I chose to believe this was not a coincidence but rather a confirmation from the Creator. The message was this: those Spirits working to cure Althea were doing their job and by showing me her eyes, they proved to me that everything was going to be fine. Much like the coyote marking Althea, this coincidence meant much more than just her opening her eyes.
You could have knocked me over with a feather at that moment and I felt like my feet were not touching the ground. My head felt like warm Jell-O and my breathing stopped. I was so choked up I could barely speak. I was not expecting this—at least not for a few more days. But after all, she had been semi-conscious all along before she went into surgery, so now with her awake, those moments made more sense.
I kissed her and kissed her and said to her, “Althea, you’re in the hospital and you are fine now. I’ll be right here, right by your side. I’m not going anywhere.” I didn’t want to go into detail, but rather reassure her that all was well even though she wasn’t fully aware of what happened. It didn’t matter at this time. All I wanted was to have her trust me, to feel reassured, and to know that she was in good hands with nothing to worry about.
As soon as I finished speaking, she lightly squeezed my thumb, calmly closed her eyes, and fell fast asleep once again holding the pipe bag tightly against her belly. This happened so fast that only a moment later I had a hard time believing what had just occurred. My heart was pounding; I was flabbergasted. My head spun and I remember blinking my eyes over and over again, rubbing them to make sure I was not dreaming.
Convinced of this blessing, I dashed down the hall to my little secluded spot next to the elevators and called the family in tears saying she had woken up. Better news could ever have been shared and after calling everyone I could, I went back to her room. Falling back into the chair next to her bed, I continued the routine from where I had left off.
Soon afterwards, Jonathan came for a late lunch. Sitting down in the same part of the cafeteria, I shared Althea’s brief waking moment with him. Hopeful to see her awake, he came up to visit her room but she remained sound asleep. I guess one waking moment was enough for today. I knew more would come.
Jonathan left and I returned to the routine of stretching her arms and legs, keeping her as mobile as I could. Now with her awake, I wanted to be sure she was limber and the atrophy that normally sets in would be minimized. I held her stretches a little longer and cautiously stretched each position a little more each time. I repeated these stretches every hour or so turning her on her side and twisting her torso as best I could. Always aware of putting only the proper amount of tension on these stretches, I was careful not to harm her in any way.
About seven o’clock, Lois came to dinner with Sheryl, another member of our church. The two strolled into the room and I greeted them both warmly. Sheryl was taken aback by what she saw. With her eyes glazed over a little and her voice changed, Sheryl fought back her tears. Althea was normally jovial and outgoing, and her loving magnetism always greeted her friends. But now she lay silent, motionless. Sheryl quickly realized Althea’s contagious laughter would not soon be heard. She felt saddened by this and with a single sigh accepted the situation. Realizing her good friend had a long journey ahead of her, Sheryl left her bedside and consoled me with many caring words.
After a quick dinner with them, I returned to Althea’s bedside and resumed my ritual of stretching, bathing, and reading to her. She did not wake up the rest of that evening so at about nine o’clock, I went home.
I showered and while towel drying my hair, I stared into the mirror. I wanted to cut off my hair to support Althea, but I did not know how to do this without damaging my head with the modest scissors and shaver I had at hand. I realized that I needed to get it cut off at the barber shop and had to do this early tomorrow morning.
I hung up my pipe and medicine bags in their place and collapsed into bed falling quickly asleep. But just before I did, I remembered what my good friend Oliver had told me to do, “Philip, say a prayer to gather the good healers of the universe to do what is necessary for Althea’s complete recovery.” Folding my hands, I said a quick prayer and I asked my higher self to attend to this while I slept. I imagined in my mind that tomorrow would be one where she would be even more awake and watching me once again with open eyes—at least if only for just a few minutes.
The day’s events seemed like some impossible dream, one where a warrior was victorious, and she truly was. I felt stronger looking into her eyes and in that moment I remembered why we were in love. I remembered the first time when our eyes met so long ago, and how a single gaze would change my life. I remembered what holding her hand felt like after her first surgery in Oklahoma, feeling the faint spark in her still struggling to survive. I remembered how it felt then—trying to make sense of an insane situation—and somehow we both pulled through. I saw the hand of the Creator guiding our lives and keeping us together despite the challenges that faced us. I saw all of these things and then…I was asleep.
Chapter 6 — February 24, 2008 — Day 4
* * *
Our place of worship is a self proclaimed metaphysical church, one reminiscent of those found in early rural communities. Housed in a restored historical playhouse, the genuine friendship and warm welcomes felt like fresh air compared to the packed sanctuaries of our youth. With their straightforward message and uncomplicated values, the faith based beliefs of this spiritual group resonated immediately with those of our own.
With a mixed membership of healers, intellects, mystics, musicians, and philosophers, this diverse blend of spiritually hungry souls drifted together and found the Love of the Creator. Bringing with them their eclectic interests, this church’s membership list read more like a roster from an expedition to the top of Mount Everest rather than a list of novice backpackers. Each person had talents and skills that supplemented the entire spiritual body.
Our dear friend Oliver, one of its most revered attendees, is a world-class psychic in his own right. At our first meeting, Oliver volunteered his services at one of this church’s highly popular all-day fundraising events called the Psychic Showcase.
In a Sunday announcement, the speaker mentioned upcoming events, one of which was this Showcase. Signup sheets were posted at the back of the church for fifteen-minute readings. So after service, Althea dashed to the signup sheet to schedule back-to-back readings for us with Oliver.
Three Saturdays later, the church parking lot was packed for this long awaited Showcase. Smells of burning incense drifted through the hallways as we entered the church. Crowds of anxious people from miles around milled about, waiting for their scheduled session to begin. Inside the church, the low buzzing of muted voices filled the sanctuary as excited clients listened intently to foretold events.
Small consultation stations dotted every square inch of aisle space inside; Oliver was set up on the far right side. A simple tan table runner covered the center of the humble green card table and a plain padded brown metal folding chair greeted his guests. Althea, of course, went first.
While waiting for Althea’s reading to finish, I went into the bookstore and scanned the racks hoping something would catch my eye. I lingered at one section with hand-illustrated postcards being attracted by their collage of colors and fanciful designs. One in particular, a surrealistic cove with a jumping dolphin, made me think of Althea’s whimsical spirit so I bought it for Althea as a future surprise.
With her reading over, Althea found me biding my time at the card rack. Rushing up to me more excited than I had seen her in quite a while she said, “You won’t believe this guy; he’s amazing! He told me things I must remember to tell you after you are done. What he told me was incredible. You’re next.”
“Where is he?” I asked not knowing who he was or what he looked like.
“He’s the one at the end of the aisle on the right. He’s the one with the green table,” she replied. “Just go down there. You’ll see him.”
I made my way down
the aisle and saw Oliver on the far side of the table with his head lowered into his right hand. There stood a big-boned, medium height man, with brown-rimmed glasses stroking his forehead as if deep in thought. His graying hair, round face, and muscular build showed wisdom and strength beyond his years.
I found his sincere introspective posture intriguing. He was more than just deep in thought—more like he was engaged with someone on the telephone and paused for a moment to reflect on what was just said. Although his lips did not move, his facial expressions changed wildly in response to their apparent communication. As I approached he saw me, extended the large thick fingers on his hand, and warmly greeted me.
“Hello. You must be Philip,” he said with a voice that rolled like an echo through a long valley. We shook hands, his grip lighter than I had anticipated for a hand so large.
“Yes I am…” I started to reply but was interrupted by his melodic voice.
Cocking his head slightly to the right, his eyes squinted and he continued, “Did you feel like an orphan as you were growing up?” There was no sign of judgment, hostility, anger, or stress in his face and I felt completely disarmed by this inquiry although a wee bit surprised.
How could he possibly have known? Neither I nor Althea had spoken of my youth to anyone in this church at any time, but before our first meeting the words from this man accurately described my upbringing without ever knowing me or anyone I knew. I contemplated the word orphan. This was not the word I would have used to recount my youth, but it exactly described how I felt growing up.
Both of my parents and older sister worked. After school, my older brother Richard and I were often home alone until my mother came home from her job. Fortunately, we lived next door to my grandparents who watched over us for this time.
Living next door to your in-laws was not what my mother dreamed of doing for the rest of her life and my father shared this same feeling. There were times when arguments between my parents and grandparents found their way from my grandparent’s house back into our loving home. At one of these arguments, something must have happened to make them decide to move. Much like the straw that broke the camel’s back, my parents both went to work to save up for a down payment. It took five long years to do this.
Just seven years old at the time, I had a limited view of life and didn’t understand the complicated adult world. I was a happy child and my parents assured me a carefree childhood, something I appreciate to this day. But this event thrust me into that adult world faster than I would have chosen to do myself. Until I was seven, either my mother, father, or sister would always be there, and with this I felt safe and secure. With them all gone, I felt abandoned and much like an orphan as Oliver had just described.
“Yes, I did,” I replied.
“Your parents want you to know something…” he continued. “They want you to know they meant you no harm and all they had for you was love. They want you to know what they did was what the culture expected them to do at that time. They loved you dearly and didn’t realize you felt that way. They never wanted to hurt you.”
I carried resentment towards them my whole life about this abandonment—until that exact moment when I finally understood. It took four years of therapy sessions, dozens of personal growth seminars, and long conversations with Althea for me to begin expressing my emotions about this issue. Despite coming to terms with this abandonment, I could not shed this resentment for forty-seven years. Yet in a single moment, a complete stranger released these resentments completely and I finally found peace.
I became tearful as I felt my pain leave my body, and I smiled and sat down in the wobbly metal chair. We talked about other things that I cannot recall. What I gained from this session was peace and a life-long friend.
Like most of the members of our congregation, I found Oliver to be the kindest soul I have ever met. His heart is open and he always speaks the truth. We easily became close friends since our interests and hobbies were quite similar. We became the closest when he hired me to paint his house. As we worked and chatted together, I had time to find out those fascinating details about him and his mystical life. His spirit was always one step ahead of his mind, something very different from all other men I knew outside of our little church.
Although rarely asking him for a psychic opinion concerned rather with what it may do to our friendship, Oliver volunteered many insights about Althea and me over the next few years, nearly all of which came true. With this staggeringly accurate record, I learned to trust his predictions and even looked forward to them like a child anxiously waiting for a scrumptious desert after dinner.
Althea and I did almost everything together. We were the best of friends and of course even closer companions. Tossing and turning in the empty bed at night, my heart longed for her to be next to me. Awaking each morning, I forced my mind into thinking only of what I needed to do that day to help Althea, to help her get one step closer to complete recovery. I had to stay strong for her despite my personal emotional challenges. I couldn’t be needy now; I had to be strong and give her a firm anchor.
I allowed myself time to grieve when we were apart. On my homeward commutes, I often saw swirling road lines through tear filled eyes. I remember when grasping the wheel tightly during moments of gut-wrenching agony, and saying prayers for her continued curing somehow helped to ease this pain. My repressed feelings from finding her on the couch were beginning to surface and I wasn’t sure how to handle them.
I awoke today at four thirty A.M. and couldn’t get back to sleep. Yesterday’s events seemed like a blur as one moment merged with another. Passing time in the hospital was not a problem; the ritual of reading, bathing, stretching, and praying kept my mind busy. But my heart began to ache and I wondered how long it was going to take before Althea would be released.
Staring at the ceiling I thought to myself, How can I maintain my sanity and still allow my growing grief its appropriate time? Then, I recalled a technique I learned in a personal growth seminar; I would journal every day giving my feelings a creative outlet. Althea would want to know the blow-by-blow details of her progress during her recovery once she was better, so a daily journal made sense.
I decided I would journal each morning before visiting Althea. I saw some public PCs near the hospital lobby and would use those. This is a good idea.
I shot up out of bed and flipped on my computer. Writing down all the things I could remember, I took inventory and paused for reflection. This is going to work well. I said to myself as the computer shut down. I grabbed my computer’s thumb drive and put it next to my car keys so I wouldn’t forget it. I was excited since now. I found a way to release some of these pent-up feelings and still be Althea’s anchor.
I rushed through my shower and gathered up Althea’s Native American ceremonial pipe. This would be a wonderful complement her tobacco ties. Leaving it with her would remind her of her spirituality and may help her feel like part of home was there too.
I loaded up the car and drove down the road catching a fleeting glimpse of Althea’s favorite bench out of the corner of my eye. I backed up and took a moment to lock its image into my mind. I wanted to remember exactly what this place looked like so I could visualize it all during the day. I sped off for the barber shop to get that buzz cut I vowed to get in support of Althea’s recovery.
Our community has about twenty three hundred homes and it’s about two miles to the entrance from our house. The front gate empties onto the main highway and several local businesses are dotted along the road. Our town is small compared to Tampa and the chain stores haven’t moved in yet. Our barber is one of these mom and pop places and Althea knows the woman who works there. Like barbers do, the two talk constantly whenever she goes for a trim. I went inside, sat in the chair, grabbed a magazine, and tried to remember her name. She motioned to me to come to her station.
“How’s Althea? What’s she been up to?” she said with her heavy New York accent.
“Althea
had a stroke and I want a buzz cut to help support her. They shaved off all of her beautiful hair and I want to do this so we can watch each other’s hair grow out together. It’s important to me that I do this.” For the life of me, I couldn’t recall her name.
“What kind of buzz cut do you want?”
I didn’t realize there were so many different kinds of buzz cuts, so when she asked what kind, we had a brief discussion about them. The only one I ever got before was in the military, and there was only one kind—everything off to the nub. Soon, the clippers buzzed in my ears and it actually felt good to get it all cut off. The comb swerved and curved around my ears gliding across my scalp. The final trim around my neckline felt more like applying touch-up paint to a battleship rather than improving my appearance.
Driving to the hospital, I decided to do some segment intention work. While traveling in the car to Nashville, Althea and I started listening to a self improvement CD. The instructions were simple: Imagine what you want your destination to be, and see it vividly in your mind.
The only thing I could think of was a safe parking place and I recalled seeing one between a tree and a walking path. In this space my car doors would escape those dreaded parking lot dings, so I imagined my little yellow Mini Cooper snuggling back into this spot.
Althea: A Story of Love Page 8
