UNIT 15 A Favor at the Gates

I hate February. Maybe I do misunderstand it

but it's the most desolate time of a year.
White gray skies and coldness are its only equivalent features.
February signifies death.
I know this is true because on a cold gray mid?February day,
seven years ago,
came the news of my father's terminal illness.
We had suspected for some time
that whatever was wrong with Dad
would be something petty and curable.
He had always maintained an active life even
in his seventies,
but this winter had hit him pretty hard.
A cough that wouldn't go away was followed
by episodes of fatigue so severe that he wouldn't
or couldn't look after himself.
Eventually he had to be hospitalized
and the tests confirmed
our worst and ever present fear—cancer.
Though his pension could help cover his prescriptions
but the diagnoses came too late for any type of treatment
to have effect. There was nothing feasible
to do but bring him home and wait
for the inevitable outcome.
When Dad first came home there was an air
of denial surrounding everyone whom came to visit him.
They talked to him as if he would recover soon;
wished him well when they departed,
and if anyone ever gave him the chance
to talk about the finality of his life
that I never knew. Goodbye shouldn't be so hard to say,
but it often is heart breaking.
February gave way to March
and then April came with its vitality
and promise of new life.
I suppose everyone feels the irony at the times like that.
We sit by the side with no option
but hopelessly watch the life drain from someone
we love while the seasons turn
and we can do nothing to stop death from its approaching.
As my dad decayed and faded inside the house,
the lawn turned green, the pond glowed like porcelain,
all the trees leafed to fullness
and the tulips sprang forth as though all
was exactly as it should be.
There is no fairness in destiny.
I often spoke with my mother
during the final weeks of dad's life.
She talked endlessly about the magnitude
of her frustration and fatigue.
There were times when she angered me
with her negative and insensitive comments
and there were times when I felt
how tired she must be. Mom never said
she was afraid to be widowed but at times
I could sense how uneasy she was;
I was not aware how she might react when the end came.
The truth about death was hidden somewhere
between our interpretation and what we refuse to admit.
I carried the guilt of mutely
hoping my dad's death would be quickened,
thus sparing him and myself the agony of prolonged pain.
Death seems to determine to rip apart any fragile bond
that exists between the living and the dying.
On the last Sunday I was ever going to see my father,
while talking leisurely,
he mentioned how much he loved French fried potatoes
and how he wished he could have a big plate of them now.
Mom overheard his comment
and began screaming that how she had cooked everything
he had asked for and he didn't eat any.
She screamed so loud
that I was embarrassed for my father and myself.
She was like apirate who left my father shipwrecked.
He looked away from my eyes
but I saw bitter tears rolling down from the corners
of what once were the greenest eyes I'd ever seen.
At that moment I hated my mother.
I hated her for making me pity my father.
I hated her for being spiteful,
though mostly I hated myself.
It would have been a simple thing
for me to accommodate my dad's request
of French fried potatoes.
I could have jumped right up and told mom
I knew how tired she must be
and even if dad didn't or couldn't eat them,
I'd fix them for him.
I could have told mom to go sit down and rest.
Or I could have told her Dad
was just talking about the recipe of food he enjoyed.
I could have done a million things different
from what I did. Sadly all I did
was far from my emotions.
As Mom was still yelling and Dad
was trying to conceal his hurt,
I made some lame excuse for leaving.
During my drive home I thought of how Mom
had made my visit with Dad so depressing.
The picture of Dad's smiling face turning so quickly
to one of hurt wouldn't leave my mind.
Why had she screamed out at him?
Dad only wanted some fried potatoes.
Mom could have said no or maybe later.
On the contrary, she had lashed out at him
with such rage that he shrank
in fear at her onslaught, as did I.
Why didn't I gather an ounce of courage
and stand up to Mom?
Would it have been so hard for me to intervene?
My father was dying and all he had asked for
was some French fried potatoes.
We were just talking about foods we enjoyed,
like prawn,lobster, beef stew with pepper
and mushroom soup, etc. The worst criminals
condemned to death can request a last meal and get it.
Where was the justice in refusing my father
a plate of French fried potatoes?
I couldn't stop the tears as they overflowed from my eyes.
I opened the door to the home
I shared with my husband and daughter,
hoping to get in the bathroom
before they could ask any questions.
Luckily my husband was on the telephone
and he barely glanced at my way
as I came through the kitchen.
I splashed cold water on my face
and tried my best to conceal the redness
the crying had created in my eyes.
When I finally opened the door,
my husband was standing on the other side,
waiting for me to come out.
He pulled me gently into his arms
and whispered how much he loved me
and how sorry he was to have to tell me
my father had just passed away.
As my husband drove us back to my parent's house,
I kept thinking about how I had just left Dad,
alive, not more than thirty minutes past.
One of the ironies of death is even
when you are expecting it,
it comes as a surprise.
Seven years have passed since we buried Dad.
I've only just begun to forgive Mom
for her final outburst during my last talk with him.
I've been less forgiving myself.
Each day I'm ridiculed by my own thoughts.
How could I have left Dad disappointed
knowing he had a want?
What was wrong with me to have not done something?
Whenever I'm at a restaurant
and hear children asking their parents
for fries to go with their hamburgers,
I fight not to interfere.
I want to say let them have fries.
I'd offer to pay for them my self, too.
But that would call for some kind of explanation
and I'm not ready to share this with strangers.
There will be a time for an explanation
when I am visited by the only principle of fairness.
If those gates of Heaven are really there
and a short pause exists while the records are reviewed,
I'll tell my story then. Before I am judged,
I'll bargain, would it be too much to
ask if I might be awarded with time to prepare
a plate of French fried potatoes?
And if you could,
would you graciously have them delivered to my father?
I know he is here and he'll know
who sent them.
If you could allow me this small favor
I think I'll be all right no matter where I might go from here.
I hate February...it is the most desolate time of a year.