Grace

Last summer, less than a month before I received my liver transplant, an event took place that overshadowed my illusion that it’s all about me.

Dad called us around 7:30 pm on August 15, and said, “I don’t think Edie’s breathing.”  Wingman’s mom, Edie, had been slipping into dementia over the previous four or five years.  By the time she passed, she was unable to do anything for herself and no longer recognized family members.  She was in a nightmare world that was frightening and painful.  Though unexpected, we knew her passing was a blessed release.

When Wingman and I got married (eloped), Edie welcomed me with open arms.  She was strong, she was devoted, and she was selfless.  She and I were fully comfortable with each other from the time we met.  Knowing looks, winks, we had it all going.

Edie had amazing eyes - like blue ice.

I spent many hours with the grieving family.  None of them in so much grief as Dad. Through grace, my stamina went into high gear, and I was able to pitch in effectively.  I researched funeral homes and helped with arrangements.

Prior to the funeral, I spent several days putting together a slide show with Polish Catholic hymns and photos of Edie.  Despite the encephalopathy (foggy brain), I intuited my way through a process I’d never done before and produced a sweet little tribute.  Bless you Steve Jobs, wherever you are.  I put the laptop on a table, hooked up speakers, and let the slideshow run at a low volume throughout the viewing.  The family was touched by it, and I knew the guidance I followed was the right thing when I saw those healing tears.

“I” did not do these things.  This temple in which my soul was dwelling ought to have been parked in the shop, awaiting a new part.  It was God’s lila (the enchanted dance of existence, the divine play), that enabled me to be there for my family. I was gifted with everything I needed in order to be of service, acting pretty much on auto-pilot.

I was self-conscious about my appearance.  I’d gotten down to 91 pounds, and had nothing especially appropriate or stylish to wear that didn’t look like a tent on a stick.  So I donned my nicest shirt and the only pants that weren’t likely to drop past my hips and I sallied forth.  I was the most yellow person there.  Like that cheap tanning lotion that turns the skin orange, yet so evenly applied you'd swear it was the real thing.

Wingman’s sister and her husband live in another city and, because of various (and quite valid) issues stemming from her upbringing at the feet of Dad's parenting style, she hadn’t spent as much time with Mom as she would have liked.

In the meantime, trouble had been brewing over Wingman's exasperation at his sister for not being as helpful as he thought she should be.  Wingman always has too much on his plate, and it’s difficult to be of help to him, and that’s all I’ll say.  The last three to four years, every visit has been a growing clusterfuck of blame and misunderstandings, with Wingman ultimately chasing his sister away.  She in tears, vowing never to come back.  Later, there would be phone conversations and vague apologies and a temporary truce would be forged.  After an especially unsettling clash a few months prior to Edie’s death, it didn't appear possible that anything could ever be salvaged.  I love Wingman's sister.  I had been denied her company, and I was pissed.

Providence.  I like that word.  It’s such a befitting term for what happened next.

Edie's deep desire for peace among her kids came about through her passing.  At the funeral, this proud, Polish family who seemed to prefer altercations to expressions of affection, suddenly had no Mama to remind them how important those things are.  And they clung to one another in grief. They shed all awkwardness, embracing and weeping together, opening their hearts with words of contrition, appreciation, and love.

It was the most tangible evidence of God at work that this little farm girl ever beheld. I gained new freedoms as well.  My long-held attitude of hostility toward Dad had prevented any impulse to look past the image I kept  of him.  At the viewing, Dad was pacing and speaking to Edie as she lay in the casket.  He kept saying, "I've never been here before.  I don't know how to do this."

I've never been here before.  Such a direct and perfect assessment of his grief.  This was the first time I’d seen the humanity in him that I’d been overlooking.  And I went, “shit yeah, may as well look for other things about this dude that I can love.”  Once the veil was lifted, I was shown a whole other guy.  What can I say?  He’s my pal.

After the funeral service, as we were all getting into our vehicles to leave the cemetery, an enormous hawk began circling above us.  We were in three vehicles driving back, and this bird stayed with us for several miles.  Each of us shared similar thoughts - Edie's spirit flying free, but always with us.

We are changed for the better.

The One and Only

RAM