It was one of those phone messages you dread.
"Honey," my stepmother's voice said quietly on the answering machine, "could you give me a call as soon as you get in? I'll keep trying to reach you as well." Her voice was worried and attempting to be soothing. I knew my dad must be in trouble.
Heart pounding, fingers suddenly icy cold, I tried to call her. The lines were busy: first her phone line, then the local circuits. I babbled to John. I paced. I tried to make dinner while dashing back and forth to the phone. Finally, I got through. My father had been hospitalized that morning, and she simply wanted me to know.
I was glad to hear it wasn't any worse than that, although of course it still has the potential to be awful. The doctors don't know what's wrong with him. His symptoms are just a little too vague to be anything obvious. Could be liver trouble, could be intestinal, could be cancer. They'll run tests and send him home Monday. Meanwhile, I talked to my stepmom as calmly as I could after such a bad scare. It wasn't very soothing, though. I hate trying to talk sensibly to either of them about health because they're devout Christian Scientists. Frankly, I'm amazed my father decided to go to a hospital at all. He must have been deeply frightened or in terrible pain to overcome his lifelong religious beliefs.
It's so complicated. I don't think medical science is the only answer to illness. I wasn't raised to believe that, and I haven't seen any reason to change my mind. All the same, I'm much more comfortable with empirical evidence and unbiased, rigorous testing than with faith. And I have this major piece of evidence that Christian Science fails spectacularly. My mother died of breast cancer having sought no treatment other than prayer. I'm more than a little apprehensive about trusting in the Lord to heal the sick.
What bothers me most profoundly is how she and my father kept it a secret from the family. They told us she had a cold, the flu, a touch of tummy trouble. Can you comprehend the depth of betrayal I felt when my father finally blurted out the truth? To suddenly, blindingly understand that my parents had deliberately sacrificed or sloughed off any real communication with us in order to keep the big secret was devastating. For seven years they could not let anyone know she was sick. We were not privy; we were not allowed to be adults; we were kept at a distance like strangers in our own house.
I've told Mary Lou about my feelings on that topic. I think that's why she phoned this time. Even though this may be nothing, a simple fix, she decided to let the kids know it was going on. I am relieved. He may ultimately choose to rely on his God instead of the doctors if he ever contracts something terminal like cancer. I'll have to learn how to balance my worldview and his if that's the case. It'll be hard, bitter work but I will try. At least, thanks to my stepmom, I'll be spared having to mentally rewrite my whole life to account for a huge, previously unknown fact. I'll be able to say goodbye to the man who raised me, not some pain-wracked husk waiting for release. So I'm awfully glad she phoned.
I hope the next phone call is good news. Ed MacMahon, where are you when I need you most?
