Threads of Yesterday

My parents took me to the doctor for an emergency examination while I was in kindergarten. They had a sense of urgency that, at five years old, I had never seen before. Our family physician wrote a prescription and sent us home. I remember thinking nothing of it until I was spoon-fed this foul mixture, and I gagged before swallowing it. My folks also woke me in the middle of the night to give me the same elixir once more.

Youth and the fog of memory cloud one’s perspective and make the image in the rearview mirror of the mind fuzzy. I needed the medicine, yet I wasn’t sick. Back in 1968, things were a lot different from what they are today. I didn’t even have a pediatrician. But the fact remains that something had given my parents and the doctor a scare.

A young girl in my class had died of viral meningitis.

She passed away at five years old, and it still troubles me. I do not remember her name or even her face. Perhaps as I write this, there is a mother and father who pause each day to recall her laugh, gaze at her photo, and shed a tear forty years later. By now, they are elderly. Perhaps they are grandparents. Yet how could they forget her?

My life and that of the little girl crossed at one point. Though the thread connecting us was thin, there was indeed a portion of the fabric of space-time in which we shared a common patch of Earth and moved along a collective path toward maturation. Sadly, she did not make it any further.

To a greater degree, her parents traveled along that same path and stood at the edge of the plane of existence I had shared with their daughter. Is the tiny ripple of one youthful life great enough to cause a wave of emotion powerful enough to continue to intrigue a grown man?

Four decades have passed, and I still think about my late classmate. She has the effect of keeping me focused, reminding me that my life is supposed to have significance. I will explain.

My cynicism has caused me to question my life’s purpose. I’ve rejected the idea that destiny and fate have any sort of influence over me. Yet, looking back, I see how past events have led me to where I am today, and it sometimes feels like fate.

The players who’ve accompanied me on my journey thus far—including family, friends, teachers, coworkers, and some victims I’ve encountered during my years in law enforcement—have all contributed bits and snippets of truth and awareness that occur to me only when I cast off the cloak of skepticism and become open to the charms of serendipity.

I want to remember this young girl from elementary school. I can still see where she sat in class and the back of her head. With her brown hair gathered into pigtails, she sat upright during those first days of school and listened to Mrs. Sisti teach us the ABCs. Is it fair that I made it this far in life and she did not? What does it mean when a child dies? How do I justify the additional fifty-six years of life I have been fortunate enough to receive simply because I did not get sick?

My conscience cannot easily reconcile transience, the algebra of survival, and cosmic disproportion. For this reason, I am compelled to assess my endurance and make good on an unearthed vow evoked by introspection and an unadulterated scrutiny of what I deem to be providence. Why do I live? How am I so fortunate? And what is the toll for continuing along this thoroughfare—this life?

For the sake of so many who came before me, including this girl of whom I write, I will endeavor to be a good person. My goal shall be to contribute something to the rest of us. Each day, I give a bit more, I think, as I follow a new thread I’ve discovered with my eyes wide open and my mind cleared of wretched disbelief.

My children have now surpassed the young girl in age, and hopefully, God forbid, I will never mourn as her parents have. This girl, this fleeting life, still teaches, though her responsibility was never to die but to grow.

There is a photograph buried in an archive of snapshots and Polaroids at my dad’s house. Captured on paper somewhere in these collections is an image of me in kindergarten. I remember when the class portrait was taken. Her mom and dad no longer brought her to school by then, and she never hung her finger paintings in the hallway with the rest of us for open-school night.

I intend to dig that picture out of the drawer where I store memorabilia. The will is there, but not the effort. Perhaps I will find it one day when I sit back and consider my life and how I got here. Sometimes, whenever I recall everyone I have known over the years, a little girl nudges me and reminds me that she once lived and that she mattered in this world.

Her parents should know that a new filament has been cast across the dimensions between life and death, and their child continues to weave herself into the cloth of someone else’s being. I shall secure this lifeline offered to me by my classmate and keep myself grounded in the belief that I will justify my existence and fulfill my obligations.

Decades ago, a mom and dad lost their daughter. This man, once a boy in her kindergarten class, will never forget her.

Kindergarten physician viral meningitis parents space-time classmate life journey serendipity

This One is Called "Marie"

Each event in our lives is treated like a single occurrence. We all conceptualize them differently and look deep within each vignette for meaning. I have an example of what I am trying to say. This was a powerful episode in my life; one I will never forget. However, in all of the pain and anguish I experienced then, there were poetic and heartfelt moments which make the suffering bearable.

Some background information is necessary here. My mother was a fighter. Not in the physical sense. She had to endure pain for most of her adult existence. She battled problems with her back which necessitated at least two surgeries which I can remember; one of them was to fuse her spine. Her numerous ailments over the years loomed ominous and were treated individually by specialist after specialist until the name Systemic Lupus took over and she was treated correctly.

Then there was cancer. She braved chemotherapy and three enormous operations to save her life over the span of ten years. One of her care givers, a physician's assistant told me on the side after her surgery: “Your mother is one brave and tough woman. Really, I’ve never seen anyone fight so hard.”

Her last fight came in the hospital following a life saving surgery to remove one of the tumors blocking her small intestine. The danger was she would die during the procedure. The alternative was she would starve to death. Her choice was to have the operation and come out alive.

During recovery, things never looked so grim. On a respirator, she would greet her family with a drowsy nod. We comforted her, staving off the notion that these were her last days. With the fanfare of a minor miracle, she was taken off the respirator the next morning and moved to intensive care. And, with her spirits raised, she proved everyone wrong and was transported to a step-down unit after a week; and then, ultimately, home.

Hospice workers are extraordinary people. Morphine, palliative care, and sun-setting, were all like odd pieces of furniture in our collective family vernacular until we saw them put into practice. Without the compassionate souls from Hospice, our mom would never have had the opportunity to view her garden from her living room window during those last days. We placed the bed there because there was no room in the house put it anywhere else. There had to be space for all of us to move in and about, taking turns at her side, caring for her wants and needs, and ultimately, consoling her. It was the perfect spot, because many of our relatives and friends made the sad journey from all over the country to visit her as she faded.

One scene which sticks out in my mind, which causes me both heartache and a curious sense of emotional gratification, is when our mother’s lifelong friend came to visit her. Two days before mom passed, she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Phone calls were made by all of us to those concerned for her to “get here.” All the way from Nevada, came my mother’s best friend. Mom knew Marie since they were both five years old. We kids called her “Aunt Marie,” and her children were our “cousins.” They shared everything, and were close for as long as each of them could remember. Mom and Marie went from Kindergarten through high school together, got married around the same time, had children, watched their parents die, and became grandparents. All the while their bond never faltered. When Marie moved across the country to be close to her children, they did not lose touch, and they were always on the phone together. The news of mom’s latest situation brought Marie out in a hurry.

By then, mom had no strength. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Time was short, and the rest of us were coming to grips with the reality that we would end the week without a mother and her grandchildren would be without their loving grandma. Quietly, Marie and Uncle Bill entered through the front door. Knocking was a mere formality and they never had to do so before. Marie carried herself with a brave face. She put her pocket book on a chair, walked quietly over to mom who was asleep, and took her hand. I was seated on the couch, watching as this reunion was about to take place.

“Marie?” Mom’s voice was weak, gravelly, her breathing tortured. “Marie …”
“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”

No one needed to be asked to leave the room. I retreated to the backyard and kept an eye on them through the large bay window mom was situated by. I saw them clutching each other, and sharing private words encoded in a secret language of over sixty years of friendship. There were tears, and I thought at one point I saw mom smile. I watched them. I was a voyeur. Maybe I was trespassing and I didn’t care. This was my mother, and for the last few moments of her life she was able to reconnect with all of us; to stay here for just enough time for her friend to arrive and they could be pals again, children holding hands in the school yard, talking about boys, marriage, children, grandchildren, and finally what Marie was there for.

For me memories are shaped like bubbles; and, from the moment I learned my mother was going to die and up until her last breath, I can pick out small shapes, recollections. Every once in a while I reach out and grasp one and gaze into it like a crystal ball. This one is called Marie.





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