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Crossing Over           

By Julia Siporin

June 2004

            The phone rings just before dinner.  I’ve been waiting all week to get news from dad.  I hear his kind yet somber voice, “Hi Jewel. I got my test results back from the doctor.”  I take a deep breath ...hoping   “Well, she says that lump in my neck isn’t good.  It’s call Lymphoma.  It could be very treatable, but it is a type of cancerI had always wondered if Dad would tell me if he had something wrong with him.  My whole life he has been so positive and upbeat. Would he have the inner strength and faith to let me know?  Would I be able to handle it?

            Ever since I can remember, my father and I went on long walks and talked about everything. When I was eleven, Dad and I were walking home from Sunday school on a sunny summer morning. “You know Dad, I don’t really need to go to Sunday school anymore.” We were holding hands. 

“Is that so?”  he said with a curious smile on his face.

“Yup.  I just want you to know that you don’t need to worry about me.  It’s like I’m on a red carpet, and I’m totally being taken care of.   I don’t need to go to a church; I just need to stay on the red carpet.”  I remember hoping my dad was mature enough to understand this; I knew then I was asking him to make a huge leap of faith.  My dad listened patiently, asked me some questions and said he’d think about it.

After that,  sometimes we went to church and sometimes we didn’t.  But we continued to walk and talk.

A few years later, another opportunity to make a leap of trust. Only this time... he didn’t cross over so gracefully.  Dad loved to golf on Saturday mornings with a buddy or two.  I often tagged along as his caddy. 

“Dad, can we get a golf cart this time?  PRETTY PLEEASE???!!!” 

We got the cart, and of course, I got to drive it.  I sat in the middle with Dad on my left and Mr. Herried on my right.  I zoomed from hole to hole with great abandon.  When we were approaching the 14th hole, I saw that we had to cross an irrigation ditch.  The bridge that crossed over it was just wide enough for a golf cart.  At least that’s what I had estimated from seventy feet out.   I decided the best way to get across was to go full blast.  I totally focused on a point just across the bridge and nothing else.  Rumble rumble, ZOOOOOOOOOM!           

“Hooray, we made it!”

Only there was no “we”; it was only me.  What happened to Dad and Mr. Herried?   I looked over my shoulder, still laughing with glee, and there was Dad back on the other side of the bridge on his hands and knees, his golf clubs strewn about.  Mr. Herried was brushing off the gravel from the backside of his shorts shaking his head.

“What are you guys doing over there?”  I asked in disbelief.  

Dad, befuddled, started chuckling, “How did she make it across that bridge?” 

Which brings me to another crossing.  My wedding.  Alan and I wanted to have a pure celebration of love and joy... with no government intrusion.  This meant no legal papers would be signed.  Only friends and family there to witness and share our ceremony and celebration.  When my father learned that no legal documents would be signed, he protested and sent a lengthy letter explaining why he was refusing to come to our “party”.  After many days of anguish and contemplation, my fiance sent an equally lengthy and thoughtful letter inviting him to at least come and dance with his daughter on her wedding day.  His appeal was heartfelt and was received with love and kindness.  They were coming. 

“Of course we’re coming,” the reply said.  And so on that day at Fall in Love Creek, my father walked me along the forest path paved with rose petals into a sanctuary of friends and family and gave me away to the love of my life.  Two days later he sent us a letter. “Joey and I are still floating on a cloud of joy and thankfulness for your beautiful wedding.  It was simply perfect....”  My sister told me that Dad said to the family after the wedding, “You never know when and how wrong you can be.”   

Fathers Day, a year ago,  Dad had gone as far as he could with the chemo treatments.  Although the first two rounds showed great promise, the next round took too much out of him.  We brought him home with the help of hospice. My older brother David, and sister Barbara and I sat on the edge of Dad’s bed situated in the family living room looking over the yard resplendent with the roses, begonias and impatiens he’d tended all spring whilst enjoying his daily ritual: smoking a cigar.  Even that day, he was in his wheelchair out on the patio with a cigar in his mouth, barely enough wind in him to keep it lit. 

“Barb, prune those roses back by the fence, will ya?”                           

“Down to here, Dad?” 

“A little lower... lower... yeah, that’s good.” 

 Now we were at his bedside on Father’s Day recounting those memories that have so enriched our lives.  Squeaking out our  “thank yous” and “I love yous.”

“That’s a good way to start the day” he whispered.  

Some bridges you cross together, and some bridges you cross alone.