The Rockin' Chair (21 page)

Without batting a puffy eye, Hank broke the long and heavy chain of a family burden. “And I love you too, sweetheart,” he said. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he handed her a mint and then placed his finger to his mouth. “Shhhh,” he whispered.

She popped the candy into her puckered lips and giggled. “Grampy?” she asked, through a sucking sound. “Tell me a story.”

Hank eased back in his chair, searched the blessings of his memory and smiled.
Pa was right
, he thought.
Just bein' able to recall my yesterdays has made 'em all worthwhile.
With a sigh of wisdom, he said, “Sweetheart, I remember when …”

     
On a porch, beneath the shade,

     
the good ol' days when we just played;

     
Grampa in the rockin' chair,

     
pouring ice-cold lemonade.

     
Autumn leaves, the church bells rang;

     
our Sunday's best, off note—we sang.

     
Standing guard, the rockin' chair,

     
waiting for our sinless gang.

     
The icy wind, the woods—it tames.

     
Inside, the warmth of winter games

     
One snow-covered rockin' chair

     
conceals the carvings of our names.

     
The robin's chirp, a daffodil.

     
On a butterfly's wings,

     
our screams would spill.

     
Daddy in the rockin' chair,

     
sawing wood, his body still.

     
The calendars change,

     
along with our sizes.

     
A blue ragtop, with flipped-up visors.

     
The creak of an empty rockin' chair

     
expects no more surprises.

     
Another hot sun, a lazy noon nap.

     
A mosquito's bite,

     
too late with the slap.

     
In that faded rockin' chair,

     
I dream with my son in my lap.

Evan McCarthy, Author (10 years later)

We hope you enjoyed The Rockin' Chair. Please let us know your thoughts at [email protected]. Meanwhile, we thought you might like a sample of the author's two other novels.

Don DiMarco has a very good life—a family he loves, a comfortable lifestyle, passions and interests that keep him amused. He also thought he had time, but that turned out not to be the case. Faced with news that might have immediately felled most, Don now wonders if he has time enough. Time enough to show his wife the romance he didn't always lavish on her. Time enough to live out his most ambitious fantasies. Time enough to close the circle on some of his most aching unresolved relationships. Summoning an inner strength he barely realized he possessed, Don sets off to prove that twelve months is time enough to live a life in full.

A glorious celebration of each and every moment that we're given here on Earth, as well as the eternal bonds that we all share, Twelve Months is a stirring testament to the power of the human spirit.

Here's a portion of
Twelve Months:

As I recall, it was the final days of a long, harsh winter. The wind banged on the window, while the last remnants of a blackened snow bank stood off in the distance. Though Bella was worried sick, she reluctantly agreed to let me return to Doctor Olivier's alone because Riley needed someone to watch the kids. “But please come straight home after you're done,” she requested.

As I sat half-naked on the exam table, I couldn't help but take note of the meaningless details that surrounded me; a water color painting hanging crooked on the wall, a glass container that needed to be refilled with tongue depressors, an extra chair that didn't belong, making the room feel cluttered.

The door opened and Doctor Olivier walked in, holding a yellow folder under his arm. It was my entire medical history. His face looked somber.

This can't be happening, I thought. I never smoked, rarely drank and I'm only in my fifties.

Doctor Olivier was a white-haired gent with a moustache trimmed a half-inch off his top lip, betraying his military background. With a white coat to match, his stethoscope swung freely from his thick neck. He had large hands with perfectly manicured fingernails. It's strange the things you pick up when somebody's about to invade your private parts. “Don,” he began in his calm, no-nonsense approach, “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but … you have colon cancer.” He opened the folder for more details.

I felt like he'd just punched me in the gut. “I what?” I asked, one octave higher than normal.

“The rectal bleeding, weight loss, abdominal pain and the fact that your stools have become longer and more narrow are all symptoms.”

“But it hasn't been going on all that long,” I argued. He only shook his head. Now I definitely felt like vomiting.

“Sometimes colon cancer fails to produce any symptoms until the cancer has grown very large and even metastasized, or spread to other parts of the body. This is why the identification and removal of polyps through regular screenings play such an important role in prevention.”

“Spread to other parts?” I asked.

The man's green eyes peered up from behind narrow reading glasses. I knew right then and there that I was in serious trouble. “The cancer's already spread to your liver,” he said.

A bolt of panic, generating from my core, shot out and filled every cell of my body. My extremities began to tingle and my breathing turned shallow. There was a sudden pain in my chest and I knew intuitively that this was felt for my wife. What's Bella going to do? I wondered, and a wave of dizziness nearly pushed me off the table. Then, I must have gone into some kind of shock or something. I kept eye contact, but for a while all I heard was a hum; the occasional phrase dancing in and out.

“… trace amounts of blood. Blah. Blah. Blah. … blockages preventing bowel movements. Blah. Blah. Blah. … consumption of red meat, obesity, smoking. Blah. Blah. … stage four. Blah. Blah.” There was a long pause. “Do you understand what I'm saying, Don?” he finally asked.

I don't know how long we stared at each other before I answered. “Yes, I heard you. I have cancer.”

“That's right. You have stage four colon cancer which has started to spread to other organs. At your age, I strongly recommend we pursue aggressive surgical treatment to remove the cancerous tissues. We'll also want to consider chemotherapy and radiation therapy.” From his tone, this wasn't so much a recommendation as it was an order.

Along with oxygen, my wits were returning to me. I understood the words he was saying, but they were still difficult to register. “But I've always been more of a quality guy … not so concerned with quantity,”I blurted.

He folded his arms, awaiting an explanation.

“What kind of life will I live … even if it's extended?” I asked.

“We won't know that until we begin, will we?”

“Maybe I should get a second opinion?”

“By all means, please do. It's important to …”

“I just don't want to cut myself short by living a few more months hooked to tubes,” I interrupted.

He nodded once. “I understand,” he said. After explaining a few more details I was too overwhelmed to comprehend, he left the room. There was clearly nothing more he could do for me.

Minutes later, I was dressed and walking down the icy sidewalk toward a frightening future that had just shrunk by decades. It was as if adrenaline forced me to move, one foot in front of the next. I felt numb, high on the fear of losing my life. And then I pictured Bella's face and stopped. I must have dry-heaved for a solid five minutes.

My pretty, light-haired wife met me at the front door, shivering. I looked into her hazel eyes and attempted a smile. Before I said a word, she already knew. “Oh, dear God …” she gasped and pulled me to her.

As we stepped inside, I told her, “Stage four colon cancer.”

“I thought it was …” she began. “But it can't be …” Her voice began cracking like warm water on ice.

Although we both suspected the same prognosis, there was no real way to prepare for it. We held each other for nearly a half hour and cried. Although I was already worried about having to leave her, I tried to console her. “We'll be fine,” I whispered.

For a moment, she pushed away and peered into my soul. “We'll be going for a second opinion,” she confirmed.

While a late-night hailstorm threatened to shatter the living room windows and Bella tossed and turned in bed, I fumbled on the Internet and conducted my own research:

It is estimated that fifty-seven thousand Americans will die from colon cancer this year; the second leading cause of cancer death in the nation and a disease that it is completely preventable. Prevention and early detection can mean the difference between life and death. Colon cancer forms from non-cancerous polyps on the wall of the small or large intestines. Polyps can eventually increase in size and turn cancerous. If polyps are found during a routine test, a biopsy may be done to determine if cancer is present and to which stage it has advanced. Women are usually diagnosed with colon cancer in its latter stages because many believe this disease only affects men. Unfortunately, this disease affects people of all genders and ethnicities. There are five stages, zero through five.

I stopped reading. I'm already nearing the final stage, I thought, and for the first time I felt guilty about not taking better care of myself.

I was preparing for bed when I looked up from the sink and surveyed my face in the mirror. I still had most of my dark hair. My brown eyes were filled with life. Dying can't be what I'm in the process of, I thought. Besides the pockmarked cheeks from a cruel case of pre-adolescent acne, I looked as healthy and unscathed as the day I was born. I washed down two pills with a gulp of water and shut off the light.

As I headed for bed, it suddenly dawned on me:

All the things I was planning to do when I finally had the time … I may not actually have the time to do! I snickered at the thought of it. Shoot, I was gonna go fishing and travel the country with Bella in a motor home, where we could rekindle our romance … which took a backseat to too many other things.

I lay down in bed, placed my hands behind my head and stared up at the ceiling—haunted by my unrealized aspirations. I was hoping to do some writing, maybe even for the newspaper, and beg the boys down at the local race track to let me go for a spin. I even thought about talking Bella into doing some horseback riding …

I turned to my side and watched Bella's eyelids struggle with another bad dream.
Now what
? I wondered.

Fate was working against little Brian Mauretti. The food that was meant to nourish him was poisoning him instead, and the doctors said the damage was devastating and absolute. Fate had written off Brian. But fate didn't count on a woman as determined as Brian's grandmother, Angela DiMartino—who everyone knew as Mama. Loving her grandson with everything she had, Mama endeavored to battle fate. Fate had no idea what it was in for.

An emotional tale about the strength of family bonds, unconditional love, and the perseverance to do our best with the challenging gifts we receive, Goodnight, Brian is an uplifting tribute to what happens when giving up is not an option.

Here's a portion of
Goodnight, Brian:

Brian was eleven months old when Doctor Alexander summoned the Mauretti family into his office to deliver the final verdict. Mama insisted that she be there. No one objected.

It was a late winter afternoon, a howling wind knocking on blocks of ice that were once windows. Doctor Alexander sat behind his tidy desk, looking distressed. Joan nearly cried when she saw his demeanor and immediately leaned on Frank for support. Avoiding initial eye contact, the young doctor was clearly having trouble offering his prognosis. He cleared his throat and finally reported, “We've discovered that Brian has metabolic alkalosis.”

“He has what?” Frank asked.

“Metabolic alkalosis is a blood disorder that affects an infant's ability to digest properly and gain weight. It's caused by a lack of chloride, or sodium, in the diet.”

“So what does that mean for Brian?” Joan asked.

“Several of Brian's tests have shown some abnormality in the frontal area of his brain.”

Joan, Frank and Mama's silence begged for the man to embellish. The doctor took another long pause, making Joan feel like her heart was going to explode. She tried to slow down the hyperventilating. It was no use.

“Your son's development has been severely dam- aged,” he finally told Joan and Frank directly. “And at this point, I believe it's irreversible.”

“Irreversible? I don't understand?” Joan screeched, frightened for her baby boy's future. She felt so lightheaded that the room began to spin.

Doctor Alexander shook his head. “It means that Brian will never walk.”

“Never walk?” Frank repeated, his face instantly bleached to white.

“I'm sorry, but we don't believe he will.” He scanned the reports in front of him and took another deep breath. “It's also doubtful that Brian will ever talk or communicate effectively.”

Joan looked toward her mother again, her terrified eyes begging for help. Mama got to her feet and took a defensive posture.

Without acknowledging the old woman, the doctor went on, “Brian may never be able to do what normal children—or adults—are able to do.” He paused again. “We believe it may have been caused by the Neo Mulsoy formula. The low chloride concentration in his urine is substantial proof that the sodium deficiency within the soy formula has been the primary cause of Brian's medical problems.”

While the doctor tried to explain further, Joan wailed, “Oh God, what did I do to my boy?”

“You didn't do anything,” Doctor Alexander and Mama vowed in unison.

The doctor backed off, allowing the old lady to take over. She grabbed her daughter's panicked face. “This wasn't you,” Mama promised. “You did nothing wrong!” She shook her head. “And this is only one opinion. There are other doctors … more tests.”

While Joan wept sorrowfully, Frank rested his hand on his wife's leg and stared helplessly at the doctor. “But Doctor Carvalho prescribed the formula to Brian,” he muttered in a wounded voice, as if it would make some difference.

“There's no way he could have known at that time that it would have caused your son harm,” the man replied.

“You say he'll never walk?” Joan cried.

“Sorry, but I really don't believe he will,” the doctor answered, sadly.

“Or talk?” Joan gasped, trying to breathe.

The man slowly shook his head. “I have to believe that the damage to your son's frontal lobe will prohibit any real speech.”

As Joan struggled to continue her panicked line of questioning, Mama shook her gray, curly head. “That's crap!” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The young doctor turned his attention to her. “I realize that this is …”

“You're wrong!” Mama insisted, taking a step toward him.

“Excuse me?” he asked. “I know this isn't easy to hear, but …” The man shot her a kind smile, but Mama wasn't swayed. “I'm so sorry, but Brian is now mentally disabled,” he concluded.

“No. I don't think you understand,” Mama replied, staring straight into his sapphire eyes. “Our boy is going to walk. He's going to talk. He's going to ride a bike, swim, and learn to do everything that any other kid can do. It might take a little more doing, but I guarantee it!”

Although it was the slightest movement, the doctor shook his head at her foolish hope. “Believe me, I wish that were true, but …”

“Wishing won't have anything to do with it. No, this'll take faith and determination, and the love and support of our entire family.”

Unable to do more, Doctor Alexander turned back to Joan and Frank. “I'm here for whatever you need.”

“For what?” Frank barked, his shock turning to rage. “It was a doctor who ruined my son's life!” By this point, Joan was nearly rolled into the fetal position, her body paralyzed from the devastating news.

Doctor Alexander nodded compassionately and, handing Frank a piece of paper, concluded, “This is a different soy-based formula that you folks can start Brian on, as well as an additional chloride supple- ment. We'll talk about solid foods and other alternatives during his next visit.” Patting Joan's shoulder, he said, “I'm so sorry,” and stepped out of the room.

Mama watched the back of him disappear down the long hall and nodded herself into the slightest smirk. In that one moment, she realized her life's mission had just begun.

While Joan sobbed and convulsed, Frank held his head in his hands, trying to process it all. Mama grabbed her dejected daughter's face again and forced Joan to look into her eyes. She spoke sternly. “Joan, you listen to me right now. That doctor's wrong! Brian's going to write his own story. He's going to sing his own song and no one's going to sing it for him. It's his life and it's between him and God … not some fool doctor who's had so much schooling that he's forgotten the power of faith.”

Joan shook her head. “But, Ma …” she sobbed. “You heard him. Brian's brain has been damaged.” The final word made her wail out in pain.

“Your Nana said that she had such a difficult time bringing me into the world that she nearly died. And the horse doctor who assisted in the birth told her that I just wouldn't be right.”

Frank looked up from his spell and began to quietly weep.

Mama nodded again. “Yep,” she said, with burning determination. “Brian's going to be as right as rain. I guarantee it. Only God knows how … but that's enough.”

In the months that followed, Brian's case was intro- duced to a world-renowned pediatric specialist located at the Children's Hospital in Boston. For the family, it was a time of living out of suitcases and eating in hospital waiting rooms. Each of their waking thoughts was filled with the hope that—no matter how slim the chance—Doctor Alexander was wrong. Dozens of additional tests were conducted on Brian, and twice as many prayers were prayed. Tragically, the final result remained the same—“Irreversible brain damage.”

Forced to face reality, Joan and Frank returned home to mourn the loss of their son's normal, healthy future. Mama, however, returned to her cottage by the bay with a different mindset. Before the front door slammed shut, she was already on the telephone, dialing Liz DeSousa, her old floor lady at the textile mill.

“Hi, Liz, it's Angela. Do you have any seamstress work you can send my way?” She paused. “Nope. I'm coming out of retirement. I need the money.” She shook her head. “Actually, today's that rainy day … and it's pouring out.” There was another pause, followed by a nod. “Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

Mama stepped into her bedroom and took three pills before slowly easing down to her knees. With clasped hands, she prayed, “Father, please bless this family. Forgive us of our sins and have mercy upon our souls. Shroud our children in your angels and protect them from all harm …” The last words were forced through a wave of raw emotion. She paused. “Lord, please bless Brian. I honestly don't understand why this has happened to a pure and innocent child; why such enormous obstacles have been set before him … but I place my faith and trust in you. And I will lean on that faith, believing that there are reasons that reach beyond our understanding. Please, Father … grant our family the love, faith and strength to help Brian through this difficult world. Let us teach him to walk and talk and live …” The tears flowed feely now. “… to love … and be able to receive our love in return. I ask this in the name of your son, Jesus. Amen.”

The God-loving woman struggled off her knees and rolled into bed. For a long time, she stared at the crucifix that hung above her bedroom door. “Please let me live long enough to help Brian fly,” she whispered, and then closed her weeping eyes.