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Brian wanted the puppy more than anything, but how could he pray
for something for himself when his grandmother lay dying?
of TheColumnists.com
He figured it was all a matter of strategy. So Brian
Delaney prepared his speech, ready to debate point-for-point
any objections his mother might have had. At 10 years old, he
was practically an adult. He washed dishes, did his homework,
emptied the trash, and shoveled the snow--all proof that he could
handle responsibility.
And the puppy was very tiny, the smallest of the litter born
to Princess, the blue-eyed Malamute of his best friend, Mike.
Christmas was coming, and the pup could be his present. And besides,
Mom.... (this was where he’d give her that solemn look)
...how often do we get a chance for a blue-eyed dog?
But when he got home, there were no debates, no discussions,
only a quick trip to the hospital. Grandma had been rushed to
the emergency room, his mother said. There was no other information,
nothing the nurses had been willing to tell her.
The ride through the winter streets was swift and silent. His
mother was clear eyed but tight-lipped, barely able to control
her trembling lips. Watching her white-knuckled grip on the steering
wheel, Brian knew that whatever had happened must be very bad.
They’d already moved his grandmother into the ICU, a sterile,
frightening prison of separate rooms and bleeping machines.
While his mother and grandfather spoke with the doctors, Brian
stared at the fragile shape beneath the single sheet. Tubes and
wires snaked beneath it, attached to skin that looked too gray,
too paper-dry. Even with the oxygen mask, Grandma was struggling
to breathe. Her eyes were closed as though she already were gone.
He wanted to scream, rip out those tubes and wires and smash
those beeping monitors with their zig-zagging lines. This wasn’t
his grandmother. He wanted her to wake up so he could catapult
into her arms for a special Grandma hug. Instead, he was ushered
out to the waiting room.
Later, he watched the gurney that carried her away, guided by
blue-masked nurses. Surgery, his mother explained. A team of
specialists would replace one of her heart’s valves. It
was the only thing that might save her.
"Might?" Brian looked from his mother to Grandpa. "You
mean she could die?"
"She could die, yes. It’s a possibility." His
mother’s voice was barely audible, but it confirmed what
he’d suspected all along. If she was giving him straight
answers, he must surely be almost an adult. You don’t lie
to big guys. "That’s why we pray, Brian. We have to
ask God for a miracle."
The crack of a fist slamming into the wall jerked them both around.
"What a crock that is!" Grandpa’s booming growl
echoed down the hall. "You think religion’s going to
save her? Stop the way she’s suffering?" His eyes had
narrowed to furious slits. "You can do all that holy mumbo-jumbo
‘til you’re blue in the face. It’s not going to
change a damn thing. Only chance she’s got is if those doctors
know what they’re doing. Otherwise, this’ll be the
first Christmas in 50 years my wife won’t be here with me."
They watched him storm down the hall. There was no point in going
after him, and no words that would make a difference. He was
hurting, as they all were, but he had a different take on the
business of faith.
He’d said for years that he didn’t believe in God.
And while his wife raised four kids in the faith of her church,
he swore that religion, and all holidays attached to it were
the biggest racket around. In the gospel according to Grandpa,
he called the clergymen hucksters, and those who prayed ‘gullible
fools.’ The church, he said, was just a building he passed
on his way to the barber shop. Grandpa claimed he’d be struck
by lightning if he ever walked inside one, and Brian half believed
him. Christmas, Easter, even family weddings weren’t enough
to lure the old man through the doors.
The days following Grandma’s surgery stretched into thin
taut lines of hope and fear.
Her condition was critical, the doctors said. She was old, after
all, with very little strength to survive such a procedure. They
left the rest unspoken, but it hung in the air as loud as the
hissing machines. Just like Grandpa, they had no faith.
And while his classmates spoke of expected presents and holiday
plans, Brian remained silent. Who could think about Christmas
now? He’d seen a prayer once on a poster at the community
center. It was something about asking God for help in accepting
what you can’t change, changing what you can, and telling
the difference between the two. Brian thought that made a lot
of sense. The tough part was drawing the line between what was
or wasn’t changeable. If miracles really happened, couldn’t
everything change?
His fervent prayers took on a whole new focus. He’d already
gotten past the bargaining part of negotiations--if God let Grandma
live, he wouldn’t even ask for a puppy--and had moved on
a new tactic: holiday targeted petitions. In bed at night before
he drifted off, his prayers became a wish list of quiet miracles.
If Christmas was truly the season of giving, he hoped that God
would give him what he wanted most. He wanted Grandma to live.
He wanted his mom to stop looking so scared and nervous. And
as for Grandpa...that was a tough one. Better to keep on praying
and hope for the best.
It was Grandpa who called them from the hospital just after midnight
on December 24th. His voice was rough, frayed from too many tears,
or too much denial, but his instructions were very clear. They
had to come immediately.
The sky was absolutely clear that night, lit with pinpoint diamonds
brighter than the winking holiday lights. Silent night, Brian
thought, choking back the tears. Small comfort that it was a
beautiful night for his grandmother’s passing.
But why were the nurses grinning when they hurried through the
quiet halls? And who put that tiny twinkling Christmas tree in
Grandma’s room where she’d.....when she was...propped
up on her pillows? And smiling? It was....
"A miracle!" the head nurse told them. "About
an hour ago, she opened her eyes and asked for some water. And
then asked your dad why he hadn’t put up the Christmas tree!"
"My dad?" Brian’s mother glanced around. No sign
of Grandpa anywhere. "He brought a tree?"
"Honey, he would’ve hung the moon and stars if she
wanted them. As soon as she opened her eyes, he stopped his praying,
gave her a big kiss, and told us to find her the biggest tree
in the world!." The nurse lowered her voice confidentially.
"Of course, we do have rules here, so we had to settle for
this little bitty one."
But no one was listening. After the hugs and kisses and joyous
affirmations that Grandma was going to be okay, there’d
be plenty of time to hear the rest. Like how she’d be with
them for quite a few more Christmases to come, and how her religion-bashing,
tough talking husband had ushered her past the Reaper’s
clutches with his all-night hospital prayer vigils and, maybe,
some miracle-bargaining of his own.
It was the charge nurse who directed Brian to the hospital chapel
on the second floor.
While Grandma napped and his mother sat with her, he decided
it was time for some serious thanksgiving. Slipping through the
carved oak doors, he breathed in the fragrance of lush pine boughs,
and holiday flowers. Tall white tapers flanked a simple altar,
casting a serene glow on the stained glass panels behind. A hushed
tranquility here, barely disturbed by the man who knelt in a
far corner pew, weeping into his hands. The man who mumbled a
steady stream of prayer, barely coherent through his tears. The
man who turned when Brian knelt beside him, and hugged his grandson
to his chest.
It would be years before Brian wondered about it, why no words
were exchanged between them then, and how none were necessary.
A kind of bond between big guys who’d been dealt a few miracles.
But to a 10-year old who was practically an adult, it made perfect
sense.
Just like the blue-eyed puppy Grandpa gave him on Christmas morning.
Something Brian had never mentioned, and forgotten to ask for.
It was the exact one he’d wanted, the frisky male with the
snowflake markings. He laughed while his face was licked with
frantic puppy kisses. Maybe it was better not to ask questions.
Better just to take it one miracle at a time.
©2001 by Gina Gallo.
The illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895
Francisco Blvd. East, San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
You
can comment on this column or contact Gina Gallo with an email
to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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