Fourteen-year-old Merton faces some hard truths . . .
One day I was in the deserted house all by myself with Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan (Athos being my favorite and, in a sense, the one into whom I tended to project myself). The telephone rang. I thought for a while of letting it ring and not answering it, but eventually I did. It turned out to be a telegram for me.
At first, I could not make out the words, as the Scotch lady in the telegraph office was pronouncing them. Then, when I did make them out, I did not believe them.
The message ran: "Entering New York harbor. All well." And it came from Father, in the hospital, in London. I tried to argue the woman at the other end of the wire into telling me that it came from my Uncle Harold, who had been travelling in Europe that year. But she would not be argued into anything but what she saw right in front of her nose. The telegram was signed Father, and it came from London.
I hung up the receiver and the bottom dropped out of my stomach. I walked up and down in the silent and empty house. I sat down in one of the big leather chairs in the smoking room. There was nobody there. There was nobody in the whole huge house.
I sat there in the dark, unhappy room, unable to think, unable to move, with all the innumerable elements of my isolation crowding in upon me from every side: without a home, without a family, without a country, without a father, apparently without any friends, without any interior peace or confidence or light or understanding of my own--without God, too, without God, without heaven, without grace, without anything. And what was happening to Father, there in London? I was unable to think of it.
The first thing that Uncle Ben did when I entered the house at Ealing was to tell me the news with all the dramatic overtones he gave to his most important announcements.
His eyes widened and he stared at me and bared his great teeth, pronouncing every syllable with tremendous distinctness and emphasis, saying: "Your father has a malignant tumor on the brain."
Father lay in a dark ward in the hospital. He did not have much to say. But it was not as bad as I had feared, from the telegram he had sent me. Everything he said was lucid and intelligible and I was comforted, in the sense that a clearly apparent physiological cause seemed to me to exclude the thought of insanity in the strict sense. Father was not out of his mind. But you could already see the evil, swelling lump on his forehead.
He told me, weakly, that they were going to try and operate on him, but they were afraid they could not do very much. Again he told me to pray.
I did not say anything about the telegram.
Leaving the hospital I knew what was going to happen. He would lie there like that for another year, perhaps two or three years. And then he would die--unless they first killed him on an operating table.
Since those days, doctors have found out that you can cut away whole sections of the brain, in these operations, and save lives and minds and all. In 1929 they evidently did not yet know this. It was Father's lot to die slowly and painfully in the years when the doctors were just reaching the point of the discovery.
Hard truths for a young person to face. Merton knows he is going to lose his father in a slow, painful manner. Regardless of Merton's assertion that "doctors have found out that you can cut away whole sections of the brain . . . and save lives and minds and all," a malignant brain tumor, even with today's medical advancements, is something that will change your life significantly. Or end it. I've seen this situation up close and personal.
I am not working today. I took the rest of this week off from the medical office. At the moment, the entire healthcare system is "ramping up" for full operations. That means that lots and lots of people are going to be coming through our doors after almost two months of social distancing and isolation. I decided I really didn't want to be around for that.
Of course like young Merton, I have to face some hard truths. I can't remain at home, socially distant, indefinitely. Yes, I'm an insulin-dependent diabetic, and less likely to survive a bout of Covid-19. But I also have to support my family and pay my bills. Thus, I will return to work next week, masked and anxious. I will wash my hands every 20 minutes, eat lunch in an office by myself, and avoid large groups of patients/coworkers as much as possible. These will be be the hard truths of my life for quite some time.
Truth isn't always pleasant. It can wound and depress. Yet, on my morning walk with my puppy today, I felt warm wind on my face, the sun on my neck, and I realized that I was having a great time. I was listening to a good book (Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman), and I could smell summer in the air. The lilac bushes in my backyard are getting some green buds despite a particularly punishing winter season. Soon, my entire neighborhood will smell and be purple. These are truths, too.
I will not be attending any parades this summer. If there are fireworks, I probably won't be at those, either. If you see me out and about, I will be wearing a face mask, as will the rest of my family. Don't think I'm being an alarmist. My truth is different than your truth.
For this afternoon, however, I am grateful for the miracle and truth of sunlight and coming-of-summer winds and lilac buds.
For this, Saint Marty gives thanks.
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