A Prophecy in a Painting, 1972

If we must be separated, I could at least paint him a picture. The background rose from an earthy, chocolate brown into silky beige, sun-bright yellows, and brilliant white. Against this petal impasto, stood the graceful curve of a stalk of wheat—its blade leaves were blood red. Beyond its vaguely phallic wheat root floated a white flower in the shape of a single rose. I no longer have the painting but another made with the same colors is appropriate.

When I fell in love for the first time I was 30 and the object of my heaven-and-earth-moving passion was seven years younger. The teasing and questioning about their beliefs that he shared with his best friend, which was carried on to some extent in the workplace we shared, led me to re-examine my anti-Catholic upbringing. My curiosity may have been influenced by the expressions of faith in both men, but my choice came through my exploration of the Church as I took instruction. It was not tied to what might or might not develop in a personal relationship.

Chronological age may or may not be synonymous with other streams of maturation and we struggled to discover whether the tides of attraction and problematic disparities between us could be resolved. The older I became, the greater the temptation to settle for less compatibility in a partner. His eyes lit with laughter when he demonstrated how he could recite a newspaper article from his childhood—he had taught himself to read by studying newspapers when he was four years old. Michael was unusual. His memory was almost eidetic. His sense of humor was irresistible and his joie de vivre almost alarming. My determination to stick to my sexual standards had been expressed years before in a poem about mountain-climbing. I was surprised to find that intimacy and chastity were issues for Michael as well. Yet, our human inclinations were testing those values as we tried to resolve other disparities. Our relationship remained unconsummated, but barely. A couple of years and many poems later, in early December, Michael decided “Never.”

I argued, of course, still believing he was mistaken. Beautiful Minka, flower-child cum Jesus person, prayed for me. I still hear her prophesy clearly, “You must learn to love him with a holy love and not the love of your own heart only.” Until then, I had judged the “rightness” of my love by its intensity. Now, I realized God’s measuring instrument for His purposes was not based on my emotions. With that insight—and out of my own determination to preserve my integrity and in respect for Michael’s beliefs—I tried to live with his “never.” We stopped seeing or calling one another. I began an oil painting of a blade of wheat that I thought I might give to Michael as a souvenir of our friendship.

The Light? I thought I’d found it
walked in it through these last Stygian days
while the mountain’s weight compressed
frail timbers, bulkhead against immensity
above my head

today the warm sunlit citadel
displays me frozen in the grimaces
and graceless crouch of battle
floods the earth with knowing
blows to phantoms
forces that have sucked my blood o’ nights

O God, what made You make me for humility
why shatter thus the trust that trussed my bones
the dream that kept me walking?

is then the glow mere phosphorescence
light, but not the vision I would seek
irradiant, priceless, natural, but not to keep?

let me but rest here, touch and hold
the splendour of this place
till I may shake its dust and start again
to seek the mountain’s face

“The mountain” in this case, felt to me like the face of God as Moses met I AM on the mountain of Hebron. I secretly nurtured the vision that had come with Minka’s prophecy—What else but nuptial could be that blindingly bright light that I saw when I prayed about Michael and our future together?

My memory became eidetic, too, so I will sketch the hospital visits.

I told him about having sensed his danger. He was able to go off to the bathroom by himself. It was odd to see him find the short trip such an effort. His parents left. I thanked him for the poem he had given me the last time I’d been at his place and in which he called me a “child of longing”. I’d realized from it that the point of my life was in some solemn sense, to play. “Well, of course,” he said and took my hand and held it very tightly. “Go and get some dinner. Have something good.” He was being gruff to hide his pleasure. “You’d better get out of here before we both get silly.” I let him do the last looking as I walked away.
   Where would things go from here? Obviously he still loved me. I felt his deep pride in me, for what I had become because of him. Where did the girlfriend fit in now? My curiosity pierced me. Weary, hopeful, and overwhelmed with gratitude for his safety I flew home in the darkness. Two crackers and a glass of wine were “something good” and all I could manage to eat.

A week passed before I felt I should return to the hospital. I was bursting with excitement to see him again but walked cautiously into his room. He was turned away from me, curled up on top of the covers, in pajamas and robe, little-boy-like with one hand under his chin. The other stretched limply along his thigh. Quietly, I set the tissue-paper tent in the curve of his body. He noticed it but made me glad by focusing on me, instead, showing in his eyes his surprised pleasure at my arrival. “If you should be resting, I don’t need to stay.”
            “No, no. Just napping after lunch. What’s this?” He uncovered the little rubber porcupine.
            “It’s symbolic, or a parable, or something. See what happens when you push him? He has plenty of bounce-back.” I smirked at my corniness but was proud of myself for having amused him. He settled himself sitting and we chattered for a while. He was so anxious to get away from the hospital.
            “I have this recurring image of myself in a sports car, driving gloves, the whole outfit, flying down a country road under the trees in the sunshine.” A few minutes later he observed, “If I buy that sports car I won’t be able to support you, will I?”
            Heart-in-my-throat, I replied softly, “No, you wouldn’t.” So his “never” had been revoked. I left the hospital light of heart but struggling to imagine what sort of marriage we could look forward to with his dreadful illness.

Four days later he underwent surgical biopsy. The next afternoon, shortly before I arrived, he was told that his disease was fatal. The girlfriend had come and gone. He was sitting by the window and I went and knelt putting my arms around him. He was disgusted with my theatrical gesture, glared at me, and snapped, “Get up!” He moved to lie down. His parents came into the room. He said, “It’s just that there are a couple or three things I want to do.”
            His father and I said in unison, “Who says you can’t do them? You don’t know that you can’t do them.”
            “I suppose it’s like diabetes. It’s just that I know what I’m dying of.”
            “Michael, we’re all dying.”
            “Yeah, I know. I know.”
            “Besides, you don’t really know.”

Our next visit was interrupted by the arrival of the girlfriend. I considered holding and defining my ground. He read my mind and was amused. I decided that sort of performance would aid no one and I left with chilly dignity.

He phoned the next afternoon. “What happened?”
            “They did some more tests: a lung scan and another blood gas and electrocardiogram—an ECG.”
            “Oh, Sweetheart, you really have been put through just about every test they’ve got.” Somehow I was oozing sympathy without pity. “But you’re okay about it, aren’t you, love? You sound just great.”
            “Yeah, well the pain’s gone.”
            “I’m glad I left when your parents did.”
            “How are you?”
            “I’m okay. I had a fantastic day out at the retreat centre. Saw a lot of people I hadn’t seen since before I became a Catholic. You have no idea how many people are praying for you! I talked to a man who’s been near death several times and he said that people try to help but really this is something you have to deal with by yourself.” I didn’t mention the glory of clouds and sun along the highway and the words that came to me about a grain of wheat falling into the ground. It sounded biblical, but I hadn’t looked it up yet. It was terrifying not to be able to gauge his responses to what I was saying, but I kept offering the best bits of what I thought might help. “By the way, what’s a lung scan?”  
           “They make you drink a cup of radioactive iodine and then watch its pathway through the blood.”
“Are you able to eat?”
            “I just had lunch. Back on solid food again.”
            “Great. Listen, we need someone to illustrate a French text and I can’t think of who might be freelancing right now.”
            “Why don’t you try Yazzolino. He’s at Clarence Square.”
       “I’ll give him a call. And I’d like to apologize for the way I behaved last night.”
“It didn’t matter; I had other things to think about.” His flat statement distanced both of us visitors. The painting I had done for him was swimming in front of me and my mind went blank.
“Take care, I’ll be thinking of you.”

Would he call again? Using Young’s Concordance to the Bible I found a reference in John 12: 23 that related to those words in my head: “Except a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die, it cannot spring to eternal life.”

That night I wrote:

Out of the heaviness of my heart
out of the wonder of being
out of the love God gives me
out of the mystery of my becoming
I write and listen.

Look not to the Master of Days
for the rules of your cunning
settle disputes for the love of God
before coming.

Gently He marks us for resurrection
quiet the way for the man of low station
brighter than rubies the joy of creation
brighter the mark than blood,
of your knowing.

Walk in the Light, in the promise of morning
sing to the tune of Mary’s beholding
murmur like brooks and with angels the tidings
Jesus is His Kingdom coming.

Tuesday.
            “Hello.”
            “Hi, how are you?”
            “A little sleepy.”
            “What have they been doing to you? No more tests?”
            “No, not since Saturday.” He began to tell me again about the lung scan, blood gas, and ECG. His memory was photographic—it wasn’t like him to forget such things. “Mum and Dad just left. Father Wilson’s supposed to be dropping in some time.”
            “He’s the priest who married your parents?”
            “Yes. I guess Mother’s been having him and some others offer prayers for me.”
            “If you had any idea of how many people are praying for you . . .” I didn’t want to alarm him.
            “I’ve been saying a couple or three for myself, too.”
            “How is it?”
            “I’ve been through the Garden of Gethsemane thing a couple of times.”
            “And what is the Lord saying to you?” My heart was frozen.
            “Just that I have to walk through it.”
            “And you’re not alone. He’s walking through it with you, you know.”
            “Mm-hmm.” His acceptance of a way I couldn’t comprehend overwhelmed and isolated me. He didn’t need my interference. I told him the way my friends at the retreat centre had been praying for him. “You’re kidding!” He was impressed and pleased. I spilled into chatter about the centre.
            “You’re okay, though, aren’t you?”
            “Mmmm.” He sounded very sleepy. I told him about Yazzolino and the golden afternoon I’d spent with him, listening to some of his new songs, anticipating with my voice the harmonies to the melodies as he played. Drinking orange-cinnamon tea. Indirectly, this gift had been Michael’s. But he was falling asleep.
            “I’ll let you go. Thanks for listening.”
            “Mmmm.”
            “Have a good sleep.”
            “Right. Goodnight.” We both were whispering. “Goodnight.”

He was alone in the large room, in the bed near the window. The atmosphere was so much lighter that I had the impression that the room was full of sunshine, although the sky was overcast. I walked in lightly and a little hesitantly because he seemed to be asleep.
            “Hi. I couldn’t find you. I like your new room.”
            He opened his eyes a bit groggily, and in his ironic, Humphrey Bogart voice, “Have you got a kiss for an old friend?” I moved around the far side of the bed, dropping my purse and the lavender wool coat I bought in Scotland on the floor and slipping out of my fawn suede boots. Carefully avoiding the IV tubing, I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and then on the mouth. His head was cool and damp. His lips were warm and dry.
            Moving around to the left side of his bed I found a spot beside him. “I was singing the Toronto Mass this morning at St. Joseph’s. We prayed for you.” He smiled slightly. “Did you know that the Lord loves you? I came to tell you that.” I leaned over him with my hands braced against the bed on either side of his chest. “Your beard is growing.”
            “They’re supposed to bring me a mirror this afternoon and let me clean it up.”
            “Nooo,” I pouted, “please leave it alone. I want to see the full beard at least once.”
            “This would be the time to do it, wouldn’t it?” he smiled wanly. “Bill called this morning.”
            “He’s the salesman you traveled with in the Maritimes?”
            “Yeah. He just heard I was in here and wanted to see how I was.” I warmed, then chilled to this information.
            “You see how many people care about you?” His eyebrows conveyed an acquiescent shrug. “How are you doing?”
            “Okay. They gave me a shot of Demerol. They were working on me for a while this morning and I asked them for a little something.” The sales manager had called, “There were a few things to discuss.” So, they were holding his job open for him. That would help. He began to tell me about the draining procedure they had done on his lung. The phone rang. I answered. It was his mom. He explained the morning’s procedure to her and let himself sound as drowsy as he felt. He was okay. He’d see her tonight. I replaced the receiver for him.
            He was thick-tongued from the Demerol and didn’t open his eyes much while we talked except to look suddenly at the window as he tried to recollect a medical term. His pupils were tiny, showing his eyes bluer than blue. As he described the procedure he gradually became more alert.
He chatted with a visitor. Lunch arrived and I helped him as he ate, anticipating every move. A wailing child was wheeled by the door just as the sparkly-eyed nurse returned. “Is that a tray of tonsillectomies?” he quipped.
            “There’s someone to see you,” she beamed, as Father Wilson came apologetically into the room already wearing his alb to hear confession. Michael took over, insisting he come in and giving me directions about the tray, directing me to the lounge across the hall.

I walked unshod into the hall, following the sound of the still-wailing child. Big brown eyes and short dark curls wet with the effort of her outrage, she sat upright in her oversized stainless-steel cage and lamented. Nothing I said about the toys or my senseless cooing helped, either. As my prayers floated onto the elevator with her she was crying more loudly than ever. I went to the bathroom and wondered with every routine motion how he had managed with a wheelchair and a running IV. With such meager medical knowledge, I felt superfluous. I looked out of place in my soft blue dress.
Back in the lounge, I found a collection of sci-fi stories with one by a favorite author. It began with the death of a character whose mother’s responsibility it was to mourn him. An enemy alien group would pluck the spirit from a person and return the body to its home to die. Then, I saw Father Wilson leaving with bowed head and I returned to the sunny room. Michael’s eyes were closed, with tears in the corners and another on a sideburn. Strange little brown shadows cupped the tears. I wanted to brush them with my fingertips but I handed him a tissue instead. I was a little angry with the priest for leaving him. “It’s ok,” he said breathlessly but not embarrassed. “It’s just hard.”
            “I know you’re ok.” Was there any way I could put more conviction into my voice? I smoothed back his hair with my hands and with an effort took my hands from around his face. He was looking at me to receive whatever encouragement I could give. He seemed a bit far away, too, as though he wanted to hold whatever I could give him, even if he was not sure he should need it. I laid my head ever so gently on his chest and put my arms around him, mindful of the incision in his right side and of the IV on his left. I longed desperately for him to stroke my hair but he didn’t move. I kissed his hand and sat up wishing to pour my brimming love all around him, but he had mastered his emotion and was not about to extend the occasion for sentimentality.
            “Let’s try some more of that.” He must feel at peace for he returned to the meal with interest.
“I don’t suppose it matters but the hardest thing for me has been to not be able to do anything for you.”
            “For me, it has been learning to let people wait on me.” I straightened the bedclothes and thought of the other pillow I had seen somewhere. “Now the pillow,” he said.
            “Yes.” I was backing up, remembering where I had seen it.
            “On the chair.”
            “I know.” I held his head and shoulder on my left arm while I traded the pillows with my right hand. I smoothed the pillow when he settled back, realized that it was wrong and started to press its edge in towards him as he said, “No, plump it, that’s right. They should make these things with a ridge in the middle so there’s room for your head.” He meant “groove.” Why hadn’t he said “groove”?
            “Is that better?”
            “That’s fine.”
            “Anything else?”
            “Just make sure the table is pulled up.” I stood at the end of his bed, holding his feet lightly against my legs until it occurred to me that the gesture was too familiar. I came back to the table, set the tissues closer, moved all the items towards him, and fussed with the phone until he could lift the receiver most easily. It was incomprehensible that he could be so weak. The tightness in my chest was increasing. I forced myself to take whatever seemed to be the next right step. Elated, I kept crushing the desire to linger. He seemed to be comfortable and had everything he wanted. I went around to the things I had dropped on the floor and zippered on my fringed boots.
            “You playing hooky from work again?”
            “Yup. It’s time I was getting back. I don’t really want to go, but . . . it’s getting later than I said I’d be.”
            “You’d better be careful or you’ll be looking for a job.”
            “Oh, no. They need me for a while yet,” I smiled. He was trying to get his arms under the blankets and I lifted them while he moved the IV and tired arms. “I really must go.” I pulled the covers up over his chest then leaned down. “You’re ok, you know.”
            “Well, the attitude is better some days than others.”
            I laughed a tiny laugh. “And today is a good day. You’re ok, Michael.” This time my voice carried the full depth and authority of my certainty. I paused a second and then added, “I’ve never been less worried about you—at any level.”
            He seemed to accept that much and to move forward with it. “If I could just get some strength back and get out of here . . .”
            “You will.”
            He brightened. “They may let me home a day this weekend.” I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, then pressed my lips lightly to his mouth. His lips were still dry. Before I could draw away and without lifting his head from the pillow his mouth found mine again and we ended up with two and a half kisses. He appeared to be drifting off to sleep. I was light-headed with our closeness. “I’m glad you came,” he murmured.
            “I’m glad I came, too.” Unexpected energy filled me, springing into my feet as I walked to the door. His gruff voice stopped me. What had he said?
            I came back shyly to the corner of the bed. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t quite looking at me. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
            He frowned and the gruffness concealed a smile as his voice came with its old emphasis, “Drive carefully!” I almost laughed with pleasure. How often had he spoken those words as I was leaving his apartment?
            “Of course! Get some rest.” So you can be out of here soon, I thought. He nodded and closed his eyes as I slung my coat over my shoulders and walked firmly out of the room. I wondered if he was watching me.

In the morning the phone rang about a quarter to seven. I was barely awake. “Hello?”
            “Hello. This is Michael’s sister. Michael died last night.”

His best friend had arranged for a private Mass. I recognized the celebrant as one of the brilliant intellects of the University, in whom he confided. We met in a tiny chapel in the basement of the church. My friend John, Minka’s ex, had offered to come with me. I told the priest I had seen Michael around noon the day before and that he had been absolutely at peace with God. Father C. seemed only faintly interested and unconvinced. He said he had not known Michael, but that he had talked to his friend a couple of times in the previous few days. From the tone of his voice, I sensed that they shared some concern that involved a judgment.
The best friend arrived with his wife. He explained that Michael had suffered a pulmonary hemorrhage; “He drowned in his own blood.” Brighter than rubies. The priest vested himself in front of us and began the Mass. I noticed his choice of penitential purple vestments, his need to be prompted for the name of the so-recently-not-with-us Michael, and the way he lit the stubby candles only after he had read the opening lines. I struggled with tears until I was asked to read the first lesson, from Lamentations.
            At the sign of peace, John enveloped me in a hug. The couple called me “sister.” The priest said he had chosen purple to signify the uncertain position of Michael vis-à-vis the Church. He stressed the mystery of the movement of God through the crooked pathways of society and affirmed most strongly that Michael’s suffering should be viewed as working towards his own salvation. There was no question that as he had been baptized and confirmed in Christ, so he was now resurrected in Christ.
In my brain the Light was bright and blinding.