Love & Survival

It is a commonplace that mankind deals with the vagaries of life by searching the heavens for a reason: why was I singled out; why me and not someone else; and why, after all I have done am I tortured? And there are no answers, just as there are no reasons, it is just the way it is.

I am an exemplar of the phenomenon, I was tortured as no man should be when I lost Marilyn, my wife, to a swift and lethal disease. It took her from me just as I began to feel our life together could get no better. We had married seventeen years before, as we finished school and began parallel careers that progressed both successfully and profitably; we had a prosperous and happy life and we had a beautiful child, Madeline, our daughter, on whom we doted. And then fate seemed to determine that we had enough, that our happiness had to be redistributed, that someone else somewhere else was now entitled to the happiness and pleasure we had shared, and it was taken from us.

My daughter and I shriveled in grief and pain, co-existing in a suddenly cold, cruel world, moving like automatons who knew the motions but could never comprehend the reasons underlying our actions.

Grief is forever, but the sting lessens in time. My daughter finished high school and went away to college. Her life began to emerge from the shell we had been put into together. She did well in school, picked a career path, and met a young man who made her whole again. James drew her out and made her laugh again, and between them they began to put together a plan for a life together once they finished their educations. He had taken an ROTC scholarship to help pay for his education, and would have a commitment to the US Army when he finished, and after a few years their life would be theirs, and they could begin a family. The sadness and unhappiness of the loss of her mother would be behind her as she put her own family together. I was so happy for her, and watching her blossom again was helpful to me dealing with my loss and pain. I had looked forward to being a grandfather, and I was supremely happy to lead my daughter down the aisle and present her as my most valued possession to the man she loved and wished to be with for the rest of her life, and in their plan I saw the outlines of my life in the future, as well. I felt as though renewal had begun, and that hope could live again for all of us. My hardened heart began to thaw, and I even began to think again about finding someone to share my life, or should I say, my next life, as there could never be a replacement for the happy life I had before.

My daughter and James moved to a city several hundred miles away to begin their careers, she with a large corporation as a planner, and he into the active army as a young lieutenant in an infantry brigade. He finished his training and was assigned to an active duty post near my daughter's job, and they settled into their new life.

But, as always, the world intervenes. In this case, the events of 9/11 shocked our mutual world. Incomprehensible destruction and mayhem rocked the world and set this country on a war footing. James' unit was immediately put on alert, but he was not immediately shipped out. His unit began advanced training, and he was called away frequently on extended maneuvers, and then finally his unit was mobilized and moved to Kuwait, where they waited in readiness for an expected push into Iraq our leadership was planning.

Against the advice of wiser men, an invasion began and the troops who had been pre-positioned over the border began to move north at high speed, out-running their supply lines and stranding units without fuel or food for days. In a breakneck rush to Baghdad, James' mechanized unit was pushed hard, flogging their humvees over the Iraqi highways near Nasariyah where they came under attack. His humvee was struck by an RPG in the middle of a bridge over the Tigris river, the driver lost control and went over the side where the vehicle landed upside down trapping all inside. James' body was retrieved once the bridge was secured and sent home to my daughter, who was once again seized with grief, as was I.

Now it was her turn to question life itself, to feel as though the entire universe conspired to ruin her happiness. James had drawn Madeline out so completely from the mausoleum we had been cast into when Marilyn died, and now she was pushed back in to ask the unanswerable and try to handle the unendurable once more. I myself was crushed, the bright prospects for my future again destroyed in an arbitrary way, as though an unseen puppeteer pulled strings out of spite, or just indifference to the suffering his actions put into play.

She could not speak to me for months following the funeral, she just seemed to go away, although she stayed in her home. She resumed her work after a brief period, but I could not imagine her putting herself into it as she once had. I would call her and try to draw her into conversation, but she was unresponsive and flat in voice and emotion. I was handling my world in a similar fashion, going through the motions again in my work, to the point that co-workers began to intervene in small ways, trying to draw me out and back to reality. And in those small ways, they succeeded. Though my heart was broken for my daughter, never to be restored, I began to rejoin life and slowly began to recover from this second enormous shock.

I called Madeline and finally got a response. She was in a shocked shell, and though we had always been able to talk, even following Marilyn's death, she did not have much to say. She did agree to come stay with me for a weekend, the first time we would have together since James' death.

I still lived in the home Marilyn and I had built and moved into when Madeline had been about six years old. It was on a rural road near a lake in a pine forest. From the road there was not much to see, but from within we nearly lived in a forest. The back wall of the home was nearly all glass and looked out onto a wall of pine trees with a glimpse of blue lake and sky about a quarter mile away. It was our dream home, and our dreams soared within it. Madeline had loved it from the day we moved in, and Marilyn and I had thrived in our refuge from the world. It was private, yet open and it had been an opportune spot for me to recover. Now I hoped it would do the same for Madeline.

Madeline had always been fond of my cooking, and I made plans to feed her body and soul while she was here. She loved shrimp, and she loved pasta, and she adored green salads, and lately had discovered the joys of good wine. I made no plans outside the house for her visit, preferring instead to play it by ear and let her talk to me, if she wished, or ignore me if that worked, also. She had friends in the neighborhood, but I wouldn't tell them she was coming. She knew where they were if she needed them.

I have never been a doting father who tried to please her at all costs. I have taken the approach that she is an intelligent being and can be talked to at an equal level and can be trusted to make good decisions. I have listened to her arguments, and been persuaded more often than not. I knew that this would be a crucial time for her, she was coming home for comforting, and I would see what she needed and what she wanted from me before I made any moves or plans.

There was so much riding on this visit, for her and for me.

She arrived late on a Friday afternoon, pulling into the drive and parking behind the row of pines that shielded the house from the road. I rushed out to greet her and to help her unload and get her bags into the house. She was so glad to see me, but I immediately worried about her, she looked so drained and, well, grey. There was no sign of the color and vitality that had surrounded her when she went away with James on their honeymoon not so long ago. But it was her, and I was so glad to see her.

In the house, I helped her put her coat away, put her bags in her room, started a fire in the living room fireplace and opened a bottle of a surprising Australian Shiraz Cabernet noted for its warmth and friendliness. It had been one of her favorites not long ago, and I hoped it would bridge the devastation in the middle of our lives. I did not start dinner yet, wanting to see which way the wind blew. Surprisingly, the wine worked. She began to talk around her loss, discussing her job, the drive out, but she never mentioned any plans or hopes or dreams. She was treading water right now, and I was very familiar with that mode in life. I was glad to hear her talking, even at such an uninvolved level, and I lent her my ears and interjected when appropriate, but I wanted to let her speak, knowing that talking was therapeutic.

She wasn't hungry then, but surprised me by asking me to make her a pizza-like creation I had dreamed up for her when she was very young. I would take a slice of white bread and push my knuckles into it, spread pizza sauce from a jar on it, sprinkle some canned parmesan on, and put it under a broiler until it browned. She didn't want it just then, but my plans to make stir fried shrimp and pasta were put on hold. We would make these pizzas together when Marilyn wasn't home to cook for us, and she always loved it. We would eat three or four slices apiece for our dinner. Actually, I still like it, though I never make it anymore for myself.

For the moment, though, we took our glasses of wine, and the bottle, and settled into the couch facing the fire. Night fell shortly, and the room grew dark but for the glow of the fire lighting our faces and the fronts of our bodies and casting the rest of us and the room into varying depths of darkness, with absolute blackness hovering just over our shoulders.

We soon exhausted the small talk and fell into a silence as we stared into the fire.

Fire watching has hypnotized mankind since we learned to tame it. There is an order to flames we can not fathom, and it fascinates us into watching as though we could. It curls around its fuel, seducing and consuming. Two people watching side by side can actually communicate without saying a word, sharing experiences and arriving at a consensus without speaking. Fire watching heals damaged spirits, and renews hope for a better world and a brighter day.

Madeline had been sitting beside me just out of reach, but at some point she leaned over and found my shoulder, and leaned into it. I could have cried that she had sought me out. She held her wine glass on her hip and stared into the flames. It was as though by watching the same spot in the fire our gazes had met.

I had to push her upright at some point to rebuild the fire, and she did not resist. I put new logs on and took the opportunity to use the rest room. When I returned she had refreshed the wine glasses and the fire had roared back into life. I brought a lap robe over and sat back down, looked at her and invited her to resume her spot, and then spread the robe over our legs. I gripped her around the shoulders and hugged her.

We sipped the wine and the fire again began to settle into its warm, dark mode, with the flames licking around the logs receding into a subdued flicker.

The warmth, the wine, the robe all succeeded in seducing us into sleep. Madeline lay against my shoulder, her body stretched out on the couch, and I was somewhat upright and not long for the world of consciousness. I stretched out facing Madeline, pulled the robe over us and waited for sleep. It was not long coming.

I woke once or twice in the night. As the fire died, I pulled the robe closer around us and pulled my daughter, my wounded child, closer and I put my arm around her waist and pulled her to me. Our lives depended on facing the darkness together.

+++++

Dawn came in the window wall through the trees. The fire had long gone out, and Madeline and I were pulled together under the robe on the couch. I stirred first and looked down to see the top of her head nestled against my chest and her arms wrapped around me, as mine were around her. I don't think I have held my daughter this way since she was a tiny little girl. We had napped together when she was very young, and I felt so proud and important to be her bulwark, her strength and protector at those times. I felt the same way now.

I rose and went to the kitchen and began quietly making some coffee. I didn't want to wake her. Sleep was the next most important healer, only following love. I took my coffee and quietly went through the sliding glass door to the deck on the back of the house. This was always a time of wonder for me, watching the day begin, hearing all the creatures in my world waking and beginning their days, too.

I wondered what I could say to her when she woke, how I could let her know I felt her sorrow and shared her questions and begged for the same answers she was seeking. Just being out there was good for me, and I sought this time as often as I could. The night mists were beginning to lift from the woods, the colors of daylight were emerging from the dark greys of dawn, and the sun was beginning to warm the world.

I went back in for more coffee and found her just rising. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and stretched her lithe frame.

"Morning, love", I said to her.

"Hi Dad, good morning", she replied, "did we sleep here on the couch?"

"I think the wine was drugged, you fell out like a baby and I was right behind you."

"Well, I should try that more often. I haven't slept well in months"

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Please!" she said.

I went to the kitchen and got her a big mug of coffee. She used to take a large dollop of half and half in her coffee, so I took the risk and diluted her coffee to a familiar shade of beige. I took her the coffee as she continued to sit on the couch with the robe wrapped around her to fend off the morning chill.

"Want some breakfast?" I said.

"Wasn't there a plan for pizza slices in the works?" she asked.

"Food like that spoils the dawn. What you want now is stuff fried in grease, heavy food to hold your day down. How about home fries and sausages and bacon strips and eggs poached in butter. . . " I had always been able to get a rise out of her with these suggestions. She was a sensible eater, and didn't start the day with heavy foods. And it showed on her. She was as slender as when she was thirteen, but she had just become mature. She was now a woman, a slender woman, but there was no doubt about her mature physical stature. Perhaps that was genetic. Her mother had been slender, and I have held off gaining unwanted weight with no apparent effort. I don't work out, never belonged to a gym, and yet I am still slim and trim.

"Dad, that is not gonna work. If you don't feel like making them now, then let's do them a little later. That's comfort food to me, that's part of what I came here for. I'll just have coffee for now."

She was talking a little now, so I sat beside her with my coffee. I looked at her and smiled. Her hair was stacked kind of weirdly around her head, so I took it upon myself to straighten it out a little. She absorbed my ministrations patiently, and smiled back at me when I was done. Madeline was just a beautiful girl, and I know she is not the only one: all people are beautiful, but when you plant one, watch it grow and see the splendid result you get proprietary about it all. She was gorgeous, the fruit of my loins, the little miracle that had grown out of the love of her mother and I, the special little radiant being who illuminated the darkest corners. She was the reason the world existed, making it right for her was why her mother and I planned her, it was for her to walk on this earth that we labored, we prepared the way for her to follow our lead and create her own radiant beings.

And here was my wondrous child darkened by grief, and not for the first time.

I looked at her face and saw her intelligence, and knew she was turning over a million questions a minute, as I had in my depths. I smiled at her and pulled her head to my chest and patted her. I had no immediate answer for her.

"Do you have a plan for the day?" I asked her.

"None, I am just a visitor on this planet" she said with a smile.

"Well, stop to smell the roses. I hear they're wonderful" I said.

She finished her coffee and said she was going to shower and clean up.

I puttered in the kitchen, washing the cups and cleaning up and laying out the ingredients for the famous pizza slices. I wanted them to be hot from the broiler when I served her, which I planned to do when I had showered.

I didn't have a plan for the day either, but I felt a walk to the lake would be pleasant and soul-soothing. I would see what her feelings about it were.

I went to my room and stripped down and got ready to shower. Whether I didn't remember that I was no longer alone in the house, or whether I might have calculated she would be out of the shower and in her room, I am not sure. But when I, naked, stepped into the bathroom to shower, I was surprised to see her still there, also naked, looking in the mirror over the sink. I had not seen her naked since she was a pre-schooler. I was quite shocked to see the changes since then. She was perfectly womanly in all ways. There was no denying her beauty, and no denying that I was more than surprised to see her this way.

She apologized to me as I backed out of the bathroom as though shot from a cannon. I couldn't get out soon enough, and she was apologizing. "I'm sorry I took so long, I'm sorry" even though there was nothing for her to apologize for.

I went to my room, closed the door and marveled at what I had seen. She was my daughter, but I was a lucky man for having seen what I saw.

Soon she shouted that she was out of the bathroom and I could go in, and I heard the door to her room close emphatically.

I went in and showered and returned to my room and dressed.

I came out and went to kitchen and found her watching some news on the counter top TV. The news of Iraq was on. I thought this might be the last thing she would want to see, but this was not the case. Her reaction to James' death, and the deaths of all the others in Iraq, was that this was a tragic misadventure and could have been prevented if not for the impetuousity of an ill-informed and impressionable president who was in the thrall of obsessed cold-warriors who had not entered the humane universe.

"This is such a waste" she said, "all this death for nothing. I feel that James was just thrown away as though he were a used tissue. It was a criminal waste."

I fully agreed with her. I know that her world had been wasted as well. Where there had been a vibrant couple with plans for a better world, now there was a widow, an achingly young widow, who was now scarred forever by the folly of foolish men.

"Would you like to take a walk to the lake?" I asked.

"Lets eat something first. I'm starving" she said.

And so we ate white bread with pizza sauce and parmesan and watched the news of the world, in a somber and reflective mood.

She did not mention my walking in on her, nor did I, but I did look at her differently now.

The trail through the woods was committed to memory for both of us, and we could have done it in our sleep. But we took our time. We came to a place we had always called "The Hollow" because it was a clearing in the woods with a fallen log to sit on, and in the springtime a vernal pool where frogs were born and learned to croak the night away in summertime. Now it was dry, but the log was there and we sat for a while.

"Dad, do you feel cheated by life?" she asked.

I knew what she meant, and at some other time I might have listed the ways. But right now, I didn't. I had my life, I had my daughter, who needed me more than ever, and I was groping toward a future regardless of the hurdles. I felt oddly optimistic about life right now, all things considered.