14 Upstairs

Day 14 - February 2

Father asks, “Cher, could you please make some phone calls for me? There are people who should know.” Call by call, I create a structure to tell his friends and family. I’d like to think I didn’t miss anyone, but I know better.

“Let’s bake a Boston Cream Pie, Cher. Look, I saved out three recipes for you to choose from.” I’d like to say I jumped up, picked out a recipe and baked up a storm, but I know better.

We make our way through the day of discomfort and unspoken fears, needing oxygen or not, sleeping or not. By dinnertime I discover how to proceed, cooking veal cutlets with German curry gravy, red cabbage and dumplings. We settle in, enjoying delicacies that bring his years in Germany back to life.

Father’s sister, Aunt Mary, lived above her general store in Dupont, Pennsylvania. In the back, behind a curtained doorway, Uncle Joe sat next to the wood burning stove. Aunt Mary rolled out dough for her homemade pierogies on a table in the center of the heat-filled room. A screen door on the far wall opened onto a back porch overlooking Joe’s garden. As a child I skipped along the store’s dusty wood-planked floor, past the glass displays of Mary Janes and Jaw Breakers, around the shelves of toiletries and sundries, and then parting the curtains, stepped into that kitchen—a fluffy white cloud, filled with warm waves of pierogies and Polish.

A rear stairway led up to the rest of their home—a strange mystery land to me. The few times I ventured up the stairs, I felt like a spy or intruder. I did not know when, but life here happened behind the scenes. I only ever saw Mary and Joe downstairs in the kitchen or the store.

School children scurried through the front door for ice cream bars and candy. Adults found everything from cotton balls to plungers. Father’s favorites were the butterscotch Tastee Kakes. After visiting grandmother’s, we always stocked up on Tastee Kakes for the drive back to Rochester. Aunt Mary let us select penny candies as she carefully placed each one in a tiny brown treasure bag. The privilege was dizzying—anything I wanted and I wasn’t even a customer!

Mother’s cousin also lived in a secret world, in Buffalo, above his restaurant, “Hawkin’s.” I called him “Grandpa-father.” He reminded me of grandfather, but he wasn’t. Father and I twirled around on shiny red stools at the counter while "Grandpa-father" served us hot fudge sundaes and tea in green diner china. For special dinners after church on Sunday, we were served at a private table in the balcony. Upstairs, behind a locked door, "Grandpa-father" must have lounged in his leather recliner. I noticed cigar stubs in the ash tray with legs down to the floor. I spied, but couldn't wait to get back downstairs to the bustling booths and counters, the mosaic tile floor and the red flashing signs.

In a way, I grew up in father’s ministry's “restaurant and general store”—the place where he served others, the place where I looked up to him, the place where I made quick judgements—wildly positive or not, the place where I wanted to continue swirling on shiny stools at the counter.

Now, we linger at dinner over second servings of veal cutlet and I am in his “mystery land,” the upstairs behind-the-scenes life where he can truly be himself. He tells me a family secret, he wants me to know. Next, he wonders if he made the right decision to move back from Germany, he and mother were so happy there.

He talks on, and I am not a spy or intruder.

“Cher, I would really like a hot drink now.”

I get up to pour his “Postum.” I open the refrigerator door, reaching in for a box of butterscotch Tastee Kakes for father's dessert.

13 Narrowing My Life to This Moment

Day 13 - February 1

A suffocating snowstorm is choking the airways, but by four o’clock this afternoon I am determined to get back to New York. East coast airports are closed, O’Hare flights are canceled and more snow is predicted for tomorrow.

An agent in India tells me there is only one seat left on any outgoing plane headed for Rochester, I’d better purchase immediately or I will lose it. Usually I fly with travel award tickets from Harold’s frequent flyer miles. However, I hang up the phone relieved, regardless that I paid eight hundred dollars for a one hour, one-way flight. All I can see, over and over again, are father’s eyes looking up from his pillow the last time I said good-night. I was the face looking back at his profound need. Words were not necessary, his eyes said this is not a time to be alone, it is not a time to be with friends, it's the time he needed me. Re-fueled by rest, medications, and Harold’s care, I'm ready to be there with him.

This is where I walk through a curtain into another realm. Technically, I walk up to the kiosk, check in, wait with hundreds of stranded fellow passengers who slept in the airport the night before, board--trading my first class seat by the window for my preferred aisle seat further back--call Steven to say I've landed after midnight, and roll my carry-on bag up father’s stairway for the last time.

So matter of fact, the ride from the airport—Steven requests a sugar-free fruit drink at an all-night sandwich shop, I ask for extra mayo on the roast beef. He tells me of his time with father while I was away. He learned a new appreciation for father’s peace in the presence of death, for father’s life-long incredibly deep faith, and father’s desire for him not to worry. I think we pass the baton, and then silently navigate country roads through massive amounts of snow blowing toward the windshield—the kind where one has to choose between using the blinding high beams or equally blinding low beams.

What kind of choice is that? The kind, after many years of driving in western New York snowstorms, we don’t say, “I certainly know what to do now,” but we do rely on our belief that we know how to drive and we will make it home safely. We are receptive to our instincts.

Father lived his whole life receptive to God’s love and guidance. He never lost his focus through so many nights of suffering, but rather prayed more earnestly, praising God who would take him home safely. He didn’t know how, but he believed it.

I enter a zone in which necessity renders me completely receptive to guidance from a spiritual source, or “God’s will,” as father so trustingly prays for.

I didn't say it at the time. I didn’t know it at the time.

12 I Will Give You Rest

Day 12 – January 31

Back in Chicago, overcome with flu symptoms, I visit the doctor, returning home with multiple prescriptions and an inhaler. Included in the prescriptions is a narcotic cough syrup, the same one Dr. Smith prescribed for father. We are afraid to leave him alone after administering the narcotic, lest he should fall. For the next two days Steven stays with father, watching, protecting, cooking, appreciating, and in his own way, saying his good-byes.

I fall into the middle of my down cushioned bed and don’t move. In my few waking moments I ask myself how I could have left New York. I cried all the way home on the plane, but I did come home. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t thinking, I was taking one step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other again. The path led me home.

I flew home from Germany in 1975, also leaving tears on the runway, after spending one month with father and mother before my marriage. I suppose I shocked them with the news I was going to marry Harold, an African-American from Manhattan--Harlem to be exact. I didn't realize I was shocking. I had not witnessed racial prejudice in our home.

I boarded the plane in Frankfurt, headed for my Harlem wedding in two days, knowing I left mother in her sickbed, disturbed that she didn’t know Harold, upset thinking that she never would. Her fear of the unknown overcame any confidence she might have had in my choices and decisions. Tears fell as I watched the runway speed by, but I knew more clearly than I had ever known anything before, I was making the right choice. While nurturing mother through emotional set-backs, father reached out to Harold with love. His only concern was, “Cher, just be sure to seek God’s will.”

Now, thirty-three years later, in one of my conscious moments, Harold offers to serve me anything I need. He is willing to grocery shop, cook a meal, order in, whatever I choose. Suddenly I know the only thing I want in life at this moment, is a Fluffer-nutter sandwich from my childhood! I stay awake long enough to tell him the sandwich has to be on very soft Wonder Bread, with a thick layer of marshmallow fluff on one side and creamy Peter Pan peanut butter on the other. The next time I awaken, he props me up and sets the softest, most comforting Fluffer-nutter sandwich on my lap. I squish each gooey bite against the roof of my mouth, swallow and wash it down with Dr. Pepper, before sinking back into the down and feathers.

Father once told an emergency room nurse, “You know, if you had put Dr. Pepper in my I.V., I’d probably be out of here by now!”

His request on many an uncomfortable evening was for “milk toast.” He walked me through the careful preparation and instructions till I knew how to re-create the comforting favorite that grandmother had given him when he was sick, out of sorts, or hungry in the evening. “You toast two pieces of white bread, butter them, sprinkle sugar on each piece, and then cover them with warm milk.” After relishing every soggy bite, he picked up the bowl, as I’m sure he did as a child, and slurped down the warm milk with satisfaction.

There are times in life when we let each other down; we bring confusion instead of peace and calm. There are moments when our baggage causes us to fear the unknown. We love each other and we fail each other. But when we need comfort, it’s not about the food. It’s about the ears that listen to how we like it, the hands that prepare it just right and the hearts that give it to us, enabling us to learn how to listen, prepare and give when it is our turn.

11 For Everything There is a Season

Day 11 – January 30

“Tread lightly, the day is fragile. Hearing the word is divine,” I think as my fingers press the keys of my laptop.

Steven joins us on this journey, maneuvering Rt. 390 in an ice storm on the trip to Highland Hospital. Dr. Smith has been seeing father for two years in the oncology suite.

Father holds him in high esteem, “He’s quite a guy, Cher. You know this is his third career. First he designed instrument panels for jets, then he served in the Peace Corps, and now he is a well-known oncologist. And, he teaches the adult Sunday school class at his church!”

Father and mother moved to Germany in 1971, where they lived till 1989. Mother directed the music program for the catholic and protestant services in the nearby U.S. Army base chapel. Father served the people and churches of Eastern Europe behind the “Iron Curtain.” With her military I.D. card, they enjoyed the privileges of the army bank, post office, Officer’s Club and of course, the chapel. They became personal friends with the commanding officers and soldiers who came and went over the eighteen years. Because of father's many trips and extended stays in communist countries, some military personnel were convinced father was a spy for the U.S.

He did smuggle across the heavily guarded borders, Bibles, food, clothing, electrical parts for radio stations, kitchen supplies for youth camps, books for a Theological Seminary, and anything else that was needed, yet lacking, in the churches of Poland, Yugoslavia, Hungary and Czechoslovakia during that time. He traveled simply with a tourist visa, for weeks at a time, all year long. He did not write a book about it. No movies were made. He quietly and diligently carried out his decision to dedicate his life to serving God. He had promised grandmother on her deathbed that he would go to Poland and take the good news of Jesus Christ to her sisters’ families. He broadened that scope year after year.

Father networked with churches and chapels throughout Germany and the United States. One of those churches was Dr. Smith’s. Periodically father visited to report on his work and relate the ministry opportunities in communist Eastern Europe to the congregation. Dr. Smith and his family listened with rapt attention. In turn, father appreciated sitting in on Dr. Smith’s Sunday school class.

Now, so many years later, from the first visit in his Highland office, father felt relieved to be in his hands. Dr. Smith carries a note in his white coat pocket with a list of people he prays for daily. It is a long list. On days when father was admitted to the emergency room, Dr. Smith whispered to the attending physicians, “Take very good care of Rev. Gretz, he is a legend.”

In the waiting room father nods off most of the time, weakness overcoming him. Steven finds a jelly donut in the cafeteria and we try to help him eat a few bites. “Cher, I want to ask Dr. Smith if he has a schedule.”

“What do you mean? What kind of schedule?” I ask.

“I want to know if he has a time-table for when I’m going to heaven.”

Called back to his office, father and I take the chairs, Steven stands by the door. When the doctor enters, we greet and he proceeds directly over to father. Bending down with his stethoscope, Dr. Smith breathes softly, “Now I know why the Lord has laid you on my heart these last several days.” He examines him, and then sits across from us.

I tell Dr. Smith father has a question to ask him. He turns to father for the question, but father turns to me. He can't ask, or he can’t stay awake long enough to ask. I try, but also can’t ask for the lump in my throat and sudden inability to breathe and talk at the same time. I turn to Steven.

Leaning against the door, he is able to inquire for father, “Dad wants to know if you have a time-table for when he is going to heaven.”

Dr. Smith looks at father and calmly informs, “I believe you have two to three weeks, or possibly even two to three days.” When father asks him if he thinks he is near the end, his friend answers, “Yes, this is the end.”

It took three of us to ask, but father received the sign he prayed for on "Day 2" of this journey, the word he trusted God to give him before I have to leave. Five hours later I walk to my seat on the commuter plane to Chicago. Everything has changed.

10 "...a little something."

Day 10 - January 29

Today I waken to observe father completely dressed, with his bed made, sitting on the edge of the king size platform. He notices I'm

stirring.

“I'm waiting for you, what do we have on the schedule today?”

I sit next to him, ready to explain about two doctor’s appointments when he points down to the carpet between us, “Cher, I see men in blue uniforms, working. Do you see them? Look, they’re right there.”

As usual, he had not slept. His routine encompassed a seemingly infinite number of trips to the bathroom, many of them followed by a walk to the kitchen. For years now he has been eating in the night, all night long. He makes roast beef sandwiches or re-heats leftovers from dinner. He finishes off pies, cakes or cookies, dill pickles, canned fruit, or hard-boiled eggs. He relishes long drinks of apricot juice or ginger ale. Ice cream disappears quickly. When questioned about his nightly eating habits, father confesses only to having little bits, or tiny bites, “…a little something to help me go back to sleep.”

This Tuesday morning I know it was not the nocturnal feasting that kept him awake. I heard his cough return in the night. It is not related to any kind of cold or infection. What does one do when everything has been tried? Sitting, standing, pacing, drinking, cough drops, cough syrup, inhalers—nothing quells the incessant, relentless, painful coughing. And now I realize he’s coughed up a hallucination!

This is new to me. I tell him as lightly as possible he must be seeing things because there are no men working in the carpet. He gives me a sheepish grin. I feel a strong wave of compassion for him with an equally strong wave of fear. I know I have to help him get to the cardiologist in the morning, the urologist in the afternoon, and the oncologist the next morning. That’s what I know, so that’s what I do.

I presume in any disaster, one can only put one foot in front of the other and proceed with the next required step. What portion of denial is necessary in order to carry on when frightened? What portion is avoidance? Ignorance? Selfishness? My flight back to Chicago is booked for tomorrow night. I know father has asked me to be here with him, “in the end” to take care of him. I do not let myself believe this is, “in the end” yet.

I pull the silver Grand Marquis, father’s dream car, into a parking space at Linden Oaks Medical Center and unfasten his seat belt. He points down to the floor by his feet, “Cher, I see a box with numbers in it, and I’m in that box.”

“Okay, Dad, it’s time to go see Dr. Curran.” I walk around the back of the car to open his side door and set up the walker.

I think to myself, “Alright, I’m going to pretend that did not just happen. I have to keep going. What else can I do?”

I tell the cardiologist everything I can think of. He examines father and says he looks great--for the condition his heart is in, he is doing fabulously! Later, in the afternoon, the urologist schedules father for surgery in four weeks.

Denial all around.

9 Silver Linings

Day 9 - January 28

Another dialysis day, but thinking back…

Last of twelve children, the baby of the family, father probably enjoyed a good place in line waiting for his mother’s potato pancakes. As she fried them atop her wood burning stove the children held their plates in line. Once served at the stove, each one walked back to the end of the line again, eating along the way. Grandma Gretz could not make the "Placki" fast enough for anyone to ever get to the table.

Grandmother's first husband, her first love and love of her life, was carted to her front porch in a wheelbarrow one morning. His surviving fellow coal miners made the delivery after the mine incident that day. His two oldest brothers quit school and went to work in the mines to help the family. In addition to the injustices of incredibly painful working conditions, they suffered at work under the cruelty of her second husband, father’s father—unfortunately, a ne’er-do-well who drank too much.

Grandmother rose early each day, donned her babushka which hung on a hook against the stairway wall, walked through the dining room into the kitchen, and began her work. She did not rest until late into the evening, rocking next to the wood stove, sometimes reading her Bible for a few precious minutes. Along with her children, she raised the vegetables and grapes in her garden, their cow, and their chickens. She sent the brothers and sisters into the hills to gather whatever fruit or berry was in season. Upon return, they sold their pickings in town. In the Christmas season they cut down trees.

The local general store owner always saved crumbs and broken pieces from the bottom of his huge cookie barrels, for the Gretz kids. Father’s all-time favorite treat was taking a handful of broken cookies through the door behind the wood stove, downstairs into the dark, cool cellar where they stored bottles of milk from their cow. He knelt on the hard floor and dipped cookie fragments into layers of fresh cream along the top of each bottle.

After grandmother died, Aunt Julia stayed on in the family home. Whenever I make quick decisions or scurry swiftly through my tasks at hand, father says, “You are just like your Aunt Julia.” I imagine, as one of the older sisters, she learned to take matters into her own hands many times as she helped grandmother care for her younger siblings.

When father decided to say yes to dialysis last year, I went into “Aunt Julia” mode. I was determined to find drivers to take father into the city and bring him home again, three days a week, forever! In addition, I was going to manage all of it from Chicago. I began calling his friends. Many wanted to help. As I filled one month on the calendar with names in the Monday, Wednesday and Friday squares, I realized that month number two was getting a little trickier. But, like Julia I’m sure, I bull-dozed ahead, kept calling and almost filled up month two. Month three loomed before me…and four, and five, and six…and of course I needed back-ups for the times when one couldn't do it…I mailed them all my phone numbers in Chicago…

…when, in walked Tine! A friend of father’s, she saw my attempts and offered, “Would you like me to do that? You can’t possibly manage this from Chicago. I’d be willing to take care of your father’s schedule for you.” And she did.

One week in January before I arrived from Chicago, in the middle of a dialysis session father began to crave ice cream. Though high in phosphorus, the nurse practitioner cleared his request, supplying an absorption inhibitor. He asked his friend who drove him that day, “Randy, do you think you could go and get some ice cream for me?” Randy returned with a pint of Haagen-Dazs Butter Pecan.

When father called me that night, he was giddy with the memory, “Cher, something came over me and I couldn't stop eating it. It was so delicious I had to keep taking mouthful after mouthful. My lips were numb. I ate the whole thing! It was the best treat.”

I will forever be grateful for Tine and her husband’s faithful gift, along with the gifts of each driver who walked father down the stairs, loaded his gear into their cars, drove the thirty minute route, set him up at dialysis, and many times stayed with him or returned four hours later to befriend him on the uncomfortable ride back home.

Three times a week for a year, he enjoyed the company of his friends--his brothers and sisters now.

He shared his thoughts and stories as they journeyed, in this line, by his side.

8 Planting Gardens

Day 8 - Jan. 27

This Sunday we make our way through the day, father restless, I uncertain. We talk, we read, we remember.

I kept a second set of Clinique products along with a tooth brush and travel size hair rollers in one of his closets. The fourth week of every month, for the last two years, I walked down the gangway to my seat on the Chicago to Rochester flight. Often, this last week turned into several weeks, overtaking the next month.

After a year of this routine it occurred to me to have duplicates so I didn't have to pack as much each time, and, I could leave on a moment's notice in an emergency. Browsing the aisles of Target, I was very pleased to find the travel roller set--its clips for each roller identical to the ones in my regular set. I'd been improvising, having misplaced several of my clips. Now I thought, "Great, I'll have the extra clips I need." One morning in Chicago as I reached for the next roller, I realized the new clips were, of course, in New York--not doing me any good here after all.

At the end of May we planted a garden. Father loved to watch things grow. Usually quite frugal with money, preferring to go out of his way to save pennies on groceries, and convinced that Walmart shirts and trousers are perfectly adequate, father did not hold back when it came to buying flowers for the garden. For all his baking projects it was mandatory to purchase Aldi's discount butter, sugar and flour, but the finest, top-of-the-line nurseries drew him in with every possible exotic shade of pink Geranium or giant Dahlia. He wasn't looking for generic flowers!

Neighbors helped with tilling and we hoed diligently. Strings were secured around small posts, carefully measured to create our work of art. Every flower was planted in correct line underneath the appropriate string. One year I counted nearly four hundred plants. A good friend trucked in the mulch.

Then we moved on to the vegetable section. Father chatted with the young men at the country nursery, asking how their lacrosse team had done that year, always mentioning their college by name and keeping up with their plans for after school. Each spring, they marveled that he remembered these details of their lives.

We drove away with tomato, cucumber, pepper, squash and onion plants. Father detested onions and everything about them. However, he always planted a row, "...to give away." I teased him that the real reason he planted them was because they stood up so straight in that row, adding drama to his garden.

The lettuce, beans and beets we planted from seeds underneath the measured rows of string. He insisted I use a ruler to count out exactly one or two inches for each seed as directed on the packages. In the end, his garden not only produced many bushels of vegetables to give away, but was a sight to behold--worthy of hours of meditation from his lawn chair under the blue skies of the open field.

Knowing lighthouses hold a fascination for him, last spring Steven gave father a solar powered lighthouse. I designed his flower garden with the lighthouse as a centerpiece, then added two dozen more solar lights throughout the garden. At night it resembled a landing strip.

Every month I walked the gangway to my seat for the flight from Rochester back to Chicago. Father said for days after each visit he awakened from his naps calling my name. He forgot I wasn't in the next room.

Three years ago I helped father plant his garden. Two years ago he helped me plant it. Last May I planted the garden in western New York's sunny farmland myself, basking in the sun for days from early morning till dusk.

It was my prayer. It was my hope. It was my gift.

All summer long and deep into the fall, as darkness approached, he watched. If he was too weak, he watched from his upstairs window. If he was able, he made his way out to the garden, pulled up his lawn chair where he watched and waited till the light on top of the lighthouse blinked on, and then in the black of night, till, one at a time, all twenty-four lights shined in his garden.

He had eighty-three years to ponder, to appreciate, to let go in the glow.

7 Be Still and Know

Day 7 - January 26

Sunday means browsing through an extra thick newspaper, church, brunch and outings--especially seasonal ones that take advantage of the weather's fortune. For students it's either a day off or a critical study time, for teachers, too often the evening to grade papers. For business it's the calm before the storm and for hospitals, well, let's say don't hold your breath waiting for anything of medical significance to happen.

To be fair I can only speak directly of Highland Hospital since it seemed sometimes to be father's weekend home. Alright, really fair would be to say that he spent several weekends at Highland, having arrived in the emergency room on Friday nights.

As a child Sundays meant church, the brightly colored comic section of the newspaper, home cooked Sunday dinner, and a very quiet afternoon. In those days our religion required no working on Sunday, to the extent of not operating a pair of scissors. We came the closest to being Amish for three or four hours on Sunday afternoon. Somehow that thread permeated the culture, at least reaching to the hospital! Father could be close to death, but the blood transfusion was planned for Monday morning.

On Highland Sundays I augmented father's restricted diet with strawberry ice cream sundaes from the basement cafeteria. I rearranged the furniture in his semi-private room, marveled at the incredible real estate deals in the Democrat and Chronicle, and swigged Dr. Pepper to stay awake. His friends came by to keep close, and to pray for healing. Bobby actually provided healing when he brought me Starbucks decaf-iced-venti-lattes.

Through long nights struggling to breathe, or days and nights of debilitating restless insomnia, father's preference is to carry on at home.

In recent months we lunched on Sundays at Bristol Harbour Resort, overlooking the southern end of Canandaigua Lake--one of those dream-like lookouts where the rustic lodge and fireplace hearth warm one's body and the sky-touched hills encircling the lake nurture one's soul. On one of those visits Harold and I decided to rent one of their condos on the lake for our family Christmas. Father was too weak for his usual flight to Chicago for the holiday. We would all come to him. It was the beginning of plans to include every possible desire, hope and dream of father's we could pack into seven days in December.

This "Day Seven," a Saturday, relieved not to be in the hospital, father and I watch his favorite TV show, Lawrence Welk. Then we open the Kodak Gallery photo book of our Christmas vacation. Smiling back from the pages we see Melinda helping her Grandpa with his final winning Uno hand, Matt watching his Grandpa scrape melted Raclette cheese onto a boiled potato, Harold M. and his girlfriend, Leslie enjoying the ribs father had dreamed of serving to them. In one photo father sips his breakfast borscht made just like his "Mama" by an immigrant friend from the same region in Poland. We see our whole family including Steven and his wife, Leslie, sharing gifts. And we see the Bristol hills setting, which not only reminds him of his teaching days in the Naples Valley and preaching in Bristol Springs, but somehow also tugs his memory of former Christmastimes with mother in Switzerland.

"Isn't it amazing, Cher, how everything we wanted to happen, happened that week?"

I discovered Bristol Harbour Resort on a Sunday. It was a quiet July afternoon, not even a scissor opening or closing...when something inside was still enough to know I should walk up to the front desk and rent a condo for Christmas. Thank God for Sundays.

6 The Tightrope

Day 6 - January 25

One year ago, father's stretcher was wheeled into the operating room where the surgeon leaned in close, "You've been taking care of people your whole life, now it's our turn to take care of you."

He proceeded to implant a catheter into father's chest, a port for dialysis treatments.

The decision to say yes to dialysis was not made lightly. Dr. Kaplan explained, "It will prolong your life, but it will not improve it. Whatever problems you are having, you will continue to have, but you will not die from your failed renal system."

Father was sure he did not want to endure the three-day-a-week process for the rest of his life. He also did not want to interfere in any way with the possibility of God completely healing him. He was not interested in dialysis as an option. That is, until the kidneys actually did fail, and, since his heart was too weak to endure a transplant operation, the only other option was death.

In that moment he conceded, "Yes, I'll try it."

In answer to father's next question, Dr. Kaplan replied, "You can quit any time you feel like it." Father seemed relieved. Knowing there was more, Steven and I asked what happens if he decides to quit. The doctor simply stated, "You will die. You will have two to five days to put your affairs in order and say your good-byes."

I wish he had gone on to explain that this dialysis process is not an exact science when a patient also has congestive heart failure. I wish he'd said that it could take months of experimenting with the settings on the machine at each visit, and that even with the most finely tuned calculations and record keeping, his body's fluids would walk a tightrope.

For that matter, it is tightrope after tightrope: too much phosphorus, calcium, potassium, sodium, protein, and a list that goes on and on, or too little of any of those...too much fluid removed in a session, or too little removed...blood pressure too high and blood pressure too low! This promise for longer life is a continual balancing act.

Father pushes his walker through the double doors at 12:15 p.m., each time scanning the reception area for the women he greets with a huge smile. He learned to step away from the walker and weigh himself at the beginning and end of each session, gathering that critical information which reveals if he has consumed more than his daily allotment of one liter of fluids. His fellow patients tease him for speeding by with the walker on the way to "his" chair.

He greets each nurse, pleased to catch up since the last visit. He often brings his homemade baked goods for the office and medical staff. He inquires about their families and life outside the unit. I set his cough drops and crackers on the snack tray, remove his shoes, plug in his electric blanket and go for ice chips.

After many months, in spite of every fluid in his body flowing through tubes into a machine and then back into his body again, in spite of the last hour often pushing against his threshold of patience, in spite of feeling absolutely horrible for hours afterward, and in spite of the dread of returning to it all so soon, there is a certain kind of assurance in the act of courage required by this routine.

I'm not sure they ever do get it exactly right for him. There are sessions when it comes close, and because he feels so good he enjoys the next day dreaming of all the things he will do again like traveling and preaching and gardening.

This is one of those days. As we travel Rt. 390 toward Corning, to get home to Lima, even with January's snow on the fields, before his inevitable nap he eagerly realizes, "It's almost time to start thinking about our garden, Cher. Have you thought, yet, about what you'd like to plant this year?"

5 Peace in the Valley

Day Five - January 24




"Is there anything on my schedule today, anything that I have to do?"

"Only get ready to see Judy. The nurse is coming this morning," I reply. Relieved, he slowly settles into his morning routines.

I often wonder how mother would have handled these days if she had survived her accident years ago. Father had returned from Europe and was waiting at the Rochester airport where she was to pick him up. She put a dinner selection from the freezer into the microwave oven, ran a comb through her hair and headed into the city. We'll never know what happened. There is no explanation for her car leaving the road, but she did not survive the impact. It was a very long wait at the airport, one that he re-lived at every journey's end from that day forward.

He was a shy twenty-four year old, and he wanted to meet her. She was only seventeen, bubbly and movie-star beautiful. She had been a child evangelist for two years already, known for head-lining week long revival services in the southwest. His brother, Walter--less timid with the girls, having a mischievous, unafraid to entertain personality--discovered Chet had his eye on Ruth. He wasted no time setting up a meeting.

The last day of her family's vacation, she waited in the car ready to return to New Mexico. Father stood at her window while they talked.

What could have been said to prompt a year of letter writing followed by marriage? What sparks flew that became a forty-six year commitment? I suppose the same ones her parents felt that led to their triple wedding in three horse-drawn carriages, each bride and groom between fourteen and sixteen years old, and the same ones his mother's teenage boyfriend in Poland felt when he decided to follow her to the United States.

Father brought his teenage bride to New York where soon after, he was counseled by the male dominated culture around him to have her discontinue her preaching. Some sparks died in mother, and though for years after, she said she'd like to become a nurse, she never pursued it.

Now father waits for nurse Judy on the sofa mother chose in the home she so carefully designed. He diligently maintained everything exactly as she would have wanted for the last thirteen years. He was afraid to even open the Hummel display case to dust, lest one Hummel be returned to the improper staging. After mother passed away he taught himself to bake by following recipes in her handwritten cookbooks. He felt close to her, following her instructions for measurements and ingredients to the letter, becoming an artisan in the kitchen.

Earlier when I told him the only thing on his schedule was nurse Judy this morning, he replied, "That's okay, I don't have to do anything for her. I can relax."

Judy's sweet soft voice peacefully cares for his needs.

4 The Dust of Snow

Day Four - January 23

Father wears his turquoise button-down sweater with the matching aqua shirt in Dr. Greenwood's office, nodding off while we wait. She wheels her doctor's stool over to face father, knees to knees. She speaks with care and concern, but it isn't enough to keep his eyes open for more than fleeting seconds at a time.

After removing him from all his medications except two, after every effort at medical problem solving is taken, after assigning more tests--when all is said and done, she caresses his arm saying, "Oh, Rev. Gretz, you are like a beautiful, fine vintage car. We are trying to figure out the best possible way to take care of you." He smiles up at her, lifting his head out of a doze.

The car is fully prepared for the trip to dialysis after seeing Dr. Greedwood this morning. We packed the walker and the tote bag. The usual eyeglasses, wallet, a book to read, cell phone, blanket, neck pillow and tupperware container of snacks are along for the four-hour ordeal. Turning off of Jefferson, onto Henrietta Road, the Big 10 theater complex is the marker for turning left into the dialysis center.

On the right, at that very turn, sits Jay's Diner. Father has spent Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons at this dialysis unit for a year and has intermittently commented on Jay's, "Cher, that looks like a nice diner. Have you ever eaten there? I wonder what it's like." Eating a meal never seemed like the best idea right before sitting in his dialysis chair four hours straight, so he never tried it.

Western New York winters can be gloriously snow-filled. This one is not disappointing. There is something entirely enchanting about the depth and continuity of snowfall in this region. One day of it in a place like Atlanta and the residents think the world is coming to an end. But here, daily life activities move ahead almost as though it is a privilege to overcome the adversities.

In keeping with that spirit I pull into Jay's Diner to pass the time with father before his dialysis appointment. The hugely strong winds whip our hair and steal our breath, the temperature cuts directly through any layers of outer wear we've constructed, and the icy pavement and sidewalks create a challenge to the most able-footed. Here we are, managing portable oxygen, a walker, and father's limitations, navigating our way into Jay's.

Once inside, he is enthralled--the gloss, the shine of vintage relics and decor, booths and counters teeming with customers, display cases lined with slices of pie and cheesecake! He has a passionate attraction to many places and things that never ceases to amaze. He is thrilled by cars, especially immaculately clean ones. He is thrilled by castles, tomato plants, brass bands and jelly donuts. He loves a good fishing experience and a minor league baseball game. He collects stamps and coins, loves to sing, travels extensively, recites poetry memorized years ago, and --he likes a good diner!

In recent days we had conversations about the fact that one needs to eat to live. He says he is not hungry anymore. We discussed how sometimes one might need to eat in the same way one takes medication, because it is necessary. He says he has no taste for food. His refrigerator is full of uneaten meals.

However, when the hot roasted turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy is placed in front of him, he dives in. I do not mention it is full of salt. Furthermore, I ask the waitress to pack him a slice of cheesecake to go.

My hat is off to Jay's Diner for that blizzardy Rochester noon-time.

Viva vintage!

3 A Respite

Day Three -

January 22



Farmington, New York is unremarkable in winter. The usual fields of snow, a slippery bridge, garden supply mega stores waiting for spring, the Finger Lakes Race Track and country homes spot the farmland in hibernation. Around one corner is a ranch style home converted to a dentist's office. Here is where the unremarkable ends.

Inside, each wall presents grand oil paintings--characters in vibrant period costumes--singers, maidens, posers--Dr. Muscarella's passion. Sitting in his waiting room, how can a patient have the usual fears about the ensuing dental work? Surely, hands that brought life to the three tenors with such splendor, can handle any problem in one's mouth with incredible finesse! Indeed, patients reading the newspaper in this waiting room hold their backs a little straighter and tip their chins a bit higher.

I wouldn't be surprised if a waiter comes around the corner serving European coffee and pastries. Instead, a basket brimming with help-yourself toothpaste samples rests on a lamp table.

After father is called to the back, Dr. Muscarella comes out to speak with me. "I took care of both of my parents for seven years and I know how seniors think about things. They don't like change. Anything new bothers them. I've told your father it is not necessary to work on his front tooth, but I understand he wants the chip repaired. It's different. It's bothering him. So, if I can do it without numbing him, I will."

He proceeds to talk to us for the next twenty minutes while artfully reconstructing the tooth. "You know, I knew your mother. She was quite a lady. Your father and I go back a long way." He tells about fresh foods he had shipped from Italy and the feast he is preparing for his family this evening. He rails against anyone who thinks they can live in this country and not learn English (of course not knowing father's parents spoke only Polish.) He puts father at ease reassuring him what a friend he considers him to be.

The truth is, with blood pressure as low as father's this morning, he should not even be at the dentist's office. But for a few moments he is able to exchange pleasantries and read the newspaper in this waiting room surrounded by wondrous works of art, and he leaves with the dignity of a restored front tooth.

At the funeral home 23 days later, Dr. Muscarella pauses half-way through the room, removes his glasses, and tucking his hat against his chest, sheds a tear for Chester. He walks to the casket and shares that wonderful Italian patter with his friend for the last time.

2 "Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and broken hallelujah."

Day Two -

January 21

Cousin Gloria and I were born on the same morning. Father received the call from his brother, Frank, "We had a girl!"

His heart pumped a little faster as he responded, "So did we!"

Years later he confessed that in his 1951 desire to have a son, he was relieved to find out Frank had a girl too--he didn't beat father to it, at least not that morning.

His long awaited son, Steven, arrived five years later.

In his pink recliner last night, father pondered, "I've always believed God would heal me completely. But, who am I to tell God what to do? If it isn't his will to heal me, then I would really like to have a sign, a word from God so I will know. Wouldn't it be great, Cher, if we received a sign this week while you're here visiting?"

I have not seen Gloria in forty-three years. Our parents used to send us to the same church camp where she always found a boyfriend and I always longed for one. One summer, on the last night of camp, I didn't have a date for the closing banquet. Gloria and her boyfriend fixed me up with Billy Venezie, so I wouldn't have to go alone.

On the morning of father's funeral, Gloria takes my hands in hers and prays for God to give me peace. I walk onto the stage with a heart full of things to say about father. I read one of his favorite poems, Longfellow's, "A Psalm of Life."

But I've jumped ahead! This is only the second day.

Dialysis goes terribly wrong today.

I've jumped ahead because I can't look the plummeting-hope-of-the-second-day in the eye, when Steven and I run out of ideas, and father's favorite take-out Olive Garden salad is left unopened.

Without admitting it, a part of me knows his heart can not beat much longer.

1 "Nothing that is real can be threatened."

Day One - January 20


Yellow roses with red-orange trim perfectly complete the kitchen's warm invitation the night father asks, "Isn't it amazing Norma chose this particular floral arrangement? It's my favorite color roses." His neice visited on Saturday, his last really good day, bearing flowers and Razzelberry Jam, listening to him read greeting cards in Polish, and choosing to sit with him the whole time instead of going out for lunch.

Though Iron Kettle Farm was closed for the winter, Norma called about buying some Razzelberry Jam--a unique combination of berries--and was told they indeed had some she could purchase. When she arrived, she discovered they had made a fresh batch of twenty jars. She bought them all, pleased to know she could take her uncle fresh-made jam. The same Iron Kettle Farm had bought her mother's, Aunt Lorreta's, old-time stove years ago to use in their displays. A piece of family history sits nestled amidst pumpkins and jellies on the farm that cooked up fresh homemade jam for father that day. For the next two weeks he asked for it often.

I fly in from Chicago this Sunday. After dinner we retire to the TV room to talk. Crossing his legs in the recliner with a vibrating feature he hasn't used since mother died thirteen years ago, father announces, "Cher, I've decided I want you to be there at the end, to take care of me, even if I have to go back to Chicago with you."

I know instantly he can never make the trip and simultaneously wish he had agreed to this two years ago when I offered for him to live with us. Instead he has chosen to remain in his community with his many friends he loves so well, who in turn love him. Giving is a far greater joy to him than ever receiving, and here he gives daily to everyone around him--assistance for a young student's tuition bill, a van for a ministry, his homemade apple or strawberry pie, pineapple upside-down cake, dinner at the end of someone's long day, a trip to Niagara Falls for a visitor passing through, countless fresh tomatoes from his garden...the list is endless.

Tonight he talks about an end I do not know how to accept, "There are certain things a woman can do best and I realize I'm going to need your care."