The passing of the storm

Linda Wegner

Too many dreams had been shattered too many times. Anger and disappointment, passing through the cold air of time, had hardened into frigid grief. Sitting there beside him, all my emotions crystallized.

Two days earlier, I had left Regina in the grip of February. Burying myself in Greyhound warmth, I had looked forward to the green of "Lotusland"; I was ready for relief from the bitter cold. The incessant drivel of a passenger, the whine of tires and the hiss of passing cars all sang the same song. "Hurry," they intoned. "Hurry and get there before he's gone."

I was shocked to see him. Wasted and shriveled, deprived of his power to assault, his once massive body lay curled in a fetal position. Sticks, too long for the bed, replaced his arms and legs. His thick, wavy hair had been a source of pride; now, white wisps lay scattered on his grey scalp. I squeezed his hand and knew the satisfaction of controlling its destination.

His room was designed to be efficient, deathly efficient. Linen, bed pans and bags of IV solution were on alert. Machines spoke of all that his body was doing, or not doing. Privacy had been usurped by efficiency.

At the head of his bed, cards bedecked with flowers mockingly invited him to get well. A polished window let in grey and jaundiced light. Between his bed and the window was a small table; a radio on the table played endlessly. At this moment, voices on Morningside spoke of problems and solutions while patients patrolled the halls. Words like "diagnosis" and "carcinoma" and "CAT scans" shot through the air. It didn't really matter because there was no quiet here anyway. Tubes and machines and a dying man each troubled the silence.

I stared at him, motionless but cared for, and thought of all the times I'd hidden motionless with terror. Calling out in pain, his agony was quickly dealt with, quickly dulled. Mine had lasted for years.

Many speak of having learned life's lessons at a mother's knee. I learned mine at Father's feet, cowering as he trampled underfoot every scrap of self-worth.

I learned early that kindness cost; any word of encouragement was spoken with a price in mind. Embedded deep in my heart was the belief that there was no such thing as a loving touch. He reached out only to violate.

These were the conscious realities. The less tangible and more deadly ones seared the soul. Suspicion contaminated each relationship because betrayal and violation of trust were the blocks upon which my world was built.

I remembered how, as a child, I raged inside when playmates would tell me how lucky I was to have such a nice dad. How I had wished that I could have inflicted him on someone else for just one day. I would have known some warped justice then.

Justice. Mercy. Justice and mercy. Watching him struggle for life, I didn't want to think about mercy. Even justice didn't seem enough. Memories rose up and demanded vengeance.

My agitation was interrupted by an act of mercy. With competent gentleness, Dad was turned. Cool water bathed his face and straightened the white wisps. Tubes and machines were checked.

They said that they were sorry--he was such a fine man. How good it was that I had come all the way from Saskatchewan to British Columbia. Their eyes asked the rest of the questions: "Why did you wait so long? Are there others? Where are they?"

Others? Yes, many. Too many. I stopped counting at twelve, yet there was no consolation in knowing that I was not his only victim.

He always let me know when there was another woman in his life, so it was no surprise when Woman Number Four walked in. Tall, slim and with an ease of manner, she gushed: "Hello. I'm Elaine. I used to be your stepmother."

Behind the pleasantries and deep inside my being, an icy voice responded: "I need no stepmother. My precious mom still lives, and even if she didn't, no woman of his would take her place." Outwardly I smiled and took her hand. "Hello, Elaine," I said. "Nice to meet you."

At least Woman Number Five and the latest acquisition, Woman Number Six, didn't speak such foolishness.

But he was dying, and I was still alive. He remained in winter, but, for me, spring would come. For him, there were no further seasons--only a bitter crop frozen in time. I could say farewell. He could only die.

He stirred, and I stood. Laying my hand on his brow, I asked: "Are you in pain, Dad?"

"No," he whispered. Another act of mercy.

"I'm glad there's no pain," I spoke, and, to my astonishment, I meant it. "Dad. It's Linda. Do you know that I am here?"

An almost imperceptible nod let me know that he was aware of my presence. Bony fingers, attached to those bruised sticks, attempted to squeeze my hand.

The machines gurgled while bloody fluids oozed from what was left of his body. Pellets of snow continued to attack the window. Gzowski and a newly famous musician spoke of rhythms and melodies.

A psalm of supplication struggled to the surface of my mind. "O God," I moaned. "O God, help!"

Tears began to roll down my cheeks. A nurse came and went while I wept freely. It was actually good to be thought an appropriate mourner.

I needed to think of one pleasant memory, of one truly good time we had shared, but none would come. My grief was for that which had never been.

"O God!" Again that cry ripped my heart. "O God, why? What drives a man to such depths?"

Like tiny drops from melting icicles, memories began to pool. I recalled one of those rare visits to Aunt Maude's home. We only went at Christmas because Mom was not considered to have sufficient breeding or wealth for this family. A Christmas visit was proper, though.

As I thought of those dreaded visits, another memory skulked into consciousness: a Saturday evening broadcast called from childhood to complete the picture. We would gather around the radio in delicious terror as a creaking door and an arcane voice beckoned us to the Inner Sanctum.

I was beginning to understand now. An inner sanctum of distrust, of concealed relationships and unconcealed destruction, had been his childhood home.

His picture had sat on the mantel. He was a beautiful child. Dressed in the loveliest of dresses, his thick hair curled in ringlets and tied with a ribbon, he personified his mother's dream for a girl. I wept anew with the realization that he had himself probably known the hell he inflicted on his own children.

I needed a break. I walked to the nursing station, and, catching the eye of a nurse wearing a red sweater, I explained that I would be in the cafeteria for a few minutes "if there is any change . . . if you need me."

Two cups of tea and half an hour later, I came back to his room. He had been turned, and his pillows were fluffed. The nurse in the red sweater informed me that his patch--his pain medication--had been changed and that he was comfortable.

I liked this nurse. I liked her red sweater. I was grateful for some colour in this tundra.

The ice in my heart was beginning to thaw. Recalling my own failures and sins, compassion for this man began to seep and pool. I thought of the anger and bitterness that I had, for so many years, allowed to govern my actions. I recalled with shame the way I had so often lashed out to hurt whoever was in my way. I was not to blame for the horror he inflicted on me, but I was responsible for my own actions.

"O God," I cried, "forgive me and cleanse me. Help me understand and forgive. Help me love."

The blessing of forgiveness that follows confession blew warm winds of release.

"Jesus," I whispered, "thank You for showing mercy to me. Thank You for the power of Your blood to cleanse and heal."

Great sobs engulfed me. I stroked Dad's hand and felt a ripple of response. Taking a cloth from the cupboard, I soaked a washcloth with cool water and wiped the dampness from his forehead. The presence of my Heavenly Father was covering the failings of this broken man who had sired me. Warmth began flooding the recesses of my heart.

Bending over his bed, I whispered gently, "Daddy, can you hear me?"

"Yes", he gasped.

"I love you, Daddy."

With gut-wrenching difficulty, he spoke the last words I would ever hear from him:"I love you, too . . . very much."

For how long I don't know, I savoured that moment. While someone on the radio spoke of the day's financial markets, I counted the seconds between his breaths.

I felt a finger of warmth probe my back. Turning to look out the window, I saw that the sun was shining. It had exploded into the greyness, and now light blazed through the glass. Walking to the window, I discovered that the snow was disappearing. The winter was nearly gone. The storm outside had passed. So had mine.

After several more days at his side, I knew it was time to go home. I always thought that it would be so easy to let go, so easy to watch him die, but that was before the ice had melted.

I called the nurse in the red sweater. "I have to return to Saskatchewan now," I said. "Will you help me say goodbye?"

Standing shoulder to shoulder beside her, I felt the strength of her profession and the power of my God.

"Goodbye, Dad. Goodbye, and God go with you."

Slipping from my father's room, I turned my back on all that had been. Stepping into the brilliance of sunshine, I looked with confidence to all that lay ahead. The snow would fall another time in another season, but never again would I be held so captive in its grip.

Linda Wegner is a writer from Stoughton, Sask. This article won the 1995 "Best of the Best" award from the Alberta Christian Writers Fellowhsip.

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