Shattered Lives & Hopeful Dreams 

Tom Froehlich

Nine hundred and sixty-seven days ago I walked through the doors of Alcoholics Anonymous. Frankly, I didn’t know what that meant or where it would take me. I now realize, I didn’t even really  understand what an alcoholic was. 

           I wasn’t an everyday drinker. I didn’t wake up naked under the Venice pier with an empty handle of vodka and a needle in my arm. I was just, well...festive.  Since joining AA I have heard so many stories about coming to in Las Vegas or waking up next to a stranger. These things didn’t happen to me. I didn’t drink at work. I didn’t drink in the morning. I didn’t drink everyday.  I made sure I didn’t. Those are the things alcoholics do and the last thing I wanted to do was quit drinking. And I still had a roof over my head and clothes on my back and food to eat. But I was in fact an alcoholic. I awakened every morning hangover or not, discussing with myself if I was going to drink, what I was going to drink and where I was going to drink it. It consumed my every waking moment. So when I awakened with yet another hangover, I knew that no matter what kind of rules I made up, I had a problem.

           I looked at my life and who I had become.  I didn’t know who I was anymore yet I could barely remember who I had once been or how it had gotten this bad. All I knew was that I had no idea how to get him back and knew there was no way I could do it on my own. I laid in bed and cried. I cried out of loss and loneliness and the shear terror of not knowing how I could ever possibly fix what was broken and for the first time in my life I truly understood the word despair. I know longer believed in myself and had lost all hope. To say these words today seems unbelievable.

           That’s the day I walked into the doors of Alcoholics Anonymous. There was a Latino man who led the meeting and at the end said, “To you new comers, even if you don’t think you are an alcoholic you owe it to yourselves to come here everyday for a month and just sit and listen. You don’t have to talk. Hell, you don’t even have to listen. In that time you will figure out if you are an alcoholic or not.” I had really been looking to just cut back, you know? Not quit completely. Kind of an AA lite? Turns out they don’t offer that. All I knew was that I couldn’t go back to what I had been doing so I started going to meetings. Not once a day, but twice. 

           Low and behold after 30 days I did understand that I was an alcoholic. I also understood that these people, these strangers that shared my disease were going to help me find my way. They also wanted to take me out for coffee, which frankly I found somewhat unnerving. I mean let’s face it, they were a bunch of drunks and I hadn’t socialized sober with a group of strangers since Jimmy Buffet had lost that shaker of salt. I learned that alcohol wasn’t my problem, but it was the solution I had chosen to deal with my problems. Others choose drugs or sex or food. I chose Quervo 1800 margaritas. Rocks. No salt. And lots of them!

           I used alcohol because I had never really learned how to deal with disappointment or lack of self worth. I never learned how to deal with loneliness or depression or anxiety. Frankly I didn’t even know I suffered from these things because I was usually at happy hour self-medicating before I they crept into my consciousness. And even when I was aware of their existence I didn’t have the courage, the strength or the motivation to move forward. All I had was fear. Fear that I wasn’t good enough or smart enough or talented enough or that I simply did not deserve it. If any or all of that sounds crazy to you that’s because it is. That’s because I am an alcoholic and I don’t deal with things or process things like people who aren’t alcoholics.

           At the beginning things were difficult. It wasn’t just the not drinking. It was going to meetings and being expected to share my story. But then I would hear others share stories similar to mine and I realized I wasn’t alone in my insanity. And people assured me that it would get better and that I just needed to keep moving forward one day at a time. And let me tell you that line got old. Very, very old. I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and judging myself and creating fear that paralyzed me and kept me from moving forward.

            Then one afternoon when I was about six months into the program I walked into a meeting ready to share my story.    
                  

I shared it with a woman in a soiled Lakers cap who shared she desperately wants to get sober because she makes her bed on the sidewalks of the city I live in, sleeping with one eye open. She sleeps with one eye open for fear she will be doused in gasoline and set on fire in her sleep. I shared it with a Latino girl named, Kimmy, whose eyes own the weariness of a woman far beyond her eighteen years, who sold her body for the pleasure of others to feed her heroine addiction. Kimmy wept as she shared she wants to get clean because she has no one but herself to rely on to care for her and her unborn child she will be delivering in two months. And I shared it with those whose minds will never again serve them as they once had. These people are not a story in the newspaper to me or a clip on the nightly news.  I witnessed their cheeks scrubbed clean with the purging of shameless and healing tears and I felt the radiance of their courage. We gripped one another’s unfamiliar, nurturing hands and prayed together, surrounded by cups of cold coffee clotted with coffee mate in a room furnished with our shattered lives and hopeful dreams.  I heard their words of encouragement when they told me, the guy with the roof over his head and food to eat and people who love him, "Everything will be okay."  They told me that I am strong enough and good enough and deserving enough to have my days filled with smiles and laughter and my nights with peace and serenity.           

I realized that my struggle it is nothing compared to those who offered me comfort and encouragement in my first year of sobriety and I am humbled by the abundance of their strength and courage.  Humbled by my nameless savior in the Lakers cap who will sleep on the concrete this Thanksgiving with one eye open. Humbled by those who have found enough room in their hearts to help me find my own strength through theirs.  Through them I have learned the true meaning of grateful.  I am grateful for my family and the people I love.  This is what makes me who I am and what makes my life worth living.  This is what gives me days of joy and strength and courage and helps me look forward to my tomorrows.

           So next time you go for a manicure or are wanting a new i-pod or thinking you deserve a new car or vacation or a pair of three hundred dollar designer jeans stop and ask yourself if it is those things that give you peace at night.  I venture to say not. Those are merely the icing on the cake. My family and the people I love are my greatest blessing. I know I can get through anything with them, for them and because of them. It is for that I am grateful this Thanksgiving and for many Thanksgivings to come. I have realized through unfamiliar hands and open hearts more fully what a gift that love truly is and this Thanksgiving I will pray for blessings for my saviors, Kimmy and the lady in the soiled Lakers cap because I know that right here, right now I have everything I need and for that I am truly blessed.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Chair in the Room

Tom Froehlich

The other day a friend shared with me that she viewed obstacles in her life very much like a chair that she once had in her bedroom. It was a chair that she often bumped into at night on her way to the bathroom. She said, “You know, night after night I would bump into that thing and limp back to bed lamenting the fact that that damn chair was always in my way. Finally after hitting my shin for about the ten thousandth time I realized I could just move the chair.”

            Sounds easy right? Because we can all easily identify what those obstacles are, remove them and then charge right back into our amazing lives. Right?  Well if that’s who you are, bless you, but evidently it’s not that easy for me.

            I moved to L.A. seven years ago. I was the kind of guy that made things happen. I was the kind of guy that others looked to for things to happen. And I did. I was optimistic and happy and fearless. Well, moderately fearless. And I had dreams that people in the Midwest viewed as crazy or outrageous or unrealistic. I was going to get my book published and go on speaking tours and have an amazing life. And then L.A. happened.

            A few years after moving here, my boyfriend I was living with ditched me on my birthday.  Bam! Chair! I asked him to remove himself and his belongings the following day.  The day after, I went to take a shower and he had had the water turned off.  The following morning I rolled over in bed to check the time on the alarm clock and couldn’t…because he had had the electricity turned off.  I had to find a place to live, rent a moving van and move in ten days. Then my wallet was stolen with all of my credit cards and drivers license.  Ever try to rent a truck with no driver’s license? My cell phone was stolen from the library. That’s like getting it stolen from church! Then I received a $325 citation for parking in a handicap zone and received a $425 bail bond for metro fare evasion. I also paid $500 to have a part replaced on my car I had never heard of nor could I pronounce.  This all happened within a ten day period. Bam! Chair! Bam! Chair! Bam! Chair! I slept on a friends couch for two weeks and then found a sublet until Christmas.   And since I had lost my job right before Christmas I didn’t qualify for an apartment so I moved onto a boat in the marina which frankly was kind of awesome.

            And I got another job! A job selling time-share vacations.  Yup.  I’m the annoying guy who offers you a free vacation if you come listen to a 90-minute presentation. Time-share.  It’s like one step above prostitution. Only difference is prostitutes are selling something people want and don’t require you to attend a 90-minute presentation to get the goods. Chair!? During that time I developed a growth on my lower lip. It was about the size of the head of a pin, yet I was sure you could see it from the space shuttle.  The doctor removed it and sent it in for testing, you know for “cancer”.  I received a call a week later and was told it was in fact “cancer” and I would have to have a “procedure”.  “Procedure”?  What’s that about? Didn’t really like the sound of that. It would cost one thousand dollars. I don’t have insurance. On top of all of this I was turning 50 and getting kicked off of the boat because they don’t allow live aboards and I had to find another place to live. Bam! Chair! Bam! Chair! Bam! Chair!

            And then the company I worked for went bankrupt. Yup! Closed their doors. But I got a new job doing cookware demonstrations across the country. I like to cook! Three months later I was almost arrested and put into federal prison in Canada for a lie my company told me to tell when crossing the border. Considering they compromised my personal freedom for their own financial gain, I decided to quit that job. Bam! Chair! A week later I totaled my car, my Saab convertible that I so loved. Bam! Chair! But this ended up being a good thing since I had no job and could use the insurance settlement to pay my bills. I believe I am looking on the bright side of things. Besides. I could ride my bike. Around L.A. Or take the bus. Was I insane? Oh! And I’m gay and I’m STILL a little pissed off about that! And then I realized I am an alcoholic and I had to give up drinking. Frankly? I kind of miss happy hour! Besides, alcohol was how I put up with the rest of the bull shit! Chair!? Well, maybe that one deserves a barstool. God knows I tripped over enough of those! Anyway, there were so many chairs in my way, so many impediments, you will probably agree that it was nearly impossible for me to move forward.

            Then Valentines’ Day was coming up and I started to look back at all of the Valentine’s Days that I had been single and was getting ready to add a never ending line of chairs to my never ending list. And then, for some strange reason I didn’t. Instead I thought back to a Valentine’s Day 25 years ago. It was on that particular Valentine’s Day that my wife of six years and I decided to get divorced. (Yes, I am gay, but could we please just focus on this story for now!) And it was on that very same day that I lost my job. Terrific!  That certainly deserves a chair, right!? Instead, I remember standing in the personnel director’s office waiting for despair to settle in. I remembered how that despair hovered for only a brief moment & was replaced with joy and excitement as I thought, "Wow! This is like a clean slate! I get a do over!"

            Reminiscing on this I was a bit shocked and surprised at the resilience of spirit I had at that time. And then I remembered that THAT is who I am.

            It wasn’t the company I worked for going bankrupt. It wasn’t my boyfriend ditching me on my birthday. It wasn’t my wallet being stolen. It wasn’t even the possibility of being incarcerated in a Canadian prison by our friendly neighbors to the north. It wasn’t the fact that I like men or am an over achiever at happy hour. All of those things are just life. And life happens. What matters is what I choose to do with that life. I can choose to drag it along or hide behind it or blame it for the failure and disappointment and heartache.  Or not. It was in that moment I knew that I was in fact the chair in the room. I was the obstacle holding me back. And it was in that moment that knew I was going to be okay.

            And I realized…I realized that endings last as long as I choose. Beginnings begin as soon as you are willing to start.

            To some, my dreams may seem crazy or outrageous or unrealistic. But I think dreams are suppose to feel that way. Otherwise they wouldn’t really feel like dreams now would they?! Yet that does not make them unattainable. Only we can do that. But I’m done with that. My life is out there. My life is out there waiting for me and I’m done bumping my shin on the chair in the night.

            How about you!?

Right on Time

Tom Froehlich

A couple days ago I had a telephone conversation with a woman from Gold’s Gym customer service. I had to freeze my gym membership because I am currently not experiencing the financial abundance I would like to and she was amazingly efficient and kind .I said something to her like, “Thanks for making all of this so easy. You started my day with a smile that I will pass on to others so people in Venice, California are going to be getting a southern Texas smile." She laughed and said, “Wow! You just made my day so much better. Are you an inspirational speaker or something?!” I was kind of shocked and just said, “Well, I hope to be. That's kind of the plan”

 

The conversation with this lady from south Texas reminded me of an experience I had a few years ago that I had almost forgotten about. Out of financial desperation, which seems to be a recurring theme I really need to turn around, I accepted an at home telemarketing job selling a debt reduction program to people in debt. The program was for those who were so far in debt they saw no recourse other than possibly bankruptcy. Yes, I too see the irony.  The even greater irony is that I would be contacting these chronic debtors who cringe every time the phone rings via the telephone. Being one of them, I am familiar with the cringe. Like Pavlov’s dogs we respond to the ring of any and all bells. And it was a commission sales job. Unlimited earning potential. Right.

 

I had to install a special software program on my computer, which was designed specifically to track my progress. The program was new and not all of the kinks were worked out, so the company had a fulltime staff of tech support. I often found it necessary to make that call to tech support which was usually a welcome relief from the endless hours of unanswered calls and hang ups.

 

Oddly enough my calls for assistance were always answered by the same support person. His name was Kevin and he lived outside of Phoenix in the desert.  I somehow felt an odd rapport with Kevin and we would often fall into personal and philosophical conversations, him blocking the software so my call traffic and productivity could not be tracked.  I believe these conversations began with him in a very 1960’s way asking me about my astrological sign. 

From there we went onto the conversations about the existence of aliens, the powers of the mind, manifesting what we want in life and anything else to keep me from making yet another phone call that most likely would not be answered.

After a couple of weeks, Kevin said to me, “You know, this is a little odd Tom, but it feels like we have become friends over the phone in the most unlikely way and I feel the need to tell you something.”  

I said, “Whatever it is, is cool Kevin. I’m a gay alcoholic. What you got?”

I heard a hesitant laugh and he said, “Well, I’m in wheel chair. I’m a paraplegic. That’s why I have this job and I don’t know that my life will ever be anything more than this.”

“Wow. Not really sure what to say.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t it mention it earlier. I didn’t want you to have a preconceived idea of what a guy in a wheel chair is like.”

“I guess you’re still the same cool insightful guy Kevin.”

He thanked me and then said, “You know, as we have discussed for a couple of weeks, I do believe everything happens for a reason. That there are lessons we are here to learn. I’m still not sure about what my lesson is living my life in this chair, but we all have our struggles. If we didn’t, how would we learn and grow?”

He asked me if I had ever heard the story about the Paiute Indians and if not if I would like to hear a story.

I replied, “As long as you’re blocking the software bud, I’m pretty sure I have the time!”

He told me that after the white man took over the Paiute’s land and was preparing to put them on reservations they asked the chief of the Paiute tribe what parcel of land they would like.  There were several to choose from. Some with rivers flowing through them. Some wooded land. Beautiful places.  But, they chose a desert plateau overlooking barren lands. When the chief was asked why he made that particular choice when there were so many other more beautiful and habitable places, He responded that his people  could not grow with out challenges and hardship in life. The government was already supplying them with an income, housing, clothing and food. The only lesson left to them was to learn to struggle against nature. Otherwise their spirit would die.

Kevin said, “I am a smart and talented software developer. Those kinds of things have always come easily to me. I have a sweet and beautiful wife, who loves a guy in a wheel chair. I guess my wheel chair is kind of like my barren plateau. That’s how I get to learn my lessons. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have made a different choice, but that wasn’t an option I was given.”

I said, “Wow, Kevin. You know for a while I wondered why the universe would make me take this ridiculous unprofitable telemarketing job. I’m not really wondering anymore. I’m thinking it was to meet you.”

“There’s something else I need to tell you and I’m going to say this once, because if anyone is listening I cold lose my job.”

 “Quit this job, Tom. The guy I’ve gotten to know over the past couple of weeks has so much more to offer than this. You have become my friend as odd as it is and I look after my friends. You have so much to offer the world. Go be the person you were meant to be.”

That was the last conversation Kevin and I had.  I quit my job the following day. I know longer needed to call for tech support and although he had previously given me his personal cell phone number it somehow seemed unnecessary to use it. Our random connection, two souls colliding for a brief moment in time. Our relationship had served its purpose and it was time for both of s to continue on our own separate paths.

Because of this random encounter, whenever I am faced with trials and challenges in life I think, “This is my wheel chair, my barren plateau and with out it my spirit will die,” and I am grateful. Grateful for many things, one of which is a fleeting friendship with a man in the desert who reminded me of who I am, who I am meant to be and gave me renewed courage to pursue that. Yet, as I mentioned earlier, somehow I managed to forget.

I managed to forget until a random phone call with a woman from south Texas reminded me of a random phone call with a man in the Arizona desert. And both of them shared the same message with me. Go share what you have learned. This time around I think I’m going to listen. No. Check that. This time around I am definitely going to listen.

I really don’t think it’s possible to arrive late for a new beginning . I think we always arrive right on time.

Om Shanti
           Tom Froehlich

 

My dad had a spot on his pancreas. "Only a shadow," they said. "Nothing serious, but we should do a biopsy just to make sure." His doctor suggested he have it done in October, but he decided to wait until I left in January. 

 

“I know if anything goes wrong Tom won’t go and I don’t want anything to get in the way of his dream of moving to California,” he said to my mom. My mom reiterated what the doctors had said about it being standard procedure, I’m not certain if it was to reassure my dad or herself, most likely a little bit of both, but he held his ground. 

 

I had dinner with my parents the night before I headed west.  It was a cold January, Wisconsin night where you could see your breath and feel the dampness of it freeze your nose hairs.  This reaffirmed my decision to leave everything I had known for forty-six years and the people I loved for the sunny warm days of Venice, California.

 

We stood in the parking lot of the restaurant after dinner, stalling, knowing it was our last night together until possibly the holidays the following December.  Or maybe we just didn’t know how to say good-bye.  My dad, finally tired of stamping his feet to keep them from numbing in the cold said, “Well, you know I don’t usually do this but it looks like it’s going to be a while until we see each other again.”

 

He stepped forward and wrapped his seventy-six-year-old arms fully around my 6’3” frame and said, “I really hope you find what you are looking for out there. Good luck.”  I thanked him and looked toward my mom trying to vainly blink back tears. 

 

 “You know I told you I won’t say good bye,” she said turning her head, looking away.

 

“I know mom”, I said, my voice catching a bit in my throat.  I hugged her in my arms, her frame seeming so much smaller than it should have for the strong and opinionated woman who had raised me and still called all three of her sons her “baby” although we were all in our forties. “I’ll see you later okay? And I’ll call you when I get to Iowa.”

 

I walked to my car which was already packed for the next day’s departure.  I turned the key in the ignition and started the defroster waiting for the windshield to clear as I watched the two people I loved most in the world drive away.  Watching the red tail lights fade into the distance I had mixed emotions of adrenalin filled excitement and a feeling of abandoning my parents to chase a dream.  They had never discouraged me when I told them of my decision a year earlier. My mom had only said, “Honey, you have no job out there and you don’t know a soul. Aren’t you afraid?”

 

“Yea, mom. Actually I’m terrified, but I am more afraid of not going and twenty years from now knowing that it was fear that stopped me.”

 

“Well you are a hell of a lot braver than I ever was kid,” was the only response.

 

I understand more now than I did at the time how much they loved me to let me go.  I know that sounds cliché, but you don’t understand what a task it is for my mother to keep her mouth shut when she feels strongly about something.

 

Six weeks later I was in the bedroom of a house I had rented on the beach in Venice when my phone rang. It was my older brother Rick. “Hey, the reason I’m calling is dad’s in the hospital.” It’s funny how Rick would always start a phone conversation feeling the need to explain and justify the reason for the call as if just calling for no reason at all wasn’t acceptable. Our dad did the same thing. It always made me smile.  Rick was my dad.  “Don’t freak out on me or anything. He just went in for a biopsy on his pancreas and developed an infection.”

 

“What do you mean? What kind of an infection?!”, I demanded.

 

Laughing he said, “I knew you would freak out. You’re just like mom. Relax. I already have to keep her from going nuts. I think the doctor’s ready to sedate her if she doesn’t stop asking questions.  On second thought maybe it’s good you are out in California or the doctor would have the two of you in straight jackets.” I laughed. Rick always knew how to make fun of my drama and calm me down.

 

“It’s not unusual, the doctor said. About ten percent of patients that have this procedure develop an infection. They have him on antibiotics and are keeping him under observation. We’re just calling to keep you up to date. Don’t want you to feel like you’re out of the loop being out in Cali and all.”

 

“How’s mom doing?”

 

“How do you think? I told you she’s driving the doctor nuts!”

 

“Then I guess she’s doing fine,” I joked.

 

“Exactly,” he laughed.

 

“Thanks for calling Rick. Just keep me updated”, I said.

 

“You got it bud”, he said and ended the call.

 

Rick has a way of assuring you everything will be all right.  He owns a million dollar construction company he says he “fell into”.  Building it from the ground up, he started with two run-down rentals to house students from the same college he was booted out of.  He’s the kind of guy you want around in a natural disaster. Not only will he keep everyone calm, but also has an engineering mind and will think of some way to make a contraption to sterilize water out of a shoe string and a coffee can.  And he has a way of making it seem so obvious with out making you feel like the village idiot.  He’s a great guy.

 

I began to settle into my life and found a job and began going to Agape Spiritual Center, a nondenominational church.  I was never big on the whole God thing, but have strong beliefs in a higher power and considering the life change I had just made tapping into that power on a regular basis seemed like a pretty good idea.

 

I was getting ready for work one afternoon when my phone rang. It was my brother Rick.  “Ah Tom. Things aren’t looking so good. The infection isn’t going away and they can’t figure out why.”

 

“What?!” I said, all of the air escaping from my lungs.

 

“They’re doing the best they can, but he keeps going in and out of consciousness,” I heard my brother whimper. Rick doesn’t whimper.

 

“Shit Rick! What should I do?” I asked.

 

“All you can do is pray I guess. Shit, even I’m praying and honestly I think the last time I did that I was ten-years-old praying for Santa to bring me a BB gun. A fucking BB gun,” I heard him say and then he began to sob.

 

“Dammit Rick, you’re freaking me out!”

 

“Honestly? I’m freaking out too and usually that’s your department. Please just pray. I’m here taking care of mom and there is nothing else you can do but pray.  Hopefully I will call next time with good news.”

 

I went to work that afternoon in a surreal fog. How could my life have changed so much in just six weeks?  

 

I talked with my brother and my mom daily to check on my dad’s progress. After a week of these daily calls my mom got on the phone and said, “Honey, the doctors said that it may be time for me to call my son in California and let him know things don’t look so good. There is nothing you can do, but if you want to come home it’s up to you. Only you can make that choice.”

 

Numb and strangely detached, I somehow managed to say, “Let me talk to Rick.”

 

He didn’t even wait for me to ask the question, he just said, “You don’t want to see dad like this Tom. He looks awful. It’s not even him.”

 

“But a week ago…”

 

“I know. It all happened so fast. They said his circulatory system is just so poor it is affecting his immune system and it can’t fight the infection. He’s barely conscious at all now. The doctor is here. I gotta go.” I heard him sobbing as he hung up the phone.

 

At 5:30 the next morning my phone rang. I didn’t need to look at the caller I.D. to see who was calling. I reluctantly answered, “Hello,” and heard Rick gasp out through tears, ”Dad’s gone.”

 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell mom I’ll call when I have a flight.”

 

I went into remote control somehow blocking everything I felt, knowing I had to stay in control until I was safely back with my family.  The word even sounded strange knowing that it meant “my family” without my dad.

 

Later that morning I called my boss and told him the news. I told him I would call him when I was back in town and ready to start work again.  My brothers had families and I knew I would stay with my mom as long as she needed me.  I called the airline and booked a flight for the following day, the soonest I could get out.  My roommate offered to move my car every other day according to the parking restrictions, which meant I needed to get another key made. I had somehow lost the extra key while packing the car the night before I moved and knew if I lost my only key the entire ignition would need to be replaced.

 

The lock smith informed me that my key had a special computer chip so it needed to be ordered and would take up to a week and cost five hundred dollars.  This only added to the shock of the loss I had yet to fully comprehend.  Leaving the locksmith, I drove down Lincoln Boulevard and said out loud, “Dad, I don’t need this right now.  I need to get home. Please help me.”  Pulling up to a stop light, for some reason I looked down in the recessed area that housed the emergency brake and saw something glimmer. Looking closer I saw that the glimmer was the extra key I had lost six weeks previously. It wasn’t hidden or obscured in any way. All I said was, “Thank you.”

 

When my flight landed in Milwaukee my best friend Marbella picked me up at the airport.  Her name means beautiful sea.  And she is beautiful to me an ever way.  My friend in the truest sense.  My many flaws softened through her eyes. She gave me a hug and started to cry. I just said, “Don’t. I can’t. Not until I get home or I won’t make it.”

 

My bags barely touched the floor of my parent’s entryway when my brother Rick hugged me for the first time in our lives and said, “I am so glad you’re here.”  We held the hug and shared our pain.

 

Hugging my mom, she felt even smaller and more frail than when we had not said good-by six weeks earlier.  My younger brother and his family were arriving the following day.

 

My brothers and I had never lost anyone close to us, both sets of grandparents having passed away when we were too young to remember, so we didn’t know what to expect or how to mourn.  We spent the afternoon crying over our loss and laughing over the memories our family had shared. Family vacations gone sour. Christmas tree lights gone dark. The way my dad couldn’t remember people’s names and filled in with whatever made sense to him. He often referred to Marbella as Marmaduke, the Great Dane from the Sunday comics and if your name was Larry and you were Italian you were most likely going to be called Tony. It just made sense to him.  Marbella adored my dad and took no offense. Larry, not so much.  “And what was with that damn song he was always trying to sing but couldn’t remember the lyrics I asked.  That Shanti, shanti, shanti…business?”

 

Rick furrowed his brow and then had a flash of recognition. “Oh yea. Who knows? Maybe it was really shanty, like fish shanty and reminded him of being in the navy or something.”

 

The memorial service passed and I stayed with my mom two more weeks, my brothers and their families going back to their homes three hours away.  My mom and I did our best to ignore the void in our lives and somehow trying to impossibly fill it at the same time. Finally she said, “Honey, it’s time for you to go home. I am going to be fine and so will you. We’re still a family and we will get through this.”  

 

My plane landed on a Wednesday afternoon and that evening planned on going to the Agape Spiritual Center for the mid-week service and meditation.  As I slipped my key into the ignition I remembered how I had found the spare key two weeks earlier and wondered.

 

Jean, a woman I had met when I first started attending, asked me how my father was and I told her he had past away.  She hugged me and said you know he is just on another plane, but he is still with you. Somehow her kind words didn’t lessen my pain. The choir came onto the stage in robes all colors of a sunset.  I had been attending services twice a week since I had arrived in California and had heard dozens of hymns, most of which were written by the founder of the church and his wife, who lead the choir.

 

I thought, “Well if you’re here dad it would be nice to know cause I’m back here in California with out my family and this is really, really, really hard.”

 

The soft sound of the piano began to fill the room as the choir swayed to the rhythm and began to sing, “Om shanti, om shanti, shanti, shanti om…”  Yes. They really did. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I said out loud, “Oh my God. You heard me. "You really heard me.”  I began to sing along and thought, “Wow dad, now I can get the rest of the lyrics for you.” Then I thought again, “But I guess you already know them, I guess you already know them,” and smiled singing, “Om Shanti, om shanti, shanti, shanti om...” 

 

I know Om Shanti is a Buddhist chant and the closest my dad may have ever gotten to a Buddhist temple was rubbing the Buddha’s belly for good luck at Harvey Moy’s restaurant after a meal of chow mein on a Saturday night, but no one can tell me it wasn’t a message from him to me. Some things you just know.  And now, whenever I attend Agape and we sing Om Shanti, I sing it for my dad. I sing it with him. And now, we both know the words.

 

I love you Dad.