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.