Entries tagged with the doctor

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Free Birds Fly

By a lonely prison wall
I heard a young girl calling,
Michael they are taking you away.
For you stole Trevelyn’s corn,
So the young might see the morn.
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay.

Low lie the Fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly.
Our love was on the wing, we had dreams and songs to sing.
It’s so lonely ‘round the Fields of Athenry.
(The Fields of Athenry – Pete St. John: 1970)

Many years ago, Kathleen shared an old Irish superstition that was often quoted by her mother. Whenever a bevy of celebrity deaths occurred in a short space of time, Mary Cavanaugh Greaney would say, “Death always comes in 3’s”. I have to confess that this macabre Irish saying occurred to me a few times in the course of 4 days: on Saturday, July 11, when I received news of the death of my Aunt Espie (Esperanza Delgado Parker) in Tennessee, after her on-again, off-again battle with cancer, and again on Tuesday, July 14, when my father-in-law Dr. Edward Michael Greaney died at home of natural causes. Ridiculous questions, like “Who else died recently, and who will be next?” popped into my head on each occasion. Thankfully I realized that these ludicrous thoughts were just samples of the plethora of feelings, ideas, and reactions that were swirling in my head as I tried processing these two disparate deaths.

Espie was a sparkling and active woman of 70 years – a sister, aunt, wife, friend, mother, and grandmother, who had seemingly won a recent battle with cancer after moving to Tennessee with her husband Larry to be closer to her daughter and grandchildren. Doctor Greaney, on the other hand, had lived a long and full life, finally expiring in his home at the ripe old age of 96. Espie died too soon, I secretly felt, while Dr. Greaney lived long enough. But these private feelings were personal and emotionally powered. Another person could just as easily shrugged off both deaths, explaining them away as “karma”. One thing is sure to me however, deaths to family members and close friends are always “too soon” and disquieting, because we suffer a personal loss and are forced to look at our own mortality, posing unanswerable questions about dying and what we leave behind us.

Espie was born August 8, 1944, the 14^th and youngest child in the Delgado family. I was the first grandchild and nephew, born 3 years later to the eldest sibling of the clan, my father, Antonio (Tony) Delgado. My earliest memories of Espie always included the two siblings who preceded her, my aunt Lisa and uncle Charlie. Those memories tend to be episodic because they occurred when my parents visited our grandparent’s home on Workman Street in Lincoln Heights on weekends and on holidays. I vaguely remember being introduced to coloring books and paper dolls by Lisa and Espie in their upstairs bedroom, and then, in later years, gravitating to Charlie’s room where I could see his comic books, or play make-believe games with him in the backyard with toy weapons or plastic soldiers. I remember learning Christmas carols from this trio as we helped assemble the annual Nacimiento (Nativity Scene) in the living room; being taught the art of “sparkler drawing/writing in the air” on Independence Day; and comparing costumes on Halloween and learning the finer points of “Trick-or-Treating”. Despite this crazy mishmash of early scenes and vague chronology, I do recall 3 particular incidents that left a profound impression on me.

The first incident involved Charlie’s bike. From my perspective as a 5 or 6-year-old, Charlie (at 10 or 11) was a master cyclist. It didn’t matter that Lisa could ride one too; Charlie was the daredevil who leapt onto the seat from a running start, peddled with no hands, and transported passengers on his handle bars. If Charlie needed to deliver a message or travel somewhere on a chore or errand, he would often take along a passenger. I found this trick to be amazing, and I accompanied him on many excursions until I witnessed its risks.

It occurred one Saturday, when many of my older aunts and uncles were present in the house, but adult topics and endless conversation had driven the younger children outdoors. I remember Charlie with raven-haired Espie, proud as a queen and balanced on the front handlebars of his bike, telling us he was going to the 5 and Dime store around the corner. It must have happened on the way back that I heard a piercing scream of pain and a crash. Instantly Lisa rushed past me to the front door of the house and yelled that Espie was hurt and needed help. The image of a thundering herd of wild-eyed uncles stampeding through the front door to rescue their baby sister is forever burned into my memory. Although in fact there were probably only 5 brothers present (Tarsi, Henry, Kado, Victor, and my dad) it seemed like a tidal wave of brotherly concern and affection descended on Espie and Charlie, and it was comforting to realize that this emergency squad of uncles was always at the ready to rescue me, and any family member in trouble. Softly weeping, Espie returned to the house cradled in Henry’s arms, with other uncles tending her injured foot and cooing reassurances. There was concern for Charlie (who escaped with only minor scrapes and bruises) and praise for Lisa’s speedy alertness in calling for help, but what struck me most was the realization that Espie was the darling of the family. She was the youngest, “the baby”, “la consentida”, and “the favored one”.

“Esperanza” is the Spanish word for Hope, and in many ways, I think Espie, as the last child, was an avatar, or embodiment, of many of the best Delgado family traits and qualities. She had Lupe’s gaiety, Helen’s confidence and intelligence, Jay Jay’s kindness, Tillie’s innocence, and Lisa’s goodness. She also manifested the disciplined and practical mind that was seen in some of her brothers. But she had something extra. Despite her youth, she had a special way of doing things, and a willingness to be different. I started noticing these traits when she was in high school and before and after her marriage to Larry Parker in 1965.

As far as I know, Espie and Charlie were the only members of the family to attend and graduate from Lincoln High School, the public school up the street from their home on So. Broadway. The fact that my aunt was attending a public school was astounding to me. I was sheltered in a confining Catholic parochial school environment, and Espie, 4 years ahead of me, was attending classes and mixing with Protestants, Jews, Buddhists, Anglos, Nisei, and other Mexican-Americans. She was experiencing the Brave New World of the late 50’s and early 60’s, during the heyday of Rock and Roll, teenage rebellion, James Dean, Elvis Presley, and Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. On one particular Saturday Espie told me all about her high school friends, her classes, clubs, and the career opportunities that beckoned after graduation. At the time, she used words and phrases I didn’t really understand until I entered high school myself – co-eds, sock hops, pep rallies, homecoming, and especially prom. Even though she graduated from Lincoln HS 6 years before the Student Walkouts of 1968, she was already expressing many of the new Chicano views about discrimination, higher education, and equal rights. She used the slang “paddies” when referring to Anglo students. In my Mexican and Mexican-American worlds I’d heard the term “gringos” used sometimes, but never “paddy” (many years later I learned the origins of this pejorative term for the Irish). Like all her sisters, Espie went straight to work after graduation in 1962, and during the next 3 years she worked, partied, and to everyone’s surprise, met, and married a young, fresh-faced, red-haired, Palmdale “paddy” who was recently discharged from the Navy and attending classes at Los Angeles City College on Vermont Blvd.

I was completing my junior year in high school when Espie and Larry Parker wed in 1965, and their parties and wedding celebrations were the perfect testing ground for teenage romance and flirtation. Espie’s wedding (and Charlie’s, which followed later that summer) was my unofficial “coming out” event. In the parties and social gatherings that followed, I chatted, joked, danced, and flirted with cousins and strangers alike, and for the first time got a whiff of that heady brew called infatuation. But of more lasting significance were the times I spent with Larry and Espie hearing about the decisions they were contemplating and the future they were planning. Espie was charting an independently modern course different from any of her sisters. Until her union with Larry, the Delgado family treated marriage as a parenting endeavor, with the husband working close to home and a wife raising a family. Espie and Larry, however, visualized marriage as a lifetime and moveable partnership. Their intertwined futures consisted of leaving Los Angeles and moving to San Francisco, where Larry enrolled and eventually graduated from the University of California, Berkeley, in engineering, while Espie worked full time. He then transitioned into a full time career in Southern California, freeing Espie for motherhood, raising a family, and then pursuing future educational opportunities. It was a revolutionary plan in 1965, but to their hardworking credit, they succeeded happily and marvelously for 50 years.

I followed Espie on Facebook in the years after she and Larry moved to Tennessee in 2009, and the last time I saw her was at the funeral of my Aunt Lupe, in 2013. She spent the 24 hours before the funeral dining, talking, laughing, and reminiscing with her eternal sidekicks Lisa and Charlie. She was vibrant, upbeat, and optimistic of the future, talking of her plans for a Golden Wedding Anniversary in the spring of 2015.

While these memories of Espie occurred to me quickly upon hearing the news of her death, I had no sudden insights as to how to approach Dr. Greaney’s life. I’d mentioned him in past essays and I didn’t want to rehash old tales, nor tread on the many stories and anecdotes of his 9 surviving children. It was only when I started thinking back on the liturgy and readings for the Doctor’s funeral mass, and especially the homily given by Monsignor Clement Connolly, that some ideas started to percolate. I was first struck by something Patti, Kathy’s sister, mentioned on the day of the Doctor’s death, while explaining the readings they had chosen for the mass. “The point of the liturgy”, she said, “with it prayers, hymns, readings, and homily, is to teach. People should come away from the liturgy having learned something.” Monsignor Connolly reinforced this message at the beginning of his homily the following Saturday, adding that “every life is the ‘Good News’, or the ‘Gospel’ of that person”, meaning that the life of every person was meant to instruct us as to how to live, and perhaps, how to act. Since there was to be no official eulogy for Dr. Edward Michael Greaney at the mass, the Monsignor’s remarks proceeded to intertwine the readings and the Gospel of the day with his remarks about “the gospel according to Mike”. It was that liturgy and the Monsignor’s homily that finally provided the impetus for the remainder of this essay.

The first reading from the Letter of James, exhorted us to “be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves”, and Doctor Greaney was certainly a man of deeds and action. His life was checkered with noteworthy and significant achievements and professional accomplishments: a graduate of Fordham University and Jefferson Medical College, and immediately commissioned in the U.S. Navy as a Lieutenant, serving as Battalion Surgeon of the 3^rd Marine Division in the Battle of Iwo Jima. He married Mary Cavanaugh of Stamford, CT in 1943, and had two of eventually 10 children born during the war years. Upon his discharge in 1947 he completed a residency in general surgery at the Long Beach Veteran’s Hospital in 1951, and began a long and successful private practice in Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley. Monsignor Connolly also noted that despite his towering pride and need for control, “Mike was an enchanter – he enchanted people”. This quality was apparent to me throughout my 40-year association with the Doctor. He had many, many loyal and devoted friends and acquaintances, who came in all sexes, ages, professions, ethnicities, and social levels. He knew cardinals and priests, architects and gardeners, movie stars and parking lot attendants. Some he met at his country club, some he operated on, and some he’d encounter on the beach, walking a dog or inspecting the surf. There was a glamour around Dr. Greaney and his “bedside manner” that stayed with people he met and patients he tended. Kathy would tell me stories of how complete strangers, upon hearing her maiden name of Greaney and discovering she was the daughter of their former surgeon, would go on and on with tales of his care, concern, and expertise. “He saved my life”, they would often conclude, pressing her hand, as if that tactile connection with a daughter would somehow renewed their association with the Doctor. It was at that point of the “gospel according to Mike” when Monsignor Connolly introduced a surprising twist with a parable from the Gospel of Luke.

Monsignor Connolly told of the righteous man and the tax collector: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people – robbers, evildoers, adulterers – or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’ But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” I’m no longer sure what Monsignor Connolly was proposing with this parable, and how it applied to the “gospel according to Mike”. Was the Doctor the righteous man or the sinner? Was he the successful surgeon, the glamorous enchanter, who patted himself on the back and went home “justified”, or was he the outcast in the rear, the flawed, imperfect, and sinful man who beat his breast and called to God for mercy. I had expected a veiled but glowing eulogy, and what I heard instead was an unsettling tale of two men, an enchanter and an outcast, a self-righteous professional and a sinner. If “every life is the ‘Good News’, or the ‘Gospel’ of that person”, as Monsignor Connolly suggested, what then were the lessons to be learned from the lives and deaths of Espie and Mike?

For the “gospel of Espie”, I would point to the Letter of James used in the Doctor’s funeral liturgy:

“My brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of any kind, consider it nothing but joy, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance; and let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing.”

Espie was easy to love, and graceful endurance is how I think she lived her final years in retirement with Larry after the cancer was discovered. After blossoming as a wife, partner, mother, and mature woman in Southern California, Espie again packed up and moved with Larry, the love of her life, to live in Tennessee with her children and grandchildren. From what I learned in conversations and in Facebook, she and Larry built a house there and enjoyed each day as it came, until those days ran out. Sadly, her death has left a huge gap in my life that only old memories can now substitute.

As for the “gospel of Mike”, I fear that I have done poor justice to the liturgy planned by Kathy’s siblings and Monsignor Connolly’s homily. I hope this essay somehow reflects the powerful impression they left on me that day. I suspect that I will never again hear a more honest and compassionate tribute to person at a funeral. Doctor Greaney, especially during the waning months of his life, was a difficult and demanding man on family members and caregivers alike. No one saw this better, I believe, than Monsignor Connolly who visited him regularly and faithfully, and who heard his confession and gave him the Last Rites the night before he died. In those last days, I’m sure Monsignor saw past the glamour and enchantment of Dr. Greaney and recognized Mike, the flawed and imperfect man, husband, friend, and father who lay before him. Perhaps there is not one but many lessons to be learned from the gospel of Mike. Some in his actions and deeds, and some in what his 9 surviving children and 26 grandchildren take away from those accomplishments. Then again, in the end, the outcast tax collector in Monsignor’s parable simply asked God for mercy and compassion – perhaps that is what that the gospel of Mike asks of us.

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Dreams of Loneliness

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions.
I keep my visions to myself.
It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams,
And have you any dreams you’d like to sell?
Dreams of loneliness like a heartbeat, drives you mad.
In the stillness of remembering
What you had, and what you lost,
And what you had, oh what you lost!

Thunder only happens when it’s raining.
Players only love you when they’re playing.
Women, they will come and they will go.
When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know.
You will know.
(Dreams: Fleetwood Mac’s Stevie Nicks – 1977

I had a dream of sorts on the morning of March 26^th that literally scared me awake. It was like being in the final round of a quiz show on death and nothingness, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with a series of questions about what happens after death. I was totally unprepared and I panicked, waking myself up.
“Do I suddenly go up in smoke,” I was left wondering, “like a snuffed-out candle flame? Do I remain conscious and aware, like a mind in a coma? Is death an instant state of now-ness, in which my consciousness is finally freed from its physical shell, past attachments, and fading memories?”
Yet, even in the midst of this fearful quizzing, I knew that these worries were no strangers to me. I had been to that questioning dream-place before.

I had another dream about death many, many, years ago, when I was going to college and living at home with my mom and dad. I must have been 18 or 19 years old at the time, and slept in a large back bedroom with my brothers, Arthur, Eddie, and Alex. My dream started with the sensation of floating. In the dream my body was weightless and buoyant. I remember soaring around my house and neighborhood, and then gliding over the Marina del Rey Harbor and along the Santa Monica Bay coast. At some point it occurred to me that I could probably fly to heaven and seek out God. How and why this absurd notion popped into my head is no longer clear. All I remember was thinking that it was a great idea. I’d developed considerable skill and dexterity in my flying ability and I was confident I could do it. I would find God! Then the first of a series of paradoxical maneuvers commenced. Instead of taking off straight into the heavens like a rocket, I went flying across the country instead, passing deserts, mountains, rivers and cities. I traveled eastward, toward the darkening sky, away from the sinking sun at my back. Soon only pinpoints of light were visible in the stygian blackness below. Suddenly my direction changed again, and I was plunging downward toward the center of darkness. I wasn’t falling, nor was I out of control; I simply dove downward, knowing it was the right way to go. But I never struck bottom. I kept spiraling lower and lower, until I sensed a change in my surroundings. I was now flying inward! A sense of peace and euphoria flooded over me as I suspected that my quest was reaching its climax. I was close. I would see it soon – Paradise, and the Beatific Vision of God. Then, Bam! I stopped – frozen in time, movement, and space. I had penetrated an invisible barrier of some kind, and slipped through a transparent membrane of darkness. There I found – Nothing! I was motionless in a Void – floating in a cold, shivering space of emptiness, with no light, no sound, and no sense of up or down. I had never felt such a panic of loneliness before. I was utterly and desperately alone.
“I’m dead”, I sobbed aloud, feeling the bitter dream tears coursing down my cheeks. “I’m dead and there’s nothing here.”

Student ID 1966

That’s when I woke up, touching my face for traces of tears, and looking around at the sleeping shapes of my brothers to see if my cries of despair had awakened them. All was silent and dark, with just a hint of redeeming daylight cracking through the window curtain. I never spoke of that dream to anyone, pushing it aside as Scrooge did in A Christmas Carol, calling his first nightly visitor “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese.” But the truth was I never forgot it. That dream remained, in the darkest recesses of my memory, assuming a Cheshire cat position there, and stalking me with a mocking, crescent grin.

Christmas Carol

Actually, this most recent twilight experience, which called up memories of that college dream, wasn’t a dream at all. In that Netherworld between consciousness and slumber, a flood of morbid questions just erupted in my head.
“Where will I go when I die? What will happen when my body stops functioning, and my breathing stops, and my heart comes to a halt? What will be left? Will the consciousness I experience when dreaming take over? How will it know what to do?”
Can you blame me for wanting to wake up? What else could I do with all those questions buzzing over me like a plague of locust? I needed to escape and analyze this dream. I had to figure out where it came from and what was the meaning for all of those questions.

La Muerte

At first it occurred to me that these ideas of death and dying were in my head because of the essay I had just written about my Great-aunt, Tia Petrita, and her generation of Mexican immigrants who settled in Los Angeles in the 1920’s. Resurrecting memories and images of Tia Petrita, Tia Ernestina, and my Great-grandmothers, Granny and Mima Rosi, had stirred thoughts of their funerals, and must have also unconsciously provoked some anxieties about death and dying. Funny, though, I always thought death was nothing to fear. I’d grown too comfortable rationalizing that death was merely a natural progression of our living experience. Blues songs described it all the time. We are born, and experience love, wonder, and joy as children; then suffer and mature as adults, struggling to raise a family; and finally, grow old and die. It’s the Circle of Life, the drama of living, the gift we were given by God. Being in close contact with a new life like my 2 year-old granddaughter Sarah has only confirmed its blessing, and given testimony to the wonders of childhood. At the other end of the spectrum are my mother and father-in-law, the Doctor. My mom will be turning 89 this year, and my wife’s father 94. They both provide an interesting preview of life’s Third Act, especially since they seem to approach it so differently.

Delgado Family 2

My mother is still relatively active and vital (using an exercise chair and walking, unassisted, on a daily basis to the end of the block and back), and no longer agonizes over her inability to manage and maintain a household. She was a stay-at-home housewife for 23 years, raising a family of 6 children, until my father died in 1971. As a widow, she evolved into the full-time Bilingual Religious Education Coordinator of her parish church until she retired in 2002. She lives with my sister, Estela, a retired elementary school teacher, in our family home in Venice, California. Although she regularly bemoans her declining faculties, she doesn’t obsess too much over their loss and her disabilities. She’s slowly losing her sight, hearing, balance, appetite, and strength. She finds it difficult to recall recent events, and the ones that do stick in her mind (presidential elections and the new pope), are mentioned over, and over, and over again. Her greatest fear is falling and precipitating a cascading series of medical treatments that would lead to long-term hospitalization. Yet she doesn’t seem to fear death. In fact, she often gives the impression that she would welcome it, as long as it did not burden her family. She’s thankful for her Catholic faith, and her staunch belief in the promise of Eternal Life with God. This is her Next Stage – the place where she will reunite with her deceased husband, her sisters, mother, and grandmother. On the other hand, I believe that the Doctor is deathly afraid of possible oblivion at the end of his life.

Villalpando Girls

(Disclosure Alert: In speculating about my father-in-law’s views on aging and death, I enter, as my wife would point out, highly questionable territory. Therefore, let me try limiting myself to just pointing out the ways I believe he is different from my mom, beginning with the fact that he is 5 years older).

When my mother turned 85, she agreed to take the anti-anxiety medication that her children and doctor recommended for treating her fears, her insomnia, and her excessive worrying over problems (real and imagined) that she was no longer capable of handling. By doing so, I think she finally resigned from the role of being the custodial parent responsible for family, children, home, finances, and emergencies. In short, she gave over control and allowed herself to be advised and cared for in her old age, primarily by her two daughters (who thankfully assumed the lions share of duties), and peripherally by her three married sons. In contrast to this situation, I still introduce The Doctor as a retired General Surgeon, forgetting that he hasn’t practiced medicine (especially surgery) for over 20 years. He’s sharp as a tack and has never given up control of his patriarchal domain, or agreed to take any form of anti-depressant medication. He has lived alone since the death of his wife, Mary, in 2006, and refuses to employ a full time housekeeper or cook. He maintains the part-time help that Mary originally hired long ago, and sees to his own needs by attempting to manipulate the timetables and actions of his 7 daughters (one of whom lives in Washington D.C.). The six local sisters juggle a schedule that involves daily visits and phone calls, grocery and shopping visits, and trying to keep tabs on his physical, medical, and mental wellbeing. The Doctor also has neighbors and friends who drop by to visit, bring food, and occasionally drive him to his golf club for lunch. He finally stopped driving himself at the age of 92. As opposed to my mother, however, a conversation with the Doctor continues to be a fully interactive and dynamic experience.

Lieut

I still harbor the suspicion that the Doctor carefully prepares a list of talking points whenever I visit him, because he always seems to have a new series of timely topics to discuss. He’ll mention sports and current events, and always takes care to avoid the political issues over which we might disagree (of which there are many). Although he gets a little miffed if I wander away from his agenda, by interjecting new subjects, he still astounds me with his ability to follow along and snatch arcane bits of information out of thin air. On one occasion when discussing sports over lunch, I struggled to recall the name of the redheaded, freshman quarterback at USC, who was known as a scientifically engineered and trained athlete.
“Oh,” the Doctor interjected, quickly. “You mean Todd Marinovich!”
“Yes,” I exclaimed with a laugh, trying to cover up my amazement.
However, despite this mental acumen, he continues one annoying tendency that, thankfully, my mother abandoned when her medication began. If I find him in a particularly depressed, or self-pitying mood, he will begin expressing regrets that at first sound like an inventory of personal shortcomings, but soon turn into a list of complaints about other people. He might begin by expressing teary regrets at not having been a better husband to Mary, or a better father to his two sons. Then his direction changes to complaining about his grandchildren never calling or visiting him, and how he rarely sees his great-grandchildren. Silence has been my usual response to this guilt-generating ploy, unless my patience wears thin and I retort that I never found nagging or whining to be effective parenting tools for changing behaviors in children or adults.

Todd Marinovich

The Doctor and I rarely mention religion and never speak of death. He is a Jesuit-trained, World War II era, Irish-American Catholic who followed the outward dictates and rituals of the Church, and counted many priests among his friends. However, he never talked about the spiritual aspect of our faith or the radical gospels of Jesus Christ. He seemed more comfortable with the Cold War mentality before Vatican II, when the Church preached that if the rites, rules, and dogma were practiced, Catholics were guaranteed the Kingdom of God. As opposed to my mother who relished learning and discussing the new Liturgy, Liberation Theology, and the Social Justice issues that percolated in the Church in the 1960’s and 70’s, these concepts had no relevance for the Doctor. While I suspected that he took the precaution of creating a will with his financial consultant, I doubted he had taken the time or trouble to itemize his funeral, reception, and burial desires the way my mom had. She stipulated the priest and deacon she wished to officiate the funeral and burial. She selected the readings and music, and chose the venues for the funeral and reception. This was the only area where vestiges of my mother’s need for control still manifested itself publically. I don’t think the Doctor had spelled out anything about his death, depending, I suppose, on the collective memory of his children to sort out his verbalized preferences and opinions about his funeral and burial. I always assumed that I leaned more toward my mother’s attitude toward death than the Doctor’s. But this latest dream-state episode about death and dying had unsettled me to the point that I was no longer sure.

Headstone

I was particularly puzzled that the dream of a 18-year old youth would reappear in a new form to a 65 year old man. It’s as if my unconscious, which first raised the question years ago, had returned to me in a dream to find out what I had learned of death.
Unconscious: “Tony, I’m coming to you again in the form of a dream. You’ve spent 46 years learning, loving, suffering, and living. So now tell me, what have you learned about life and death? What happens to you when you die?”
Tony: “Oh my God, you know what? I’m not sure! Over all, 65 years of living has been fantastic! Meeting, loving, and being with family, wife, children, and friends have been great. Paradoxically, the times of greatest learning came during periods of trials and suffering. Those were also the times when I felt most alive! I sought answers through formal education, job experiences, and spiritual training. Besides receiving solid Catholic elementary and high school instruction, I also received a great public university education. I independently studied all the religions, and searched for spiritual guides and training. Those were the times of deepest prayer and meditation when I experienced my closest connection with God. But I can’t tell you what I know about death, or what will happen to my soul and unconscious when I die.”
I was stumped for answers, so I let the matter simmer, until March 31.

Wedding Party 1975-8-2 B

I figure that of the, more or less, 62 Easter Sunday masses that I’ve attended in my life, I’ve only reflected on the true significance of that day on a handful of occasions. The religious importance of celebrations like Christmas and Easter are too often lost in the glitter and glamour of the commercialization that surrounds them. It occurred to me, though, as I sat waiting for the 1 o’clock mass to begin at Our Lady of Valley Church, that the key to my questions about death might be rediscovered there on Easter Sunday. However, when Kathleen pointed out who the celebrant was to be, I despaired and quickly started reading ahead. You see, Father Jeff says a speedy mass, but he can be a little too spare in his homily content.

The Collect went straight to the point about the significance of the day:
“Oh God,” the prayer began, “who on this day, through your Only begotten Son, have conquered death and unlocked for us the path to eternity, grant we pray, that we who keep the solemnity of the Lord’s Resurrection may, through the renewal brought by your Spirit, rise up in the light of life. Amen.”
This was followed by the First Reading from the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 10:34a, 37-43), where Peter explained,
“… How God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and power. He went about doing good and healing all those oppressed by the devil, for God was with him. We are witnesses of all that he did both in the country of the Jews and in Jerusalem. They put him to death by hanging him on a tree. This man God raised on the third day and granted that he be visible, not to all the people, but to us, the witnesses… who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead. He commissioned us to preach to the people and testify that he is the one appointed by God as judge of the living and the dead. To him all the prophets bear witness, that everyone who believes in him will receive forgiveness of sins through his name.”
The Gospel was a short selection from John (20:1-9), in which he recounted the story of Easter morning, when, after being notified by Mary of Magdala that the tomb was empty, he and Peter ran to the tomb, which Peter entered. Then,
“The other disciple also went in, the one who had arrived at the tomb first, and he saw and believed. For they did not yet understand the Scripture that he had to rise from the dead.”

As I feared, Father Jeff failed to expound on the readings of the day, or how Christ’s Resurrection is the central tenet to our Christian faith. Instead of joyously proclaiming, “Christ is risen! Alleluia!” and explaining the significance of the Resurrection, he joked about giving us a 20-minute Easter Sunday sermon, or a quick homily. His short talk consisted of a plea to apply Christ’s love and patience to difficult people and situations in our daily lives. His example was when he was recently informed by the pastor that the third priest at the church had been reassigned elsewhere, resulting in his having to shoulder more pastoral duties. He characterized this doleful news, as “one of the many bumps in the road that we have to accept and live with.” Somehow, Father Jeff’s personal problems didn’t quite measure up to Christ’s trials during his Passion, and using the Resurrection as an example of overcoming occupational hardships seemed childish. But rather than sulking over this missed opportunity, I let the readings and the continuing liturgy of the mass settle over me, as I mused over two questions. What do I really know of death? I wondered, again. And what does my Church and faith tell me about it?

I vaguely recalled two tenets of death that Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross cited in her book, On Death and Dying: 1) “… in our unconscious, death is never possible in regard to ourselves. It is inconceivable for our unconscious to image an actual ending of our own life here on earth, and if this life of ours has to end, the ending is always attributed to a malicious intervention from the outside by someone else. In simple terms, in our unconscious mind we can only be killed; it is inconceivable to die of a natural cause or of old age; and 2) Death is still a fearful, frightening happening, and the fear of death is a universal fear even if we think we have mastered it on many levels.” Slowly, the creeping suspicion returned that although I might be different from my medically trained father-in-law, the 94-year old Doctor, in my unconscious denial of death, I still shared his fear of dying and not being prepared for it.

Wall Street Cemetery

Father Jeff interrupted this train of thought by asking the congregation to rise, explaining that on Easter Sunday we would renew our Baptismal Promises, instead of the usual recital of the Nicene Creed, or Profession of Faith. These are the vows made by adult Godparents on behalf of the infants being baptized in the Catholic faith. I have spoken these promises on numerous occasions for countless nieces, nephews, and cousins. They were made at the baptisms of our own children, Tony and Teresa, and at the ceremony for my granddaughter in 2010. As a cradle-Catholic, I take too much of my Church and the Catholic faith for granted. Over time all cyclical religious events, rites, and rituals become routine, trivial, and mundane. Promises made for us at baptisms are soon forgotten, and prayers said at mass become automatically recited sounds without substance or meaning. The Creed is an essential prayer. It’s like a Mission Statement that embodies the important principles of our Catholic Faith. How much belief and practice do I actually put in the statements of my faith in the Nicene Creed? I wondered. I’ve said the words of the prayer thousands of time, but on this Easter day those principles were stated as questions which required my thoughtful consideration and response:

Prisa's Baptism 1980

Do you renounce Satan?
I do!
Do you renounce sin, so as to live in the freedom of the children of God?
I do!
Do you believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth?
I do!
Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary, suffered death and was buried, rose again from the dead, and is seated at the right hand of the Father?
I do!
Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the Resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?
I do!

Two years ago I wrote an essay on aging and death called, When I’m 64. In it I struggled to link three disparate ideas; my age, which coincided with the Beatles’ song, my father’s death at 50 years of age, and my quickly growing granddaughter, Sarah Kathleen. I found the key to my immediate dilemma in a Pastoral Letter by my friend, the former Archbishop of San Francisco, Rev. George Niederauer. In the letter written after a 2011 bypass surgery and a difficult recuperation, he reflected on five lines of a poem by the 17^th-century Anglican clergyman, John Donne, called Hymn To God, my God, in my Sickness:

Since I am coming to that holy room
Where, with Thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made Thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.

On re-reading George’s letter, I found two reassuring ideas of death and transition that were not obvious in my Easter experience:

“What a lovely image,” Archbishop Niederauer wrote of Donne’s metaphors, “to connect our life here on earth with eternal life! Donne is not gloomy or saccharine or vague. Our life here is a practice session, a rehearsal, if you will, and we prepare for eternal life by living the life of Christ together here and now. We ‘think here before’ about our loving God and our relationship with him, and we ‘tune the instrument’ of living this life here so that it is in harmony with what Christ teaches us in the Gospel in our life together as Church. As I prayed about these lines of Donne, I realized that the rest of my life, long or short, is for tuning and thinking, and, of course, daily practice and rehearsal.”

“We get heaven wrong,” he concluded, “because we spend much of our life here as consumers, so we assume that we will be consumers in eternity. If God brings us to heaven then it is up to him to entertain us and make us happy always. But look at what Donne says: We are not going to an eternal concert where we will listen to God’s music, just as we go to an all-Beethoven or Greatest Broadway Hits concert here. Instead, we become one with God’s music, the profound and eternal music of creation, redemption, and holiness. We will not be God’s houseguests. We will be one with him in love. Of course this is a deep mystery, and there are no floor plans or previews of coming attractions available. Still, Jesus did tell a crucified criminal, ‘This day you will be with me in paradise’, and St. Paul, citing Isaiah says, ‘What eye has not seen, and ear has not heard, and what has not entered the human heart, what God has prepared for those who love him’ (1Corinthians 2:9). Finally, St. John tells us: ‘Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is’ (1John 3:2). That’s more than enough to get me to ‘think here before’ and to ‘tune the instrument here at the door.”

Labrynth

Not only did George’s letter clearly restate the Easter promise of resurrection and eternal life with God, but it also provided the needed metaphors to help me understand my doubts and fears. Strange, isn’t it, how some metaphors get to the point better than concrete explanations or definitions? Metaphors are the language of poets and mystics when describing the abstract, or the unexplainable. How else can one express the divine, the eternal, love, and God? We can’t, so we describe something else; an object, an action, or an idea, that conveys a similar feeling or emotion. A metaphor, as a Buddhist would say, is “the finger pointing to the moon”. They are the words and expressions that approximate the mysteries of the eternal and divine.

Thinking back on my two dreams, I saw that one emotion dominated both -- loneliness and death. I felt isolated and alone as a young college student, embarking on the long and winding road of adulthood, even when surrounded by brothers, sisters, parents, and friends. I again felt solitary and alone as an aging 65-year old man, witnessing the rapid weakening and deterioration of my mother and father-in-law, even when surrounded by my wife, adult children, family, and friends. We come into this world alone. We face our interior challenges, doubts, and fears alone. And we will grow old and die alone.

Dr. Kubler-Ross quoted Michel de Montaigne as saying, “Death is just a moment when dying ends.” She emphasized the need for preparing ourselves for aging and dying. I believe this preparation means more that just discussing it aloud with family and friends, and planning our wills, funerals, and burials. I think she also meant preparing for what happens next, visualizing the next phase – planning for when we become spirits. As a Catholic I’m taught to believe that this consciousness is my soul, a spirit created in the likeness of God. I believe this, and have faith in it. However, I also realize that I have become very disconnected from this soul, this consciousness, this me that is my real self. I’ve treated it like a visiting aunt or uncle who drops by occasionally to help me write, jog, cycle, or meditate. I don’t think death is untimely for the people who die. It’s untimely for the living; the people left behind after someone else’s death. Survivors often feel abandoned by the deceased, who they miss and long for. My dreams hinted at the possibility that as our bodies age and begin to fail, the soul, or unconscious, becomes uneasy, and more aware of its fears of pending death.

9/11 Memorial at the Pentagon

I now believe I was actually on the right track with my first impulsive response above to my Unconscious. Death is a certainty, but what happens next is Mystery. Every religion, and all the saints, bodhisattvas, gurus, and mystics struggle at describing the unimaginable. Once, I studied their lives, writings, and sayings, and I practiced prayer and meditation. But I stopped. I stopped investigating Buddhism and Hinduism. I stopped reading the books, listening to the audio tapes, and viewing the videos of Anthony de Mello, Thomas Merton, Richard Rohr, and the medieval saints and mystics, St. John of the Cross, St. Teresa of Avila, and Miester Eckhart. I shelved the mystical book, The Cloud of Unknowing, and closed that chapter of my life. I stopped these practices because I had finally come to a point in my life when I felt loved, satisfied, and happy. I was smug in the belief that I had faced the challenges and struggles of adulthood, leadership, and success, and overcome my loneliness and fears of failure. So I replaced prayers with my journals and jogging, and writing substituted for meditation. Then I turned 65 and my dreams returned.

Amitabha Buddha and Bodhisattvas

I welcome George’s images of our life here on earth as a practice session, a musical rehearsal for the next stage, when we will die and become one with God’s music. It’s a more elegant and poetic way of saying “I believe in the holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the Resurrection of the body, and life everlasting”. That concise statement acknowledges death and resurrection, but implies that we will be instantly changed from conscious mind to enlightened soul. My dreams aren’t quite sold on the idea that the transition from mind to spirit will happen that fast, and I don’t think it can be taken for granted. I love life; I treasure the people I love; and I would be loath to give them up. I anticipate that death would be a difficult transition for me, unless I am better prepared. I also believe that at the moment of death, the soul remains – somewhere, for a time. I can’t guess how long this period of transition lasts. The Buddhist Tibetan Book of the Dead claims that this period of adjustment lasts from two to five days, or until the spirit sorts itself out in one of six realms. Like Dr. Kubler-Ross’ “preparations for death”, and John Donne’s “tuning the instrument at the door”, and “thinking” before entering, I’ve come to the conclusion that we need to be ready for what happens next. We need to welcome death as a friend, and visualize the next phase – anticipating the moment we become spirits. I think my mom is doing this, in her fashion, and I hope that the Doctor will begin soon. As for me, I need to reopen my spiritual library, and resume my unfinished studies. I need to get back to the practice of meditation, reading, reflection, and prayer. I think this will quiet my dreams and get me back to “tuning my instrument”, and “thinking”, in metaphorical terms, about the unfinished journey that leads “to that holy room” where I “shall be made Thy music”.

Hymn to My God

Entry tags:

On My Way to You

So often as I wait for sleep
I find myself reciting
The words I've said or should have said
Like scenes that need rewriting

The smiles I never answered
Doors perhaps I should have opened
Songs forgotten in the morning

I relive the roles I've played
The tears I may have squandered
The many pipers I have paid
Along the roads I've wandered

Yet all the time I knew it
Love was somewhere out there waiting
Though I may regret a kiss or two

If I had changed a single day
What went amiss or went astray
I may have never found my way to you

I wouldn't change a thing that happened
On my way to you
(Lyrics by A. Bergman & M. Bergman)

“Nice to meet you, Tony, can I fix you a drink?”
With those words I met Kathleen Mavourneen’s father, the surgeon, as he swept into the family room, dressed in a golf shirt and sweater, and wearing trim khaki slacks. He situated himself on the edge of the sofa chair, which Kathy and her mother said was reserved for him, and awaited my answer. The question surprised, and then quickly seduced me. I had never been offered a drink when meeting the parents of a date for the first time.
“Why sure”, I replied. “I’ll take a scotch and soda”.
The words were out of my mouth without thinking. Scotch and soda; where did that answer come from? I liked the song, but I’d never ordered that drink before. I’d tried it a few times and liked the dry, unaffected taste, but I’d never requested it. Was it the right drink to mention in the home of the parents I wanted to impress?
“Great”, announced the doctor, as he bounced off the sofa and moved quickly to the bar that was cornered at the other end of the family room, “that’s my drink. I’d be happy to fix you one too”.
“Edwaaarrddd”, scolded Mary, his wife, from her position across from Kathy and me. “Kathy and Tony have a dinner reservation. They were just leaving when you arrived, don’t fix a drink now”.
“Nonsense Mary”, he growled back, “I’m sure they have time for ONE drink. I’d like to talk to the boy. What do you say, Tony, can you have a drink with me?”
“A drink would be great. We have plenty of time”, I confessed, knowing that I had given myself more than adequate time to meet Kathy’s parents and make our reservation at the restaurant. But Kathy shot me a wide-eyed look of panic that worried me. It seemed to query, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!

“So Tony, what do you do?” the doctor asked, bending under the counter with two large tumblers in his hands.
“I’m a history teacher at St. Bernard High School,” I replied, curious at the noises emanating from behind the bar, “but I’m starting graduate school next year.” I heard clinking, clanking, banging, and sliding, followed by the sounds of gushing water echoing off metal.
“Really”, he announced, straightening up and placing the two tumblers, heaping with ice cubes, on the counter. “What are you studying?”
“I graduated from UCLA in ’70 with a BA in History, and I’ve been accepted in their Latin American Studies program”. My eyebrows raised in surprise as he filled a fist-sized, copper shot glass from a bottle labeled Johnnie Walker Red. He splashed it, first, into one glass, then refilled it, and splashed it into the second.
“And you’ve been teaching at St. Bernard since then?” he asked, unscrewing a small bottle of soda and sprinkling it in the direction of the two tumblers.
“No, actually, I was in the Air Force for awhile”, I said. “I’ll use the GI Bill for grad school.”
“Oh, you were in the service?” he said, coming out from behind the bar, holding an ice-topped drink in each of his glistening hands.
“Yes, for a year” I replied, looking at his moist hands and water speckled slacks, and wondering how he had gotten so wet. “I was discharged when my father died. My brother and I were both serving when it happened, and they allowed one of us to leave”.
The doctor handed me a glass, raised his slightly and toasted “Up the rebels!”
“Salud”, I replied, lifting my glass in salute.
He took a long drink and resumed his seat across from me, while I took a measured taste. The scotch exploded in my mouth.
“Holy Shit” I thought, “what is in this drink!” It was the strongest mixed drink I’d ever had. Was there any soda in this drink?
Glass in hand, the doctor reclined in his chair and said, “I was a lieutenant j.g. in the war. I served with the 3rd Marine Division as a naval surgeon.”
“Oh, really”, I added, taking another drink, “my father was a Marine in the war”.
“Where did he serve? I was at Iwo Jima.”
“He didn’t see that action. He fought in the Philippines, and was in the Battle of Leyte.” With another swallow, the fumes and liquor began seeping into my body, relaxing my worries about meeting Kathy’s parents for the first time. This scotch was pretty good! I’d never considered the beneficial effects that an extra shot of scotch had on a drink before.
“Ahhh, the Battle of Leyte”, reminisced the doctor, “it was the first battle in the reconquest of the Philippines. The attack was the largest amphibious operation at the time, and Douglas MacArthur was the supreme commander. The Marines didn’t have much use for him, though, they called him Dugout Doug. It was a derisive name”.
“Hmmm”, I responded. I was about to add my own opinion of MacArthur, when a sharp glance from Kathy stopped me from fueling the conversation. I’d heard these facts before, when my father and his brothers spoke of the war and discussed the merits of MacArthur as a general and leader. Contrary to most Marines, my father respected MacArthur, and his ability to keep American casualties low by “attacking where they ain’t”. Most Marines, however, could never forgive Dugout Doug for abandoning his command at Corregidor.
“Iwo Jima was the largest action I saw. The landing and battle lasted from February 19 to March 26, 1945. After 35 days of fighting, we suffered 28, 000 causalities, with about 7,000 killed in action. That’s where I learned to be a surgeon. ‘Meatball surgery’ they call it on the TV show MASH. That’s where I learned my trade, on the beaches of Iwo Jima”.
I nodded my head at the doctor, and noticed that Kathy and her mom were trading apprehensive looks at this extended monologue.
“Lieutenant General Holland Smith was the commanding general”, the doctor continued as he rattled the ice in his glass before finishing the drink. “Howlin Mad Smith’, he was called, and he deserved the name. He was 6 foot, 2 inches, 280 pounds, and the meanest sonofabitch on the island”.
Kathy again caught my eye. This time she began staring, alternately, at my glass and then moving her glance toward the doorway. I finally got the silent message and concentrated my efforts on finishing my drink, and not encouraging the doctor to elaborate further on the story.
“On the second day of the battle” he added, “I was ordered to tell ‘Howlin Mad’ that he was running a fever and should be in bed. I was the most junior medical officer on Iwo Jima, and everyone was afraid to face him. I walked up to him, saluted, and said, ‘My compliments, sir; it is my duty as medical officer to inform you that you are running a temperature of over 103 degrees and need to be placed under a doctor’s care in sickbay, immediately’. Well, he walked right up to my face and screamed, ‘I am not taking orders from a goddamn j.g... No shave tail medical officer is going to tell me that I have a goddamn fever and take away my command. This battle is my moment in history, and you will not take it away from me’. Needless to say, he didn’t go to sickbay.”
He rose from the couch and pointed his empty glass at me, “Would you like another drink?”
“Edward! Dad!” chimed in Mary and Kathy, simultaneously.
“No thank you, doctor”, I said quickly, putting my glass on the coffee table, “we really should leave. That’s quite a story”.
“Well, it’s a shame that you have to leave right now” he grumbled. “We were just starting to get to know each other”.
“I’m sure you’ll have many more opportunities, Edward”, Mary said, as she took my elbow and led me away from the doctor. Kathy joined us, and we walked together to the front door.
“Well let me walk you out, then” the doctor said as he hurried to catch up as we passed through the door and onto the asphalt driveway. “You’ll have to tell me more about your father’s Marine experiences the next time we talk.”
“Sure”, I replied, cognizant that Kathy was walking faster, trying to get us to the car as quickly as possible. I was puzzled by all the haste; what was the hurry? Despite her cautionary warnings to me about her father’s legendary impatience and intolerance as a surgeon, he seemed a very pleasant man, and I thought I had done a good job of being respectful, solicitous, and interesting. I was convinced that I had succeeded in making a very favorable impression.
“So Tony, I didn’t have a chance to ask you before, but what do you think of doctors?”
I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was carelessness, the double scotch, or my overconfidence at believing I had already won his approval as a suitor. Whatever the reason, I responded quickly and unthinkingly.
“Well doctor, I believe they killed my father”.
Kathy stopped short, turned and stared at me with a horrified expression.
“What”, choked the doctor in surprise, “do you mean?”
“He died from a myocardial infarction, one year ago, on November 1”, I recited automatically, with an edge of irritation; as though the meaning should be obvious. “My mother and sister took him to the doctor that morning, complaining of chest pains. His doctor examined him, told him to take his medicine, and released him. He had another heart attack later that afternoon and died. As far as I’m concerned, the doctor did such a poor job that he might as well have killed him”.

There was a lonnnggg silence, as we all stood together in the driveway. It slowly dawned on me that I had gone too far with this unanticipated, emotional outburst.
“I’m sorry about the loss of your father, Tony” the doctor said quietly. “I’m not familiar with his case, but I can tell you that doctors aren’t perfect, and they sometimes misjudge the seriousness of symptoms.” His voice had changed from the lofty, professorial tones in the family room, to a softer, bedside manner.
“Doctor, I’m not blaming you”, I explained, trying not to look at Kathy or her mom. “I really should not have brought it up”. How was I going to get out of this? I had a sudden vision of all the goodwill I had secured in the family room slowly sinking into a sea of unconscious issues and hard feelings. My slip of the tongue gave him more than enough reason to dislike me, if he chose to take offense.
“No, no, it’s alright. I know you’re not blaming me”, he said, as we resumed our walk toward the car. “The death of a father is tough, and doctors are supposed to keep them alive”. He paused again, and added “You know Tony, doctors can’t beat death; they can just try to prolong life. They diagnose the illness, treat the symptoms, and operate when they can; but death is outside their control. My parents died in a flash flood; a random and accidental death, with no apparent rhyme or reason. All dying seems that way”.
Kathy and her mother said nothing throughout this exchange. They simply stood there, looking at each other, waiting for something to happen. I took advantage of the next pause to extricate myself from this situation as best I could.
“Well, thank you for understanding, doctor”, I said as I approached my parked car. “I guess I’m still not over my father’s death. I hope I didn’t offend you”.
“Not at all Tony, I admire your honesty. I know how it feels to lose a father”. He extended his hand and said “If you ever feel the need to talk about it, I’d be honored if you called me”.
I shook his hand, and then opened the passenger side door, waiting for Kathy to enter. She quickly kissed her mother and father on the cheek and stepped in.
“Goodbye, now”, I said waving, as Kathy’s parents stood side by side, waving back. I turned on the ignition, put the clutch in gear, and drove off.

“What was that about?” exploded Kathy, with a mixture of concern and wonderment. “Why did you say that?”
“Kathy, I honestly don’t know where that came from”, I confessed, shaking my head. “I am really sorry. Do you think he was mad? Did I really insult him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem angry”, she admitted, sitting back into her seat and staring straight ahead. “I’ll have to check with my mom when I get home”. After a long silence, she added, “I can’t believe he told you about his parents. He even offered to discuss your father’s death with you! What got into him?”

I met Kathy’s parents on our second “official” date. Kathy was so nervous and anxious about this first meeting, that I was confused. I couldn’t figure out what this seemingly fearless maiden could be afraid of. At first I mistook it as a lack of confidence in me, and my ability to charm older people (or at least to make a decent impression). I learned later that the anxiety was a manifestation of her childhood accumulation of remembered embarrassments and frustrations with her father’s words, actions, and attitudes. What she didn’t know during my first encounter with her parents was that I was already falling in love with her, and her father’s idiosyncrasies were inconsequential. I was more curious about him than judgmental. I wanted to learn everything I could about Kathy, her past, her influences, her mother, father, sisters, brothers, and friends. I believed that the more I knew about her, the better my chances at winning her affections; and that was becoming very important to me. My remark about doctors killing my father crystallized that desire, by putting our future in jeopardy.

The story of this first meeting has become somewhat apocryphal in the family (hers, mine, and ours), through countless telling and retellings. Added to that, because of the presence of four people, there are many discrepancies in each of our particular versions (although by virtue of being the first written account, mine may win out). While she lived, Mary acted as the designated arbiter and judge whenever it was told in her presence, reigning in exaggerated details, and deflating the “tall tale” aspects that crept in. The story has always fascinated me, because it stands out as a clear crossroad in our lives - a place in time when the trajectory of four lives intersected, paused, and then intertwined. And it has always raised the nagging question, would our lives be different today, if I had responded in another fashion? What if I had given the “right” answer, the diplomatic response, to this otherwise innocuous question? Would it have changed the direction of our lives? And who was this 22 year old girl, when we met 42 years ago, with the ability to create such a nexus in my life?

Kathleen Mavourneen was (and still is) the whole package; the perfect amalgamation of all the feminine qualities I had seen and admired in different women throughout my life. She was beautiful; a statuesque, clean-limbed maiden, with sun streaked, blonde hair and sparkling, hazel eyes. She was smart, funny, fearless, independent, caring, empathetic, and charismatic. She had a beaming, open face, with a smile that would inspire poets to dream, and singers to croon. She had a way of making people feel that they were the center of her world. Her questions and caring interest in friends and acquaintances were heartfelt and sincere; and her sympathy and advice was always thoughtful and wise. She was the “best friend” to countless people, who felt no jealousy at her equal attention to others (I was probably the most uneasy about this characteristic, because I wanted to be her ONLY boyfriend). She became angry and indignant at meanness, cruelty, and injustice, and would challenge it fearlessly through words, actions, and attitudes. She led with her heart, and backed her actions with brains, will power, and determination. By our third “official” date (after countless phone calls and “spontaneous” visits to Sister Marilyn and Carol’s apartment convent whenever I saw Kathy’s orange Volkswagen parked in front), I knew that I was in LOVE for the first time in my life, and the possibility of marriage entered my consciousness. What was unusual about this sudden development was the fact that I felt no panic or bewilderment at the speed of this realization. Falling in love with Kathy, and accepting the possibility (inevitability?) of marriage was the most natural feeling in the world (like falling off a log). There was a “rightness” about Kathy, our relationship, and the trajectory it was taking. With her in my life, I did not look back.

These thoughts and memories of long ago came to me on the evening of December 30 (New Year’s Adam), 2007, as I listened to Tierney Sutton explain her connection with the song, On My Way to You. Kathy had arranged the evening (dinner and jazz entertainment at Catalina’s Bar and Grill) as her Christmas gift to me (and us). I’d been captivated with Catalina’s ever since our first time there in April of 2003, when I took Kathy to celebrate the 30 year anniversary of our first date. The food, atmosphere, and music had been magical, and the songs sung by Peter Cincotti memorialized the evening. So Catalina’s Jazz Club already had a special place in my heart with its links to Kathy, and our first date (on Holy Saturday, 1973). Now, here was another singer, again highlighting that link, with her interpretation of the lyrics by Allen and Marilyn Bergman. Up until that moment, I had not been particularly impressed with Sutton. Her jazz style and delivery was very technical and she did a lot of “scat singing”, using her voice as a musical instrument to improvise melodies with her piano, bass, and drum accompanists. But I was riveted by her words, because they seemed to hint about the significance of every action and event in our lives, even seemingly negative occurrences. Listening carefully to her song, I finally heard the lyrics that had prompted the thoughtful introduction:

“If I had changed a single day,
What went amiss, or went astray,
I may have never found my way to you.
I wouldn’t change a thing that happened
On my way to you”.

A wave of emotion rose from my neck, covered my mouth and face, and crashed over my head and scalp. I was flooded with a kaleidoscope of pictures from my past: my living quarters at Norton Air Force Base; being told that my father was dead; driving at night from San Bernardino to Venice to be with my family; the wake, funeral, and burial; teaching at St. Bernard High School; breaking up with a girl I was dating; telling Sisters Carol and Marilyn to go ahead and arrange a dinner with a girl named Kathleen; driving to a Farm Worker’s rally in Coachella Valley with Kathy, Carol, and Marilyn, the very next day; taking Kathy to Pieces of Eight restaurant in the Marina del Rey on our first date (then taking her to Holy Saturday services at St. Bernard); standing in the driveway of her home telling her father that doctors killed my father; walking out of the original Godfather movie because Kathy became nauseous at the horse head-in-the-bed scene; and watching Kathy walk toward the front door of her house on Weddington Street, after our third date, and remembering a scene from Tolstoy’s War and Peace, and thinking, “if she turns her head to look back at me, that will be the girl I marry”. I remembered as if it were yesterday: Kathy stopped as she grasped the doorknob, turned her head to look back, and smiled at me before she entered the door and disappeared. The ground quaked beneath my feet, and I knew my life had changed forever.

On that evening at Catalina’s, despite 35 intervening years, I could recall every significant event and encounter leading to our marriage. I was struck by the idea that if my life had progressed “correctly”, I would never have met Kathy, married her, raised a family with her, and spent a life together. My father should not have died. I should have stayed in the Air Force for four years as an information specialist and newspaper correspondent. I should have completed a tour of duty in Vietnam and then been assigned to Spain before being discharged. I should not have returned home to look for a job, living with my mom and 4 siblings. I should not have developed such a close friendship with Eddie and Alex, playing board games, going to parks and beaches, watching TV, and buying comic books. I should not have spoken to a pregnant high school and college friend, who was leaving her teaching position at St Bernard. I should not have become a teacher there. I should not have met Carol and Marilyn, and become friends. I should not have been invited to dinner to be introduced to a girl named Kathleen. We should never have met. It should have been impossible for us to meet; and yet I somehow made my way to her.

Those lyrics by Allen and Marilyn Bergman gave me my moment of clarity. I could suddenly trace my life with Kathy backwards in time, to the point of my father’s death, and realize that I had nothing, and everything, to do with my fate. My life had been a series of external events and personal decisions. I had no control over most events, especially my father’s death, but I could control how I perceived and understood those events, and I could choose how to react to them. I always felt guided toward Kathy, but it was my choices that got me to her. Once I met her, I was overwhelmed by a certainty of rightness that I have never lost. Kathy was the one, the right one, the only one. Until I heard that song and those lyrics, I believed the only sadness in my life was the fact that my father never met or knew Kathy and my two children, Tonito and Prisa. I now saw, for the first time, that his death was a crossroad sign pointing me towards them. Along with my birth, it was the greatest gift he gave me.

As Tierney Sutton ended the song, I squeezed Kathy’s hand, and turning my head sideways to look at her, I whispered “I love you”. She turned to face me and said “I love you too”.

On this Valentine’s Day in 2008, I just want to say, again:

“I Love you, Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I Loved you”.