The Sign

The Sign

“So, when you say about three months, Doc, are you thinking three to four months, or are you more of a two to three months kind of guy?”

“Sorry, Fred, it doesn’t work that way. All I can say is you have about three months. That’s been my experience. It’s not an exact science when it comes to that part of it. I had one guy go for a full year, and another guy, he… well, it’s not an exact science. That’s all I can tell you.”

A regular refrain Fred had heard from his Dad- “Life isn’t fair; get used to it.” Fred never smoked, never drank, ate healthy foods, and exercised regularly. This wasn’t supposed to happen to a guy like Fred, but in one short week, a pain in his side devolved into a death sentence with an expiration date just months away. On average, convicted murderers get nineteen years from date of judgement to the day they’re strapped to a gurney. Life isn’t fair.

It hit Fred the moment he left Dr. Kelly’s office. At first, it confused him, then it annoyed him. Everything, the cars, the people, the birds, and the clouds in the sky all seemed disturbingly unaware of Fred’s plight. He was dying and no one seemed to notice… or care. It is a sad and sobering thought to realize the world will be unaffected by your departure.

What does one do when death has a place on your monthly planner? Paint the garage? Pointless. Get that new pickup truck you’ve had your eye on? Even more pointless. Stock up on groceries? Even food’s function becomes uncertain.

Amidst the flotsam and jetsom that was once a fully functioning brain, one crystal clear thought emerged. Fred would not tell his son and daughter. They would find out soon enough. Why saddle them with any more days of sadness than necessary?

The Packers lost the following Sunday, and for the first time in forty years, Fred didn’t care. He consumed food, but there was no taste. He thought about mowing the lawn, but snow would soon be coming. Even Superman couldn’t clear out his attic and garage in three months.

He fed his dog as he teared up knowing his faithful companion would miss him. Fred had decided he would burden no one with his prognosis, but it is hard to keep such sorrow to oneself. Maybe he’d pull a page out of a Checkov short story ; the old man had no one to tell about his son’s death so he shared his misery with his horse. Fred didn’t have a horse, but he always found Shadow to be a good listener. Fred sat on the floor and stroked Shadow’s head with a tenderness they both felt was special.

“You’re going to be okay. I’m sure Tom will take you in. You’re going to love it there. He’s got two kids. You’ve met them. Man, they’re going to fuss over you!”

Fred wiped away the tears. Dogs can sense things. If dogs could cry, Shadow would have.

“I’m sorry, old buddy, I’m sorry.”

 Susan was buried on a Tuesday, and even the impending doom would not break the routine.

“Good morning, Martha.”

“Good morning, Fred. It must be Tuesday. How about a nice red one today?”

Susan reached into the cooler behind her and pulled out a bright red rose.

“That’s perfect, Martha. Thanks.”

Fred put a one-dollar bill on the counter and turned to leave.

“Fred, you really don’t have to give me the dollar.”

“I know.”

Fred always parked on the street outside the cemetery. He didn’t like the idea of pulling up close to the grave, walking twenty-five feet, and visiting Susan’s gravesite. It felt too much like a drive-thru for paying one’s respect.

The walk gave him time to reflect on the moment. He might think about their time together in high school or their long walks along the river. If the mood was comedy, it would be their bowling team (worst two averages in the entire league), or his vegetable garden which never yielded a pumpkin bigger than a softball. He always reserved a little time for reflecting on their time with the children.

It is indeed a bit perplexing that survivors often think the departed would “like” the location of their final resting place, but those left behind often do harbor such sentiments. As he walked up the hill through a cluster of white birch trees under the morning sun, Fred knew Susan would have liked the spot.

“Hey, babe, I’ve got news… big news. You know how you told me you’d be there waiting for me in heaven? Well, I guess I’m on my way. Cancer, just like you. I hated it even more when it was you.”

“I’ll see you in heaven.” That’s what people say. How many believe, truly believe? Susan believed. Fred- not so sure.

“I’m scared, Susan. I don’t have your strength, your courage. And… I don’t know if I have your faith. I’m sorry, I just don’t know. I…I want to believe, but I’m just not certain. I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

The shrill call of a cardinal caught Fred’s attention. He loved cardinals because Susan loved cardinals. He sometimes thought their sweet song was a sign Suasn was above always watching over him.

Fred placed the rose at the base of the gravestone which read, “Susan Barnes- Blessed this world from 1954 to 2012; - Now in Heaven with the rest of the angels.”

Fred hadn’t cried since the day Susan died, but today he did.

“I miss you so much. I’ve sort of felt half-dead ever since you left so I just have half a journey to go. You have to be on the other side. Please be there for me. I need to see you again, Susan. I want to believe. Help me to believe.”

The walk back to his car was always longer than the walk to the grave.

“Hey, Dad, what’s happening?”

“Hello, Tom. Same old, same old. How are you doing?”

Normalcy. That was Fred’s goal for the next few weeks. He knew the time would come when his condition couldn’t be masked, but he wanted to cling to life as he knew it for as long as possible. He dreaded the time his kids and grandkids would know.

“I thought you might be suicidal after the Packers lost to the Bears.”

“That was bad, but I’m hanging in there.”

“I’ll try to get over there to mow the lawn this weekend. I guess painting your garage will have to wait until spring.”

Mowing the lawn… painting the garage… things that seem to matter, but really don’t.

“I’ll see you at Becky’s for Thanksgiving.”

“Just so you know, I told her if she doesn’t have her baked-in-the-bag apple pie, I’m not coming.”

A laugh. Where will all the laughter go? There were so many great times, fun times. It didn’t seem possible that such powerful forces could be eclipsed by microscopic cells gone awry.

Alone at night. Those were the tough times. Nothing to occupy the senses other than thoughts of the disease ravishing his body and the tearful goodbyes sure to follow. Even flipping through the pages of the family photo albums brought little relief.

“Fred! What brings you by this time of night?”

“Good evening, Father. I guess I’m looking for a little reassurance.’

“Reassurance. In what way?”

“Well, Father, I hate to admit this… but the whole afterlife thing… heaven… God. I guess I’m having some doubts. I kind of want to know that when I die… there will be an afterlife for me… hopefully in heaven.”

“I see. And tonight… at ten o’clock? Why tonight, Fred?”

“I’m dying, Father. I only have months to live. It’s… hard not knowing. Can you help me, Father?”

“I’m sorry, Fred.”

The goodly priest studied the face of his friend of many years.

“You haven’t told Tom and Becky, have you?”

“Not yet, Father. I will… in good time.”

Father Mel shook his head.

“I understand.”

“Reassurance, Father?”

“I could tell you all night long that I believe, Fred, that I know God and Heaven exist, but I can’t give you any proof. No one could. I sometimes tell people like you to look around and ask yourself where did all this stuff come from? How did our Universe come to be? There has to be a power greater than ourselves… beyond our ability to comprehend. To find that answer in God? I think true believers have been touched by the Spirit, a special gift from God.”

“How do I get touched by the Spirit, Father?”

“Listen”.

“Listen?”

 “Yes, you listen. God, the Heavenly angels, and the faithful departed talk to us every day. Our job is to listen. Don’t stress yourself, Fred. Relax, pray… and listen.”

Fred felt like he had gone to the bakery to get a dozen donuts and left with six. Father Mel’s advice sounded like, “You either have faith or you don’t”, and it was not all that comforting. “Listen.” That night in bed, Fred listened with all his might. He had as much success listening for a sign as he did as a child when he prayed he’d be two inches taller in the morning. There are some things you just can’t think your way through.

Dying was bad. Dying with the lyrics of Peggy Lee’s song “Is That All There Is?” floating around in his head was worse. There had to be more than this worldly existence, but Fred wasn’t feeling it. Death was knocking at the door. Fred had so little time to find the faith that comforted Susan in her final hours. All he could do was pray, listen, and hope for a sign.

Where did life go? Everything seemed like only yesterday. Fred's benchmarks of aging: 1- the girl behind the counter at the bank called him "sir"; 2- the bag boy at the grocery store asked him if he needed help carrying your groceries to the car; 3- the kid at McDonald's asked him if he qualified for the Senior Discount; 4- the abrupt end of the line when his doctor delivered his death sentence.

“How long have you known?”

“Just for a while.”

“Jesus Christ, Dad, you should have told us.”

“That wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Well, I’m packing a bag and moving in this weekend.”

“Becky, you don’t have to…”

“I’m moving in, and that’s it. I can get you to your doctors’ appointments, and do whatever you need done around the house.”

“I guess.”

The days passed, each longer than the day before. Fred lay in bed and listened. He sat in his rocking chair next to the fireplace and listened. Relaxing on the swing on the front porch in the evening, he listened. Listen, listen, listen, and he didn’t hear a thing. He was as troubled about what might lie ahead as he was the night of his disappointing counseling session with Father Mel.

“How are you doing today, Fred?”

“I’m okay, Doc, but I can’t lie to you. It hurts.”

“I’ll see what we can do on the pain meds. That’s all we can do.”

“I am so sick of doctors… sorry, Doc… and hospitals. Can’t I just stay home and die?”

“That’s going to be an option, Fred. I’ll talk to Tom and Becky.”

Tom helped his Dad up the hill at the cemetery and held him steady as he said his final goodbye. Fred handed a white rose to his son.

“Tom, could you…”

“Of course.”

Tom placed the rose in the small vase, and put both hands on his father’s arm.

“Babe… this might be my last visit. I just want to tell you one more time. I love you, Susan. I will always love you.”

Tom’s tears matched those of his father.

“It will be soon. I hope… I hope to see you then. Goodbye, my love.”

As it had become second nature to him, Fred listened the whole way back to his house, and still nothing.

 Tom and Susan had moved his bed to the living room as the stairs had become too difficult, and to give their Dad a view of the backyard, the place of so many happy memories. Bright sunlight poured through the picture window, but the room still darkened as the end was near. Fred had been drifting in and out of consciousness all morning, and his words were now meaningless. Tom and Becky comforted each other, and the grandchildren stayed close, Little Tom pushing a red fire truck around on the floor while the older children struggled to come to grips with the concept of death.

“At least he’s not in pain, Becky.”

“I’m going to miss him.”

“We all will.”

The movement and incoherent utterances stopped. The finality of the event hit Tom and Susan hard, and both wiped away tears.

And then… the shrill cry of a cardinal turned their heads.

“Oh, my God Becky, there’s a cardinal on the window sill!”

“Mom’s favorite.”

Tom and Becky will never know if their Dad heard the sweet song of the cardinal that day, but they did notice the hint of a smile that appeared on Fred’s lips as he made a peaceful exit out of this world… and moved on to the next.