The Golden Door

“Who is this?” He did not recognize my voice when I called him in the hospital.

“It’s me, I wanted to see how you are doing,”

“Does your mother know that you’re calling?”

“No, but I will call her, too.”

We had not spoken in more than twenty years. Painful years.

How do you describe the most primal of all relationships, the relationship between a parent and child?

My parents were deeply wounded people, and I thought it was my fault.

It became pretty hellish when I was a teenager, not only because I was a target. There were also marital problems, which created a potent cocktail of yelling, physical abuse, and threats.

“We’ll kick you to the curb, and then you’ll come crawling back to us, “ was one of them. “You are so ungrateful. You will leave us someday, after all we have done for you, “ was another.

One of my top ten was, “Your mother was in so much labor with you, and you never thanked her for that.”

By then, I had perfected the art of walking on eggshells. I felt so helpless. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to fix them, but the never-ending drama continued.

When I was in college, we were still in contact. It was oh-so challenging and contentious.

Eventually, I moved to another town and later moved overseas.

We saw each other a few times when I flew back home until there was an incident during dinner when I wanted to eat a different dish than they had preordered. That broke the camel’s back, and I was shown the door.

Further attempts to connect were futile.

They sent me a birthday card once a year: “Happy birthday! Your parents,” written in longhand. That was it.

I went to therapy, sorting through the hot mess of my pain. It took a long time to let go of the desire to change them. It took a long time to let go of the desire to be seen.

All along, I sensed that if there was ever a chance for an opening, a softening, it might be when one of them was dying. Maybe. In the meantime, I had to let go and live my life.

One day, out of the blue, my brother called to inform me that my dad had been admitted to the ICU for an emergency procedure.

“He has aged. He has become a frail old man. You would have a hard time recognizing him.” Ouch! The old hurt came back, along with the longing and love for my Papa.

My mind was racing, and my heart was pounding when I decided to cold call my father in the hospital. Once he figured out who I was, he told me about his condition and the surgery.

“You know, I want to come visit.” There was a pause. “Why?”

“Because I want to see you. I am willing to fly halfway around the world to see you.”

There was another short pause.

“Where are you going to stay? “ “With Norbert.” “Oh, okay,” he said, “That’s good; your brother will host you. It would be too much for your mother.” I took that as a yes.

I asked myself whether I wanted to do the seemingly impossible: fly to Europe and risk a flare-up of the old abusive patterns. I asked myself whether I would regret going. Maybe. I asked myself whether I would regret not going. Yes, I would.

I asked myself whether it mattered to me to see my dad before he died, and the answer was a resounding YES.

It was a monumental decision. I prepared for this reunion carefully, aware that this journey could be over after seeing my parents for ten minutes before the sparks would start to fly. I was willing to take that risk.

I called my mother frequently for short check-ins the weeks before my trip. “How is he doing? How are you?” Knowing my mother’s temper, I implemented these practice calls to lay the foundation for civil small talk. She managed to be polite.

Shortly after my arrival, I went from my brother’s house across town to the suburb where my parents lived. I was still jet-lagged, so I took public transportation to meet my mother in front of a small convenience store.

People came and went from the store, and I looked around with knots in my stomach. Would I even recognize her?

An old woman came around the corner, and my heart skipped a beat.

Without hesitation, I ran towards my mother, threw myself into her arms, and kissed her on the cheeks.

I was five years old again.

She started crying. We walked arm in arm to their apartment building, and from afar, I saw my dad on the balcony with his walker, looking for us with his binoculars.

What ensued was remarkable. They were happy to see me. My father was weak, and my mother was tired since she was his primary caretaker.

We had tea and cookies, and I brought some gifts. My mom talked over my dad the whole time, which was a familiar scenario, and he was too weak to interrupt her. I stroked his arm and helped her set the table for our afternoon tea. At some point, he wanted to talk!

He told me how he had met my mother and fell in love with her. My mom blushed, “Oh, stop already. She doesn’t want to hear this, “ and went into the kitchen to fetch something.

He gestured me towards him, “ Thank you for being so nice to your mother. I appreciate it. “ Then he said, “ Did I ever tell you that you were our love child?” My jaw dropped to the floor. “We were so happy when you were born.”

What?? What is happening? I’m sitting at the coffee table with these two people, formerly known as my unpredictable parents. Now, they are at a crossroads and no longer have to parent. They shared things with me that I wanted to hear and feel MY WHOLE LIFE.

My father had a lot to say — he had never been much of a talker with his children — and my mother showed me her favorite craft project: handmade silk shawls. They were beautiful.

Then, she described each shawl’s story and the designs’ meaning and symbolism. My dad watched the two of us with glee. Whenever she went to the kitchen, he whispered in my ear, “I love how gentle you are with your mother, “ “We’re going to take good care of her, Papa, don’t worry.”

We had more visits — many hours long. I took walks with my mom and helped my dad with his walker. At age eighty-two, he published his first book and made me read his favorite chapter out loud while he observed my reaction to his writing.

My mom let me pick one of her favorite silk paintings, the Tree of Life, now framed in my living room.

During one of our walks, my mother made a profound statement:” I told Papa that we would not talk about the past, that we would enjoy the present with you,” I hugged her, “That’s a wise decision, and it’s never too late for these.”

My father got a second wind during our precious time together. He became more and more animated. My parents were affectionate with each other, and there was silly banter going on between them.

Is it too good to be true? No, these were moments of grace that the three of us relished. These encounters, which I did not think possible, made my heart happy and healed something deep in my soul.

A few weeks after my visit, my father passed away.