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Authors: Terry Spencer Hesser
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abdomen, shot through my heart and cut a hole in my life. I felt as if my lungs were filling with a cold, damp, permanent sorrow. I cried and prayed again and again and again and again and again and again. My sister cried too.
I tried to comfort her, but I, of course, was more out of control than she was. “He’s not going to die. He’s not going to die. He’s not going to die. He
can’t die!”
I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. Then I lay on the floor next to my sister’s bed. I needed to be near someone I loved, but touching would be too much for me. Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that everything was okay.
The next day, we all went to the hospital. White walls, white people, white clothing. A zillion machines. As we walked into my dad’s room, his green plaid robegreeted our color-starved eyes. He smiled. We smiled. Powerless, we all tried not to cry. The familiarity of his robe gave us hope. It matched the green monitor checking his heart. Green was his favorite color.
For the first time, we all felt out of control, not just me. And without a game plan or rules, we immediately and instinctively began the sort of ritual of duplicity that accompanies events outside of human control. We all began to smile. We acted as if he was going to be fine. We acted as if everything was going to be fine.
I was so wrapped up in my fear and pain that I lost the shred of interest in my friends that remained. I stopped doing any activities outside our house. I stopped doing my homework. I thought of my father and his defective heart constantly. I slept with my mother at night—on my father’s side of the bed—and prayed over and over again. My mother didn’t go nuts, though. She was busy relieving her anxiety with a glass of wine or two and crying quietly.
After my father came home from the hospital, I kept dreaming that he was dead. To protect all of us from further harm, I stepped up my ritual of prayer. Although my urge to pray for the soul of anyone who swore had lessened for a time, now it returned with a vengeance. Once again no one could say “damn” in my presence without my crossing myself several times and imploring God to forgive him—or usually
her
, my mother—without punishing us.
My father felt he could use any help he could get and accepted my efforts without comment. But the combined stresses of his physical problems and my mental ones took their toll on my mother. Her natural state ofmind had become testy. And when she talked, even about ordinary things like groceries or going to the bank, she usually sounded as if her jaw was wired shut.
I prayed for her. I did it while watching television, while unloading the dishwasher and while reading. Sometimes I didn’t even know I was doing it. When my mother saw me making the sign of the cross while baking chocolate chip cookies, she threatened me.
“I’ve been patient,” she said calmly, but her voice and body were edgy with anger. “But from now on,
from now on
, every time I see you make the sign of the cross … I’m going to slap you silly …
sillier!
So please.
Please.
Take this as a warning and stop it.
Now.”
“Okay. I’ll try,” I said.
“Good. Because I’d like everybody in this house to think of me for once. Not you and your
things
or your poor father and his health or your sister either. But me-me-me-me. Please.” And then she muttered,
“Dammit.”
Immediately I began praying to save her soul. “In the name of the Father—”
Just as immediately, my mother reached out and slapped my face so hard I thought my head would fall off. It was great! I loved it! Tears of humiliation streamed down my face but I couldn’t help smiling. My efforts at saving the souls of my family had taken on a whole new dimension. I was being punished for piety. Surely this must erase some of my part in Christ’s suffering. After all, I was suffering too now. My flesh was being injured too. And so, with the renewed vigor of a martyr, I ran out
I tried to comfort her, but I, of course, was more out of control than she was. “He’s not going to die. He’s not going to die. He’s not going to die. He
can’t die!”
I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. Then I lay on the floor next to my sister’s bed. I needed to be near someone I loved, but touching would be too much for me. Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that everything was okay.
The next day, we all went to the hospital. White walls, white people, white clothing. A zillion machines. As we walked into my dad’s room, his green plaid robegreeted our color-starved eyes. He smiled. We smiled. Powerless, we all tried not to cry. The familiarity of his robe gave us hope. It matched the green monitor checking his heart. Green was his favorite color.
For the first time, we all felt out of control, not just me. And without a game plan or rules, we immediately and instinctively began the sort of ritual of duplicity that accompanies events outside of human control. We all began to smile. We acted as if he was going to be fine. We acted as if everything was going to be fine.
I was so wrapped up in my fear and pain that I lost the shred of interest in my friends that remained. I stopped doing any activities outside our house. I stopped doing my homework. I thought of my father and his defective heart constantly. I slept with my mother at night—on my father’s side of the bed—and prayed over and over again. My mother didn’t go nuts, though. She was busy relieving her anxiety with a glass of wine or two and crying quietly.
After my father came home from the hospital, I kept dreaming that he was dead. To protect all of us from further harm, I stepped up my ritual of prayer. Although my urge to pray for the soul of anyone who swore had lessened for a time, now it returned with a vengeance. Once again no one could say “damn” in my presence without my crossing myself several times and imploring God to forgive him—or usually
her
, my mother—without punishing us.
My father felt he could use any help he could get and accepted my efforts without comment. But the combined stresses of his physical problems and my mental ones took their toll on my mother. Her natural state ofmind had become testy. And when she talked, even about ordinary things like groceries or going to the bank, she usually sounded as if her jaw was wired shut.
I prayed for her. I did it while watching television, while unloading the dishwasher and while reading. Sometimes I didn’t even know I was doing it. When my mother saw me making the sign of the cross while baking chocolate chip cookies, she threatened me.
“I’ve been patient,” she said calmly, but her voice and body were edgy with anger. “But from now on,
from now on
, every time I see you make the sign of the cross … I’m going to slap you silly …
sillier!
So please.
Please.
Take this as a warning and stop it.
Now.”
“Okay. I’ll try,” I said.
“Good. Because I’d like everybody in this house to think of me for once. Not you and your
things
or your poor father and his health or your sister either. But me-me-me-me. Please.” And then she muttered,
“Dammit.”
Immediately I began praying to save her soul. “In the name of the Father—”
Just as immediately, my mother reached out and slapped my face so hard I thought my head would fall off. It was great! I loved it! Tears of humiliation streamed down my face but I couldn’t help smiling. My efforts at saving the souls of my family had taken on a whole new dimension. I was being punished for piety. Surely this must erase some of my part in Christ’s suffering. After all, I was suffering too now. My flesh was being injured too. And so, with the renewed vigor of a martyr, I ran out
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