Dreaming of spirits and some spirituality

Rich Brooks
Published Saturday, April 19, 2008 at 4:30 a.m.

The noise started in the kitchen. Then I heard the sliding glass doors open, followed by talking and laughter coming from the back porch.

Rising from my bed, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and walked to the porch. There sat Dad, sipping whiskey and grinning like a riverboat gambler. Mom was wearing a midnight blue dress with a lace collar.

"Mom, Dad? Aren't you ..." I stammered.

"Dead?" Mom finished my sentence. "Well, yeah."

"We're figments of your imagination," said Dad.

"You're dreaming, son."

"After all you're walking and breathing on your own," Mom said.

Looking down I saw my legs and feet under me bearing weight. The hole in my throat for the vent had healed.

"What's on your mind?" Mom asked.

"Well, it started nearly 13 years ago when I was diagnosed with ALS. Before that the only contact I had with ALS came from the movie 'Pride of the Yankees' starring Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig.

"Since then, I've tried to find strength in the spiritual side of life. That hasn't always worked out. Let's face it, the world is a material place. And while I may be spiritual, the grass still must be cut and the trash still has to be taken out.

"And then there's my column. Once a week I deliver a message to readers. That's not usually a problem. Except when I'm reminded that the job of a journalist is to chronicle other people and their problems.

"When nothing presents itself as spiritual or pragmatic, then I have nothing."

"Is that what happened last week?" asked Mom.

"Last week the disease got the better of me. There are times when I become overwhelmed by everything I've lost."

"Such as?" Dad wanted concrete examples.

"I'd be happy to breathe on my own or take a shower without help. Or go to church and pray out loud in Latin. And take the boys to the beach."

"Speaking of the beach, do you remember what I told you when I hit into that bunker at the fourth hole at York?" asked Dad.

"Let's see, I was your caddy. And you said, '%@$@*,' or something like that."

"I was thinking of when you were 15 and I said '#$%*,'" Dad said. "Hitting from the sand trap is just a chance to show off," we said in unison.

"Do you remember you were 10 and you quit that baseball team. I told you to never quit anything again for as long as you live?" Mom said.

"I remember Ma," I said.

"We have to go now, son. And quit showing off."


Rich Brooks can be reached at rich.brooks@heraldtribune.com.
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