride of two years required an emergency “C-section” in order to deliver our son. The antidote which always dispelled these past vapors of foreboding was the presence of my children, Toñito or Prisa. They did not come pre-burdened with these fearful vignettes and memories. If they were present, I was able to assume the role of father, teacher, and protector. They buoyed me with their innocent curiosity and their trust in me; and my paternal imperative to never disappoint them overrode all other fears and insecurities. Prisa was always my most enthusiastic traveling companion. As a teenager, Toñito had become less inclined in joining me on trips and errands, but he was still susceptible to family pressure and whining. If I stressed that “I really needed” his company, he would usually agree. With Prisa unavailable, this was one of those times.

 

 

 This would be my first visit to the Motion Picture hospital. Situated near the rolling hills of Calabasas and Woodland Hills, it is a vast and impressive compound. The sweeping lawns, unblemished stucco walls, and abundance of glass and open areas gave it the feel of a resort condominium, not a hospital. The availability of parking was especially refreshing, and I was able to position our car near the front entrance.

“Does the scarcity of cars mean there are few patients or few visitors?” I asked Toñito, making a feeble attempt a humor.

“I don’t know, Dad” he replied, dryly, not betraying any insights into his feelings or state of mind.

We walked in through the wide, automatic glass doors and walked directly to the Admitting Desk.

“Hi” I said to a smiling young girl in a volunteer pinstriped uniform. “We’re here to visit Frank Killmond in room 103. Could you help us?”

“Sure” she replied, and directed us down the hall, and into the next building. The simple directions and clearly marked halls and numbers were reassuring. Toñito took the lead and I followed him until we came to the room we sought. The door was slightly ajar. I knocked and entered. Mary was sitting at the far end of the room, next to a louvered, but brightly lit window, reading a book. Frank was sitting on the side of the bed, across from her, in front of a rolling table with a food tray. There was no sight of Kathy, Prisa, or any other visitor.

“Hi Tony” Mary said first, putting down her book and rising.

“Hi Mary, hi Frank” I said, entering the room. “Toñito and I thought we’d come by and see how you were doing”. It appeared that Frank was finishing his meal, so Mary took over the duty of salutations, greetings, and chatting. She explained that Rosemary and Liz had just left, and with our arrival, it appeared that visitors were automatically spacing themselves nicely throughout the day. As Frank stopped eating, and began covering the plates with the cafeteria lids, Mary started looking for her purse.

“Now that you’re here, Tony, why don’t you sit and visit with Frank. I’ll take a break, get something to drink, maybe, or go to the chapel”.

“I’ll go with you Mary” Toñito volunteered. “I’d like to see the chapel”. He had been silent all this time, and Mary’s need for a break was giving him a natural exit line. With their departure, Frank and I were alone, and I was suddenly aware of the awkwardness of this moment. Mary’s greetings and family updates had distracted us from the setting. In her absence, I was left alone to my own devices.

“How are you feeling Frank?” I asked, mentally kicking myself for voicing such an obvious and stupid question. What were the “right questions” to ask, I wondered. Just be natural, I said to myself, be normal.

“Not bad, right now, Tony” he replied, “but the nights are difficult”.

“Don’t they give you something to sleep?” I wondered aloud.

“Yeah, but I don’t like taking too much. It knocks me out, and I’d rather be alert and aware of what is going on”.

“Is it affecting your appetite?” I asked looking at the dessert gelatin and cake he had left on the tray.

 “No” he said with a laugh. “The food is surprisingly good. I’m saving the cake for later; unless John shows up, then we’ll have to fight for it. Give me a hand, will you? I’d like to get off the bed and stretch”. I pulled the rolling side-table away from the bed and parked it on the other side of the room. Frank slowly slid off the bed and arranged the gown around him. “Tie me up here, will you”.

“Sure” I replied, coming up behind him and retying the gown at his neck, and waist. I don’t know what I expected Frank to look like. I suppose I’d envisioned an emaciated, skeletal figure, barely able to move. Frank was pale with rumpled hair, but he looked okay, spoke confidently, and was mobile – albeit a little slowly. He walked over to the window and gazed out at the rolling grass and parking lot. I sat on the bed he had vacated and relaxed. “Have you had many visitors today?”

“Yes” he said, turning to look at me again. Beams from the diving sun bathed him in light as he told me that his friend John Burns had come by earlier and they had reminisced about their days in the Pasadena Playhouse. He also mentioned that his son James was arriving that evening, and how much he was looking forward to seeing him.

“I’m feeling a little tired now” he said, bringing his musings to an end. He moved back toward the bed and sat down beside me. “It was good talking with you, Tony”

“Thanks, Frank” I replied. “I’m glad I came by”

He put his left arm around my shoulder and, in a very deliberate manner, said “I love you, Tony. Thanks for coming today”.

I was caught short by this unexpected remark. “I love you too, Frank” is all I managed to say.

As if on cue, Mary swept into the room holding her purse in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. She was alone.

“Where’s Toñito?” I asked.

“I’m not sure” she replied. “I took him to the chapel and then I went to the cafeteria. I haven’t seen him, so he may still be there”.

I excused myself from Mary and Frank, said goodbye again. I met Toñito in the hallway.

“Do you want to go back and say goodbye?” I asked.

“No” he replied, “that’s okay”.

As we retraced our path back to the reception area, the fading light of the crepuscular sun shone through the steel and glass. There was about 15 minutes of daylight left as we got in the car and left the parking lot.

 

  

I waited silently in the car until Toñito was looking directly into my face. I had no clue what I was going to say, until the words started flowing. “First of all, thank you for coming with me. I could not have gone to the hospital without you”.

“But I didn’t DO ANYTHING, Dad” he said in an anguished voice. “I didn’t even stay in the room with you. I ran out as soon as I could”.

“I didn’t want to be there either, son. I was afraid to go too. I just felt we had to see him. There really wasn’t anything for us to do”.

He let those words sink in, and then he asked “What happened after I left?”

“I’m not sure” I said, recalling the brief moments Frank and I had shared. “I didn’t know what to say, or what to ask. Everything that came out of my mouth sounded stupid. Thank God he did most of the talking. He told me he how he was feeling and who had visited him”. I took a long ragged breath, and continued. “Toñito” I added, quietly, as if revealing a dreaded secret, “I think Frank’s dying”. Fighting to express the next few words, I looked pleadingly into his face, hoping he’d help me understand. “He told me that he loved me”. A single sob broke free, and I stopped suddenly, struggling to quell any more from escaping. Toñito moved closer to me in the car and I desperately embraced him. The feel of his long, skinny arms wrapping themselves around me in such a firm, protective manner unleashed my pent up tears. The weeping must have been contagious, because Toñito was soon crying as well. The pressure of his face against my chest, and the energy from all his repressed sorrows rocked us both for a long time. When our tears were spent, and I could cry no longer, I moved my head back so I could see his face.

“How are you doing, son?”

“Not good, Dad” he said, laughingly, as he wiped his nose against his hand. “I don’t have a Kleenex”.

“We’ve never cried like this before, have we?” I asked rhetorically.

“No we haven’t, and I don’t want to do it again” he said in a pseudo-comic manner. “I’m sorry I left you alone, Dad” he said, repentantly. “I just didn’t want to say goodbye to Frank. I didn’t want to admit that I might never see him again. I don’t want him to die”.

“I know, son, I know” I said, taking him into my arms again. “It’s all right. You were fine, and you didn’t let me down. I love you Toñito”. I rocked him gently in my arms until his breathing was in harmony with mine. “I never saw my Dad before he died” I said, speaking over his head, but knowing he was listening. “By the time I arrived home, he was gone. I never had a chance to see him or say goodbye. Today was different. Frank is seeing all his children and all his friends. He saw us, and we were able to see him. Today was a gift, and it would not have happened if you had not come with me. Do you believe me?” I asked, pulling back and forcing him to look up.

“Yes, Dad, I believe you” he said, looking into my eyes.

“Good” I said, hugging him again, and pounding his back. “Now let’s clean ourselves up. We’re a mess. I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to your mom”.

“Do you think we’ll ever cry like this again?” he asked. “I mean, together”.

“I hope so, Toñito, I hope so. I think it was a healthy thing to do”.

 

 

Frank died three days later, on Good Friday, after saying farewell to all his friends and family. Toñito and I said goodbye to him again at his funeral.

Comments

frank

[(Anonymous)]

Good, Tony. You have great courage as a writer.

TRH