Onward we tumble together in this endless wash cycle of spinning and suspension that is 2020. Ordinary Time has been anything but ordinary, so it seems. Assuming recent coronavirus outbreaks at Boston College haven't shut down St. Ignatius Church, I will have been a deacon for two days by your reading of this. A year prior, I didn't know how to spell 'diaconate.' (I've seen it with an 'e' instead of the 'i’ I swear.) Nevertheless, here we are. Perhaps like some of you, I often find myself incapable of putting words onto my feelings, reduced to monkish silence. Jesuits aren’t very good monks. That’s why we’re Jesuits. Still, that divine voice undying whispers from the dying. “I am with you, child. Just as I would remind you not to fear the turbulent waters, be not afraid of the stillness. Of the night.”
Nightfall. From a rickety phone mount on my nightstand, I watch mom in her Anaheim care facility through the magic of Facetime. Dad holds a straw to her mouth hoping for sips. Even as she refuses in her blank stare, at least she does not have trouble breathing today. That’s good. Ah, Alzheimer’s. F*** you very much. I can see the anguish in his eyes peeping over knock-off N95s. The weight of the last eight years peers back at me in smartphone pixels. Crow’s feet can say a lot. Unbearably much in dad’s case. For dad, all roads lead back to mom.
It really sucks.
I sent dad a video recording with the caption: “Ba, Fr. Simone really liked the hummingbird feeder you sent! I finally caught one on video! So cute!” In bittersweet humor, Dad responded with a video of him feeding mom a tiny piece of a Japanese pear, her favorite: “That’s good, con. Here is my hummingbird. ❤️”
I miss dad. I miss eating with my dad. I recall, in some detail, a visit from when I was a regent teaching at Verbum Dei High School close enough to home that I could drop in on dad during the weekends.
The doorbell chimes. The tune is that chapel melody you hear before mass is about to start, only with a few dissonant notes from the drained battery. Dad opens the door to see his eldest child in flip flops. Dad always looks like he is still deciding which emotion to put forth first. I look him intently in the eyes and say, “Ba,” brows knitted in concern. We hold one another, wordless – no ‘bro-pats’ here. As I hold him, I reflect on the undoubtedly countless moments of fear, rage, and loneliness he has endured alone since the last visit.
It’s 8 pm in Westminster. It’s impossible to tell if dad is telling the truth when he says he hasn’t eaten, because he always insists on leaving the house to grab a bite. We make small talk. Sometimes I would trim his hair upstairs in his bathroom, which remains in tired hovering wisps.
“What time do you have to leave?” he always asks. I would lie and say after dinner. I’m not a great son, I know. I just can’t bear the weight of it all. Visits that run too long risk… I don’t know, going sour, I guess – you must know what I mean.
We hit up our favorite go-to Vietnamese spot Luc Dinh Ky, one of the few still open late. It’s pre-COVID packed. We are finally seated by staff who have served there for decades. As I stuff my face, dad’s gaze rests on me. I can sense a small measure of satisfaction that a parent naturally enjoys watching their child eat, even one as poorly-mannered as this. I blink away involuntary tears. Ah grief, you always find a way. At any moment, it feels like an ocean of sorrow can overtake either one of us. Gently pulling noodles into his mouth and sipping his soup, I feel the pangs of yearning in his heart that do not stop. Every quiet, dignified bite, every sentence, every sight is accompanied by mom's spirit that haunts us. What images replay ad nauseum in your mind, Ba? These warm bowls of wonton are all we have now, representing the aggregate value consisting of meaning lost elsewhere. I sit across from a simple man burdened with more love than he can bear. This same man who has countless times threatened to end it all along with his own life, still shrinks away from the electric razor as it touches the back of his neck. The same man who curses the Lord on high and on low, waters his garden every day gazing curiously at the growth of his Cherimoya trees.
Lord, let this rugged tenderness lead me. Let me sit beside this man in hell if he chooses. Teach me in my brokenness to leave the world behind to accompany You in the broken. A perfectly healthy flock is left behind for the one. How, Lord? How, mom? How are you doing this? How do you continue to transform us so? What compels such futile love? How it remains. How it persists and consumes all even in this pandemic blender in which we find ourselves.
Martin Ngo
Reflection Song: La Petite Fille de la Mer – Vangelis