Keeping the Faith



Found it!  Circa 1987

 I grew up with the understanding that my father was an atheist.  Our "Christmas" decorations consisted of miniature Chinese silk animals my parents collected on their travels and wooden horses reflecting my mother's Swedish heritage.  We spent Easter hunting for plastic eggs in the backyard and making our own chocolate bunny candies from molds.  The only time I ever heard him reference any religion was when he would yell, "Oh for Christ's sake!" or "Godamnfuckingshit!"- actually, we heard those quite often but they had no greater meaning than him venting his anger and frustration.  Along with his five siblings, he went to Catholic school from elementary through high school, and he was always proud that all six of them got scholarships.  "My mother never paid a cent for our education," he used to say.  I've heard stories of him settling his arguments with the Brothers by literally putting on boxing gloves and duking it out and I'm sure his rear broke many a nun's ruler.  He went to WWII right after school then attended NYU on the GI bill.  Maybe his Catholic schooling never permeated, or maybe something happened during the war changed him.  All I know is that I never heard him mention God with anything but disdain. 

As he falls deeper in to his Alzheimer's and continues nearing death awareness, a different language is starting to come through.  The first time he told me he was going to go to Hell, I was shocked but thought maybe it was so ingrained at a young age that "sinners" go there after they die that it seemed a natural conclusion to him.  He's been having war flashbacks for quite some time and has talked of needing to reconcile with some of his estranged children, and I think for whatever reason he's looking back on his life with shame.   It's hard to watch a man who was in so many ways hugely successful to go through that, but he's done a lot of things in his 86 years that I will never know about. 

Last week out of nowhere he introduced a new dialogue that I wasn't ready for.  I was feeding him dinner and we were listening to Ella Fitzgerald.  In between spoonfuls of yogurt, he blurted out, "I'm scared of dying."  I've never known my father speak of death even in abstract form or be scared of anything, and it surprised me.  Maybe for the first time he was feeling his own mortality?  Before I could answer, he continued to tell me that he was scared of living, scared of dying, and scared of Christ.  Jesus doesn't love him, and he didn't love Jesus anyway.  He was scared of dying, going to Hell, can't pee, scared of living, hates Christ, scared of dying, and should have told her he loves her.  "I love her so much," he wailed, "she's so good and I love her and I never told her..." 

After gaining my composure, I ask who he was meant- was he talking about me?  "No."  Did he mean...Carrie?  "Yes, Carrie, I love her so much, oh noooooo!"  With tears in my eyes, I said the only thing I could.  "Carrie knows you love her, Dad.  She knows that very well.  And she loves you, too."  It was strange speaking to him partially in third person, but that seemed to be where his reality was right then. 

I am far from an expert in damnation, repentance, moral sin, or the afterlife, and don't feel it's my place to try and comfort him about any of that.  However, it's obvious his thoughts are being plagued by guilt and fear and he needs to work through them.  The chaplain went to visit him the next day, to try and work through some of unresolved religious questions, but Dad was so worn out from his release that he was zonked out the whole day.  Subsequent visits with the chaplain have been unsuccessful, but at least we know it's on his mind and are ready to receive his concerns. 

Agonizing over needing to tell me he loves me and not realizing I'm sitting right there, however--that's a pain nobody can take away from him.