Faire Mon Devoir

That was the logo I noticed on a bronze pin stuck in my godmother's coral vest as I knelt and prayed for her last night. She had received many honors in her nursing career, medals, citations, degrees. She was an excellent administrator since diplomacy came so natural to her. She spoke many times of how interesting it was that my mother and she had even struck up a friendship, such is the silent antagonism between hands-on Registered Nurses (RN's) as my mother, and people at the top of hospitals, fighting for supplies and insurance carriers.



It was a very Irish bunch: somber, some laughter, and many tears. Walls of photos were placed on either side of the room. An incredible bouquet of white and mint-green carnations was the centerpiece, probably sent from Bea's relatives in Ireland, and there were many. I'd estimate about 100 people were there. It was quite shocking to realize she would not be bringing in a plate of cookies or sandwiches, laughing and flitting around the room with a smile and a funny story. 64 is the middle and not the end of a life, I said. The priest who led us in a final prayer, said it exactly the way I did. When I'm right, I'm right. I don't know how, but I am sometimes.



I sat down next to her husband and realized I hadn't really seen him since my high school graduation on June 11, 1989. Rheumatoid arthritis has hunched him over, although he is still quite startling at 6 ft 4 inches tall. His hands are now gnarled and twisted, like tree branches closing in on themselves. I was careful not to shake his hand too forcefully. And always, the intense blue-green eyes that matched Bea's own. He knew who I was immediately, such is the startling resemblance between my mother and I. I was introduced to Bea's brother and some other family members. I couldn't find the strength to stand, so I sat as they towered over me. Her husband told me a funny story about my father, which is fitting, since that's the last extended period of time Bea spent with me. My life is filled with tiny circles, I guess. They're little, they come around, and they end.



I walked back home from McLoughlin's on 93rd street, where it was held, with no intention of getting on a bus or a train. My feet would take me where they would take me. I covered all of 3rd Avenue, and crossed to 4th at 74th Street. How funny the Ides of March is, biblical almost, with its reminders of loss, fear and death. My birth started with a death: James Francis Kennedy. How clearly this thought came to me, again.



He was my grandfather. My father's father. My mother, after a very dangerous labor and c-section, was able to access a phone and call him on that cold Wednesday night in 1972 to inform him that he had a granddaughter. Jim was thrilled! I was two weeks early, went from pink to blue to pink and struggled to breathe. I was sluggish and so was my heartbeat. My father was there, the doctors, and she proceeded to make two more calls. Of course, Bea was one of them. When my mother tried again to reach Jim about 2 hours later, the phone kept ringing. "I'll check on him, " my father said. He got to the old apartment on 82nd street to find his father slumped behind a chair. A massive heart attack had killed him. Dad went from seeing me emerge to seeing his dad cocooned in a sheet by the coroner. My heart, by sunrise--and I was born at 1:53 am--was now beating steadily. Two spirits passing each other? Maybe. But it never changed the fact that my birthday was a bittersweet day for those that knew my parents, and Jim. Birth and death condensed into one day, one family. It's a very strange scar.



I've gotten better about my birthday, and the ghosts surrounding it, but not completely over it. It will never be about cake or gifts, however much I bitch and complain. It's the people, and the memories. So many of these people are no longer with me. The continuing cycle, I guess, but never easier.



And is that why I'm safe? Could there possibly be a niche of angels, these people I've known that protect me from unforseen disaster? I've got a band of them and how lucky I am.



I just wish, and only once, that they would make themselves seen. That would be a nice reunion, all of us together again.



(And we'd have cake, of course.)