The Grapevine Art and Soul Salon

Presentations: Cynthia Daughtrey

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The room was at the end of a long hall, unusually quiet, I thought, although I hadn’t much experience with Christmas Eve in a hospital. The afternoon sun had settled into smoky strands that traveled down the ‘family chair’ and made their way under the bathroom door. The large window behind the chair opened out to a gravel top roof and was positioned above the third floor air conditioning unit. I sat with Dad alone while he slept; the rest of my family had gone home to take a break.

Inside, the walls were a muted gray with a pale pink border running along the top. Various pieces of medical equipment surrounded a long, narrow bed. Every available surface was covered. Neat stacks of dressing gowns and soft, white towels lay next to piles of books and a battered old radio. Bandages and bottles of three different heart medications were lined up behind the sink. A Scrabble game took over the window ledge. One table held the small, twinkling tree my mother had set up. We had carefully folded and wrapped tiny boxes to go underneath and had placed some family photos around the edges. It was an ordinary scene, in such a place, unless one’s eye traveled out the window and to the horizon beyond where the tall buildings shone silver against a sapphire blue sky.

My father had been an exceptional man-- a brilliant writer and actor who loved good conversation. He was a strong man who had little tolerance for debility, in himself or anyone else. The stroke crept over him slowly with silent, evil hands. It began by creating a weakness on his left side, leaving him unable to walk without assistance. Within a short period of time, it had reached his throat, taking away his ability to swallow. At first the doctors were hopeful. People overcome things. It would take time, and a lot of hard work. Dad was used to hard work. He had done it all his life. But this was different. Each day he slipped further away. He couldn’t take nourishment, and his weight dropped off alarmingly. His ensuing dehydration left him less and less able to recover or even communicate. This was perhaps the saddest time of all.

Everyone except my mother managed to continue working. Days blurred together and meals were taken at strange hours. When Dad couldn’t manage the smallest of bites, regular food seemed tasteless and almost shameful to the rest of us. Sleep was elusive. Many times I felt unable to sit still beside him. I could not handle the welling up of emotion and often roamed the halls instead. I wished I could be a child again, and sit by his chair as we talked, really listening and seeking his advice. I had disappointed him so much over the years. Our battles focused on how little we understood one another.

Dad had always loved music and had taken great care to teach my siblings and me to appreciate works of art in many forms. He encouraged us to see the beauty of the sun setting into the ocean or a fierce, purple storm rolling across the sky. Let yourself see it! Lately, when I took my afternoon walks, I never looked at the sky. I had forgotten to notice. Perhaps he had forgotten as well.

Because I was especially tired on this day, I was content to sit quietly and watch as the sun turned a fiery red and sank into a dark blue sky. The lights of the giant tree atop the children’s hospital across the street began to glimmer against the velvety black. I hadn’t put up a tree at home this year, and I realized just then how much I had missed it.

Dad was more aware this evening than usual, although I still wasn’t sure if he knew what the date was. The movie he had been watching was finished, so I switched the channel to PBS, hoping I would find something more interesting. Suddenly, beautiful music swept into the room, in strong vibrant colors. Perking up, he lifted his face as though the music were drops of rain. Listen, he said. The powerful voices filled the air. I noticed he was trying to move his left hand, as a conductor might. I was surprised at this because he had quit using that hand after the stroke, and attempts at physical rehabilitation had been largely unsuccessful. My throat felt tight as the voices rang out, clear and powerful. I had been especially sad that Dad would be unable to attend midnight mass at St. Michael’s this year. And here we were, listening to the hymns I had loved since childhood. If I closed my eyes, I could almost smell the heavy wooden benches polished with beeswax and, from the altar, wafting incense. I remembered some of my father’s records; powerful, sweeping Beethoven, soaring Brahms, and The Beatles’ Abbey Road, all of the same intensity.

After a brief intermission the orchestra began to play again, evoking a delighted roar from the crowd. Gloria in excelsis Deo. It was my favorite hymn. I heard weary, raspy sounds and realized it was the two of us, singing! I took his hand in mine. He had not forgotten. His eyes were bright, and for the first time in a long while, I saw joy in them. I felt very calm and at that moment, refreshed, as though my thirsty soul had been given a cool drink of water. We both smiled, and the lights from the tiny tree grew brighter.

When I was a child, our summer vacations were spent off the coast of North Carolina. One year, the outer bands of a hurricane skirted the fragile barrier island where we stayed. All night we listened as the wind howled and whipped over the sand dunes and rain beat against the windows. It was frightening to realize that, for the first time, my father was as scared as we kids were. The next morning we walked along the shoreline to see what had washed up. Dad leaned down, and his glasses slid off his nose into the water. For over an hour we stood in the cold frothy surf, searching for them. Suddenly, he lifted his hand, and shouted I found them, I found them, only to discover a large crab attached to the tips of his fingers. As he broke free, he threw back his head in a thunder of laughter, deep from the belly. Isn’t it great just to be here, he said, all of us together? And as we stood there giggling, a blush of sky behind us, I knew I wanted to remember this moment always.

We listened to the choir for a long time as I sat beside him. I told him I loved him and how glad I was that he was my dad. He squeezed my hand in return. It’s Christmas Eve, I said. He nodded his head. I know, he whispered. I said I would look after Mom and return to school. "I want you to be proud of me, Dad." And in a strong, clear, surprised voice he said, “I am!”

I am grateful for that Christmas Eve. At a time of great sadness, I was allowed to celebrate the joy of that night with my dad, in the most unlikely of places. He was allowed the dignity of being my father again, with all his wisdom. Most especially, we let each other know how much we meant to one another. I knew I would never forget it.