Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, sang the tall, bearded tenor soloist to begin the annual Community Messiah Sing at Centre Congregational Church in Brattleboro.
“Is it really you?” I asked. I squeezed Dad's arm, to confirm that he was actually there and to acknowledge the miracle that he was sitting beside me at the Messiah.
I could see the emotion in his eyes, his furrowed brow, and lips that were pursed tightly in a way that says you're filled with joy, but at the same time you could almost cry and you're desperately trying not to.
Luckily, the first piece was sung by a soloist. Not ready to sing just yet, we contently sat there, surrounded by familiar notes from the massive pipe organ.
My dad and I had been to this annual holiday event the year before, regulars for many years at this sing that always fell on the first Saturday in December - one of our favorite days of the year and our way to begin the holiday season.
We loved Handel's Messiah, especially at this community sing, which attracts people from all over and welcomes everyone regardless of musical experience or ability. The full church pulsated with energy and joy, filled with the notes of Handel's powerful music.
We'd usually sit next to people we didn't know, though we knew that they, too, loved this occasion and poured everything into the two-hour sing. We couldn't wait to see who the soloists were each year. Little did they know Dad and I rated them and picked our favorite.
Typically, in the days leading up to the annual Messiah Sing, Dad and I retreated to the basement of my parents' home at 6 Howard St. with my musical score, old tape deck, and cassette tape to practice before the big event.
We belted out the words, and when we didn't hit the right notes, as was often the case, we cracked up in laughter. No matter how much we practiced, some sections proved difficult. We had fun regardless of the quality of our singing.
Dad usually waved to me from the tenor section in the right balcony, and then I'd give a little wave back from my pew near the front of the church in the alto section. I loved peeking up at the balcony to see him singing lustily, a significant boost to the enthusiasm and volume from that often-small section.
* * *
While still a tenor, Dad sat next to me in the alto section this year because of his stroke three months prior. On this day, he wanted the security of having me nearby, as the stroke left him uncomfortable in large groups, in sharp contrast to most of his life, during which he organized, led, and addressed large groups with competence and ease. Likewise, I felt better having him next to me, having become protective of him ever since his stroke.
“Can you believe it, Donna?” whispered my dad, barely able to speak.
I nodded and gave him a hug.
Every valley shall be exalted, sang the talented tenor soloist.
“We're here,” Dad said reverently, as he looked around the church decked out with large, evergreen wreaths for the start of the holiday season, seeing in the fresh way that only someone who had so many things taken away can appreciate.
Chills ran down my spine. I had no words for that moment.
* * *
The previous three months flashed through my mind, including the day my dad took a three-mile walk, played tennis, mowed the lawn, and then, in a flash, became incapacitated and reliant on us.
Mom instantly became a full-time caregiver of her previously independent, self-reliant husband of 51 years. My brother and I put our lives on hold, pouring everything we had into my dad's recovery - we would have it no other way. We desperately wanted to help him return to his “old self,” if at all possible.
Dad embraced rehabilitation as his full-time occupation. Since his right-side stroke presented challenges with speaking, walking, eating, balance, and judgment, as well as singing, Visiting Nurse Association therapists came to his aid with physical, occupational, and speech therapy right at home.
He attacked his assignments with vigor and dedication, determined to make as much progress as quickly as possible. The therapists responded with exercises of increasing difficulty, praising him at each milestone reached.
It immediately became obvious how much we had to learn.
“Left side neglect?” No, I've never heard of that. I read, researched, and asked questions about this perplexing phenomenon caused by Dad's stroke so we would understand why he had no awareness of his entire left side.
When a stroke occurs in the brain's right side, the left side of the body is affected. Dad's classic left-side neglect meant that he didn't think that his left arm and leg belonged to him and helped explain why he ignored the food on the left side of his plate and bumped into furniture and door jambs on his left.
We were hungry for each tip and suggestion that would enable us to help him relearn basic things that were no longer second nature, such as swallowing, spelling, dialing the telephone, remembering to turn off the water faucet, or even carrying on a conversation.
I felt his anguish, his frustration, his impatience. Being impatient wasn't his normal way. A slow and deliberate eater all his life, now he shoveled his food in as fast as he could. I watched in disbelief as impatience seemed to suddenly inhabit his being.
As well as Dad progressed with his exercises, he cared most about walking normally again. A vigorous three-mile walk (or run) had been at the heart of his daily routine for years.
For the first couple weeks, he needed one of us on each side when he walked. We drove to my brother's place, so my dad could be outside and practice in privacy. When he stumbled, we caught him. Soon he needed someone only on his left side and gripped a walking pole in his right hand for balance.
I remember the first steps he took unaided outside, three weeks after his stroke. I felt like the proud mother of a toddler, quietly cheering the first solo steps and at the same time nervous about the quickened pace that signaled the imminent lack of complete control.
* * *
Observing Dad's improvement in walking, I wanted to help him resume some of his other favorite regular activities, especially singing. Dad loved to sing! His robust voice rang out loud and true in his church choir and with the senior singers in his retirement.
Reluctant to be back in public, Dad felt overwhelmed and uncomfortable with more than a few people at a time. I remembered his first foray back to his singing groups.
“Would you like to go to choir practice? I'll go with you, if you want,” I had offered. Dad liked that idea, so I called Luella, the choir director for both his choirs.
“That's wonderful,” responded Luella, the joy obvious in her voice.
She welcomed me wholeheartedly to practice and perform with them, side by side with my dad, whatever we wanted. I had sung in the youth choir at that same church over 30 years prior, so I had a true homecoming.
The choir faithful cheered, cried, and hugged when we came the first time. It was obvious how much they missed Dad, who had sung with this group for 46 years.
Some could barely walk; all except one were older than Dad. They wondered why Dad - the most vigorous and active of the bunch - suffered a stroke. They had always looked to him to lead, to keep them laughing and positive, and now they rushed to his side. Their outgoing yet humble, hilarious, poised, never-lost-for-words leader returned to their ranks. Chronically short of men, the choir welcomed back his sweet tenor voice.
The entire church choir adopted me into their ranks, realizing that Dad wouldn't be there if I didn't accompany him, spot him on stairways, guide him to the proper seat in the choir loft, and drive him to choir practice and church. Though Dad knew he wasn't ready, he couldn't help yearn for the day he could drive again.
The many songs and hymns Dad knew by heart came rushing back, and he often didn't need to read the music. At times when he relied on the hymnal and started leafing through the pages in the middle of a number, I'd gently remind him that we were on the correct page.
Yet most important, my simple presence, just being there next to him, enabled him to trust that all was well.
* * *
Staying pretty close to home for most of the three months since his stroke, Dad had only recently taken forays downtown alone. We remained uneasy about his judgment in certain instances, such as crossing a street.
And so, on this snowy day I gladly accompanied my dad step by step the half mile from his home to the church.
On this December day, I marveled at how far he had come since September.
Glory to God, glory to God in the highest, and peace of earth. My dad sang this magnificent chorus beautifully and gladly shared my score. The lively conductor waved his wand to direct us singing one of our favorites. We hit most of the notes correctly, two little grateful voices amongst hundreds of Messiah-lovers.
The trumpet shall sound. Trumpet notes resonated through the church, accompanying the liquidy smooth tenor soloist.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, my dad belted out the words as we all stood to sing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and He shall reign for ever and ever.
We knew this chorus well, the most well-known part of the Messiah. How joyous. How satisfying. Dad sang with confidence, as beautifully as ever.
“Maybe next year I'll feel comfortable back up in the balcony with the rest of the tenors,” he hoped aloud, following our favorite chorus.
* * *
It didn't take long for that dream to be completely shattered. A short three days after that afternoon, while we were in the woods snowshoeing, Dad suffered another stroke, this one much more severe and debilitating than the one he recovered from so grittily. He no longer sang - even with encouragement, Messiah tapes, piano accompaniment, or concerts and visits from his choir buddies.
Strongly pulled to carry on our tradition, I continue to sing each year on the first Saturday of December, our last, precious Messiah Sing of December 2003 deeply etched in my memory.
Though so many years have now passed, I know I will again glance yearningly up at the tenor section in the balcony, feel my dad's presence, and hear his strong, clear, sweet voice come to life.