Sympathy and Greeting

(...as offered by a park bench, in the middle of the darkest night)

It was warm enough that I could run across the quad at night, barefoot. So, maybe April? I don’t remember, exactly. I remember running.

I was scared and frustrated and full of too much of the wrong kind of energy. Mostly scared.

An hour earlier, Mom had told me that Mac had a heart attack, and was in the ICU. I was wearing shorts too. So probably April. It couldn’t have been May because it happened closer to midterms than finals, Freshman year.

There wasn’t anything I could do, she told me. He’s stable and out of danger. They’re just going to monitor him. We can’t come get you and you shouldn’t try to come home.

(I like that I’m still that obvious. People still tell me I shouldn’t jump on a plane just to be present.)

Ok, fine, I guess. I’d stay in Ithaca. But there was no way I could remain cooped up in my dorm room. I had to walk. The payphone I always used to talk to them was downstairs in the basement lounge. The one without a TV, so seldom in use. I was in shorts and barefoot, and I walked right out the door.

Kept walking.

Until I was running. Running across the grass, up the hill. I’m sure I slowed down, probably stopped a couple times. But I don’t really remember stopping until I got past the main quad, up by the chem lab, almost to the north campus bridge and Beebe lake.

I turned around and started walking back. Finally settled in one of my favorite spots, the A.D. White bench. There’s a quote from ADW (the first president of the university) inscribed there as a message to future generations from the class of…1918?

I dunno for sure. But I know the inscription by heart:

TO THOSE WHO SIT HERE REJOICING
TO THOSE WHO SIT HERE MOURNING
SYMPATHY AND GREETING
SO HAVE WE DONE IN OUR TIME

Sympathy. And Greeting.

The bench looks down the hill to the West. On a winter day, you can see a bit of Cayuga Lake in the distance.

I cried and cried and watched the West Campus dorm lights go out below me.

Dawn happened.

Mac got better.

It was hard then, to think of a world without him. Some days it still is.

Much has changed since then. I try hard to represent for others the love my grandfather represented for me. To give them that. To let them tap into an endless supply of energy and warmth and kindness.

And I fail.

I failed today. In the middle of all the roles and jobs and whatnot, I felt myself stretched so thin. Not nearly enough of me to go around. The hospital staff have been great about keeping in touch with me. When they called to say my stepdad was resisting the idea of rehab, I felt myself losing it. Still, it was my job to call and convince him.

My hand is still a little sore. Convincing a man who can’t keep track of the conversation is hard. Doing it in a hurry so you can make the next meeting is harder still. And he’s so broken. Full of paranoia. Poisoned by years of exposure to negativity. In his house and in his news and in his family. Poor Jim.

He expresses dissatisfaction as a way to get attention.

I’m familiar with the tactic. I grew up at the other end of it.

So, rage.

I yelled until he stopped prattling. I yelled to get him to focus. I yelled at him to let me finish. I told him I understood it was scary, and that it scared me too. That broke though a little. As calmly as I could I explained to him that I was doing my best, and that to help me, he had to do his best too. It worked.

I still feel bad about yelling though. Feel like there had to be a way to get the right result without losing my cool.

So, I failed. I’ve failed before and I will again.

Sympathy and greeting.

So too, have we done, in our time.

After so many years, repeating it to myself still helps, sometimes.

The outcome is the thing in this case. And right now? He’s safe. Probably sleeping. And he’s getting the care he needs.

So a few points for the right result, minus a couple for wrong tactics.

Let’s try harder tomorrow.

Until then,

-c

This note is number 717 in the “Until Tomorrow” collection (written November, 2020).