It's Not World Peace

My 3 am Thoughts…

My friend Mary Garry’s, “It’s not world peace” is a kinder, gentler version of my father’s “You are not nearly as important as you think you are” that I grew up with. Both aphorisms have served me well.

Like every child I cringe to believe – let alone acknowledge – that I have grown up to be my parents. My mom is exempt from this trepidation as I could only hope to grow up to be the kind, selfless, and beautiful woman she is. If it takes a village, my mother is the mayor, the preacher, the teacher and hairdresser all rolled into one. My dad, on the other hand, is the terrifying authorities feared in such shows that I grew up with like The Rifleman, Gunsmoke, Hawaii 50 and Ironside.

When I was young, I remember my father – exasperated – spit, “You are either way up or way down; there it is no in between.” Then, I became a high school teacher. Much to my surprise, I discovered that I had been no different than every other teenager girl. Dad clearly needed to get out more.

Like my father, I enjoy a good story. Like my father, I talk with my hands. Like my father, I tend to hyperbolize. If I was 20 years younger, my overactive, creative brain would have probably gotten me a diagnosis of ADHD; but in the late 60’s and early 70’s it just got me in a lot of trouble. Episodes of being tied into a chair, locked in a storage closet, and having my mouth duct taped shut were all acceptable prescriptions for overzealous educational enthusiasm in my elementary schools.

If I am a drama queen; my father is the tyrant. Unlike my father, I have turned my ability to dramatize into a profit. And, unlike my father, I know when to shut the show down. My students know that it only takes a soft, “Kim, can I talk to you a minute?” for them to see that my time and ear is their’s. When lines are not memorized, the set is not dry (and it is opening night), tickets are not selling and the lead actor has been puking since 4 am, I typically just take a breath, say a prayer and repeat, “It’s not world peace, “and great wave of quiet priority floats me through the moment as I am reminded that this is not about me. “I am not nearly as important as I think I am.” Life is just easier when your self-serve line in life goes out of order, and you have to float to find the humor and honor.

Stoma, feces, and open incisions are grotesque props to the dramatic climax of a colostomy. There is nothing attractive about any of it. My father’s new aesthetic caused my mother to – literally – swoon….and not in a good way. The village nurse she will never be. I saw it coming in my periphery, so I simply walked over, held her elbow subtly and sat her down so she did not faint. In the meantime, I was light headed. I chocked back gags. I asked lots of questions….and I smiled the entire time. I gave a Tony Award winning performance because you see, “I am not nearly as important as I think I am.”

My dad is the protagonist in this drama, and like all great stage heroes, his first lines were to all of us was, “Faith and family are the most important things we have.” Okay, so he was still doped up or morphine, but it was pretty dramatic and delivered right on cue.

My village has been infected with cancer, but the show must go on. My dad continues to cast me in this supporting role of nursemaid, whipping girl and security guard. I was the 1st girl on the right at 3 am in his hospital room as he recovered from surgery, and I continue to be his antagonist during his chemo sessions. He has never offered me a kind word nor a rave review.

Only once did he offer the ultimate sacrifice –his hospital room’s remote control. When you are donning a wardrobe of hospital robes, eating only jello and waiting for time to heal, the possession of the remote control is like the key to the Rosetta Stone. It was as close as I am ever going to get to a “Thank you” or a “Please, don’t go,” and that is okay.

“I am not nearly as important as I think I am” and this is may not be “world peace.” However, my relationship with my father is important, and I am learning that a quiet peace shared between the normal dramatics the two of us usually share, mean the world to me.