Ahimsa...The Chord of Love

[Guest guest]

....THE WAR DIARY

My father works in the post office, as a mail handler. He is a World

War II vet. He receives a small disability for what is known as shell

shock, the PTSD which results when your mission is to detonate and

disarm land mines. Sometimes people are maimed or killed when they

miss the mark and the bomb explodes them into oblivion. My father was

one of the lucky ones, although slowly becoming deaf in one ear as a

result of the damage .

Emotionally was another story. He refused to talk about the war. He

just said he did not like to talk about the war and left it at that.

He refused to talk about the war. After he passed, my brother Boyd

discovered the manuscript of the diary he had kept while traveling

through Europe, only 26 years old. It was pretty long too. I guess he

thought he had said what he felt he needed to in the diary. He wanted

to leave it at that. He never said a word to anyone about the diary.

I include excerpts from the personal diary of Captain Frederick

Sweinberg, Jr., my father, kept during his tour of duty to his

country, serving in WWII, September 14,1944-August 8, 1946. He had

been part of the troops that disengaged the land mines. If you

didn’t do it right, you were maimed or you died. He was 26 when

the war had ended and my father was coming home. He refers to my

mother as Jean. Her given name was Regina Rose Charnogursky. This

must have been his nickname for her then as I never heard him call

her Jean. It was part of my name now, Joyce Jean.

>From my father's war diary:

July 25-August 2, 1946: All aboard was the cry and you can bet your

boots we were all more than ready to leap on...About 3pm we shoved

off and took our last look at the never to be forgotten shores of

Germany. It’s hard to describe the feeling that one felt but it

was just a prayer thanking God that we finally were on our way home to

our loved ones....

The trip as a whole was not too bad...The chow was terrible because

all company grade officers sleep in the troop accommodations and ate

in the troop galley. It’s a crime they allowed such food to be

served. The first-class passengers ate rather wholesomely but then we

were glad to be going home and that overwhelmed any discomfort we

encountered...The big day finally came when we arrived in NY harbor

at dawn on August 2, 1946...Boy that NY skyline looks swell and the

feeling of being on American soil again was hard to take. It is a

wonderful feeling.

August 8, 1946: I sure was sweating it out until we finished

processing but finally on the 8th we finished at 12 noon...I

fortunately made good connections to Philadelphia in time to get the

1:30 Martz bus...Old familiar scenes were like a dream and the

changes that took place seem so strange. Then about 5:15 we started

to comedown the East End Boulevard and my heart pounded like the

devil...I got home and just seeing mom and dad and everyone again was

a thrill I’ll never forget. But then I called Jean and told her

I’d be over as soon as I cleaned up and believe me I

couldn’t wait. About 7pm I left to see her. Gosh, the happiest

day since I left home was when I held her in my arms again and kissed

the only girl I ever wanted. I wish I could find the words but they

say there is no ending like a happy ending and I can that it was the

happiest moment of my life-so far. I hope the Lord will never cause

us to part again and we can live a bright happy future together. And

so ends the story I hope I won’t have to relive again...

.... I LOVE YOU TOO, MOM

I can still feel the pain of going...going...gone...when I think of

the last time I spoke to my mother days before she died. It was right

before Thanksgiving in 1984. This would be the first time I would not

come home for Thanksgiving with the family. Every year, I faithfully

drove to Wilkes-Barre to spend this holiday with them. This time I

would stay home. I don’t even remember now who called who. We

talked for awhile. Things were always a little strained ever since I

had told them about Carty, but we managed.

We ended our conversation. After we said goodbyes, I put the phone

down to hang it up. I heard her say..."I love you." just before it

hit the base and turned off. My mother was not one to say that to us.

I always knew she loved me but she was not one to say it to us. I was

surprised. I almost called her back to say, "I love you, too," but I

did not. I was not used to saying it to her either. I let it go and

ignored my little urge to call her back. Two days later, she was

dead. I love you too, Mom.

....A part of me was gone now. I felt the aloneness of being a

motherless child now. I felt the pain of knowing that she had died

without resolution of our conflict. I had wanted forgiveness and

acceptance. I would never get that now. But I always hold the hope

that she would have come around in the end. And so that has sustained

me. I love you too, Mom.

I attended her funeral alone without my husband. I sent a dozen white

roses for her coffin from both of us. Don’t ask me why I chose

white...I just did. Mixed in with the pain of my grief was the pain

of knowing how much pain I was causing in the family. My father had

just lost me in June. Now, six months later, he lost my mother. I say

that he lost me because from the day that I became the wife of a black

man in spirit, I became his lost daughter in life. I chose my path.

Now it was filled with more sadness. I was living in the Valley of

the Shadow of Death, only I did not realize it then.

....THE LAST SAND IN THE HOURGLASS

Although the gap was smaller, my father and I never resolved our

issues before he passed. By coincidence, my oldest sister was

scheduled to come in to stay with me and then we were going to drive

to Wilkes-Barre to visit with family. A few days before her arrival,

I received a call from my other sister. My Dad was in the hospital.

They think he has cancer. They have to do some more tests but it does

not look good. As it turned out, this visit would be the last time I

would see my father alive.

My sister and I drove to Wilkes-Barre with Jason, then 9 months old,

in tow. I did not go anywhere without him. Also, I thought that the

sight of a baby would cheer everyone up. And he did. My little mixed

race son was probably the most joyful thing my father got to

experience before he passed. I remember my father calling him King

Jason by the second day of our visit.

He also called him bedroom eyes, which really made me laugh. Jason has

such beautiful large deep brown doe eyes. He really does have a dreamy

look to him. He also does not look black. We did not discuss that

Jason was mixed race, but I think he did realize it. Jason would sit

on the bed with my dad, swatting at the Get Well and Happy

Father’s Day balloons. My dad had been put in the hospital just

before Father’s Day.

When I first walked into his room with my sister, Janis, he looked so

thin and frail. You could see in his face that he was in pain. You

could see that he was helpless, vulnerable at the shock that he was

so sick all of a sudden. His hair was messed up. Why weren’t

they taking better care of him? Janis, the nurse, immediately went to

him and did what she knew how to do so well. I busied myself with

Jason. I was having trouble seeing my father so helpless. Better to

let my sister deal with it. I need to take care of Jason. Now he

looks better. Thank you, dear sister.

As we wait in the hallway for some patient procedure, his oncologist

approaches us. We accost him with our questions. He tells us there is

no chance. Too far gone. Too weak from the combination of the

pancreatic and the liver cancer combined. Blood count all screwed up.

Would not be able to handle the chemotherapy. He was going to die.

There was no possible denial. So the pain set in immediately. Anger

is hard to summon when your father is 78 and has had a good life, the

good life he asked for so many years ago when he set foot back onto

American soil to marry my mother. When the whole of his life mirror

is reflected back upon him, he shines brightly.

We knew we had to say our last thoughts to him before we left. As

tears streamed down our faces, my sister and I went alone each to his

room to say good bye to him. After she came out, I went in to the

room. What was there to say except all that really mattered? "I want

to tell you how much I love you, Dad, because I don’t know if

we will see each other again." He let out a little whimper like a

little child as he processed what I had just said as we hugged each

other for the last time. He now knew he was going to die, or at least

that I thought he was going to die. I did not want to miss my chance

to tell him I loved him and to hug him one more time. I love you too,

Mom.

Mercy entered and he was transferred to a hospice for his last days.

The hospital was a horrible environment for the dying. Things have

not changed much since Elisabeth Kubler wrote On Death and Dying. As

in her book, my father appeared to me not to be receiving the

dignified care he deserved at this time in his life. He had earned

it. He was taken to a Lutheran hospice.

The nurse was kind enough to talk to me over the phone and give me

reports. She would talk knowingly about the stage he was in. Near the

end he became incoherent. She said sometimes he would talk to himself

as if he were in a different time and place. He would not be aware of

those around him. She told me that these were signs that death was

near, that the body was shutting down. I could tell by the kindness

in her voice, and by what my father expressed to me while he was

still coherent that this was a loving dignified place to pass. I was

happy for him that he found dignity for his end.

I was not there when my father died. My brother and two sisters were

there. One of the things grief counselors will suggest to you is that

you give the dying permission to go. So, as things reached near the

end, they would tell my father that. He had reached the point where

he could not longer speak and was basically standing at death’s

door. But he would not walk through.

Then the minister came and administered the Last Rites of his religion

to him. My brother still talks of how my Dad’s whole body

relaxed when the minister began the words. He could not speak but he

could still hear. When he first heard the words his entire being

sighed with relief and then he was ready to step forward into a new

light. Within the half hour, he was dead. The last sand in his

hourglass had passed through. The next time I saw my father he was in

his coffin...

An excerpt...Genocide of the Damned...A Child's Prayer for Life...Joyce Jean Sweinberg

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