Here and Now

Last week my son Rory, my husband Tim, and I refurbished our dining room. It is clean and bright and comfortable. This is the last room in the house to receive a face lift since The Day That Everything Changed." It is a tangible reflection of where we are now.

We didn't know on that day in late April two years ago that the events unfolding would open doors that we had been banging on for years. In fact, we thought, at the time, that the last glimmer of light in the dark world we had been inhabiting was about to be extinguished.

Tim had been slowing slipping away for a very long time, pieces of him being absorbed by the ever increasing amounts of alcohol he had been consuming since he was in his early teens. My children clung to a composed memory of the parts of their father, long since disappeared, that knew them, loved them and took pleasure in their presence. It is a tribute to that early fathering that they never rejected, never walked away, but stood quietly waiting for either an end or a beginning. They are remarkable that way. In all aspects of their lives, their capacity for acceptance and forgiveness is astonishing. They are true heroes.

So on this April afternoon, we came home to find that there was nothing left of Tim. He had, indeed, become quite mad. We thought we were witnessing a stroke in progress or worse and, as we had done many times before, called for help.

Tim was admitted to the hospital, something that had happened several times before with little effect. Now his heart was failing, and his liver was shutting down. We knew that this would be his last admission. He was not coming home. His mind had already gone and it was a short matter of time before his body followed.

But, that is not what happened. It seems that whatever tiny spark of Tim was still dwelling somewhere beyond recognition finally said, "Enough!" After 43 years, the man put down the bottle and never picked it up again. Just like that. Once he came around, he was the worst patient ever to inhabit the cardiac wing of that hospital. After 6 days, they essentially threw him out for being so much trouble (another story for another day.) But he didn't drink again.

His recovery was slow and uneven. At times I feared that what I was left with was even more difficult than what he had been before. However, gradually Tim reemerged. The good days outnumbered the bad. He found lost hobbies and interests and, most important, he found his children - who were never lost at all.

I can't tell Tim's story. I can't begin to imagine what it is like to rebuild a life after more than forty years of destruction. It must be something like waking from a coma. I don't know. I was certainly awake all those years and when I chose to remember, I am a bit awed that I could stand under the weight of so much pain.

I believed I would never forgive. But I didn't have to forgive. In the end, there was nothing to forgive. As that door creaked open and all that light began streaming in, I discovered that it was quite natural to live in the now.

There was always music. I always heard it. But now, that last line of polyphony, those tones needed to close the chords, they are all there. We always danced, holding hands with a fierceness that made our knuckles white and drew blood where are nails dug into our palms. But we were a broken circle. Now we are linked. We dance lightly, fingers touching and the music continues to swell. No doubt there are other movements to come that may not be so bright. But this is now and we are whole and that will do.

At the Ball with the Prince

I met my younger brother, Bob, in Philadelphia on Friday night. He was in town running a conference on publishing research for a group of medical types - I never really got the details. We ate a rushed buffet dinner in a room jammed with ravenous doctors, most wondering aloud when the free drink tickets were to arrive. Suddenly a young man stood up, clinked on his glass and demanded "Shut the doors - everyone needs to stay for this." Clearly we were in for one of those rituals one loves to hate. My brother shot up, told me to grab my drink and we headed for the door. I specialize in moving invisibly through crowds and I slid through the door just as it was being closed. My brother ended up on the other side because he took a detour to the dessert table. I guess rank has privilege-even to leave- because he emerged shortly, carrying cheesecake in his hand (no plate) and we headed down broad circular steps to the lobby below. I felt very much like preteens escaping from wedding toasts (Bob's hasty consumption of his palmed cheesecake cemented that.) The only difference was that had I really been 12, I would have slipped off my "grown-up shoes" and run down the staircase barefoot. But I like my grown-up shoes, they make me feel - grown-up. So we descended to the lobby at a gracious pace which did allow Bob to finish his dessert. In that quiet, ornate space we began our own waltz, and it lasted over four hours.

I don't see Bob very often and I can't remember the last time we were with each other without
siblings, offspring or partners. I believe it was about 20 years ago. We had no problem finding conversation.

We began with him holding forth on his political views. I have no idea whether I agree with him because he is so well-read, so passionately involved, so globally knowledgeable, that it is impossible to contribute intelligently without the same preparedness - which few of us have - certainly not me. It is better just to listen, ask a few questions and then file it all away to put into context later. But discussing politics without rancor is a great icebreaker. We glided through all of that, nary a misstep. Now in rhythm and sync, we moved into the essential topics - the topics that could only be discussed alone and had therefore been waiting years to be given voice.

We began by talking about children. Our children. His are of the age where they tear your hearts out daily, mine, somewhat older are more pleasures than problems. However, I have years behind me of the same types of pain and I am qualified to say, "It is frightening, yes, but you are not in the red zone, not even close. It's OK to step back and let them breathe a bit. They can't learn to avoid falls if they don't practice tripping. We talked for a very long time about his children and mine. He gave light to some troubling fears, and I could, with all honestly, put most of them to rest. He literally danced down the hall later - like a man who has been told, "Your grim self-diagnoses is all wrong. You are going to be fine."

Then with the lights dimming and the day waning, we slowed almost to a stop. With mutual unspoken consent, we plunged feet first into the deeper, darker places. We compared our eight-years-apart impressions of long ago events that still send damaging suckers into the intertwined roots of our family. We picked at old scabs and then dabbed at the blood that emerged. We laid bare the idea of forgiveness and concluded reluctantly that there is not always value in forgiving. Sometimes forgiveness itself is destructive. But we agreed that the guilt that comes with non-forgiveness is consuming and it is that which must be set free if we are to have the strength to enjoy the rest of the dances.

We ended the ball with a early morning slow gavotte down Locust Street. My brother is not a city dweller. He saw muggers on the steps of every bar, hit and run drivers behind the wheel of every vehicle. I laughed. We were, after all, in Rittenhouse Square. And then he laughed. Because right then we had our palms planted firmly on happy. Right then the music was pure and sweet and jubilant and we were still dancing.