Goodbye

I went to church sporadically as a kid. My parents would take us to church on Sundays, but only if we didn’t have a soccer game, a party, or some other commitment. I did have to go to religion classes until I was 14 or so, whenever I was confirmed. I found both church and religion classes stiflingly boring. I asked my mom why I had to attend, after spending all day learning about “real things.” She never really answered convincingly, but basically said that it was important to my grandparents, and important in continuing the Irish Catholic tradition. She told me how Irish were persecuted when they first came to America, such as the Irish Need Not Apply signs (note: I'm not comparing this relatively brief discrimination to other, longer struggles by other groups. I'm just mentioning it because it was used as a justification for going to church). So I went, and even studied for the religion tests (sample question: Jesus loves you. True or False?). If I was going to go, I was going to get good grades!

During church time with my parents and sisters, I would put a book in my Bible and read the whole time. I was often caught by my parents, but sometimes they let it go so I wouldn’t complain. I even read the Bible itself during church, but found it full of plot holes and way too long. However, when I went with my grandparents, I kind of enjoyed it. Everybody knew them, and my grandpa acted as an usher, and my grandma would point out the candles she lit for her grandchildren every day.

The grandchildren would often sleep over my grandparents’ house on Saturday night, which is when they went to church. As I grew older, I became less and less inclined to attend with them, but I knew it upset them when I didn’t. I always wanted to make my grandparents as happy and as proud as possible, because I knew I would lose them someday, so more often than not, I went to church to please them. Every time I didn’t go, I would feel such tremendous guilt that I would much rather have suffered through the hour or church. At least I would be able to spend time with my grandparents.

The year 2000 was a real turning point for me. That summer, I had just graduated high school and was looking forward to going away to college (the first person in my family to live in a dorm) when my grandfather was admitted into the hospital. Because of his history with cigarettes (which he quit 10 years or so before he died) and weakened lungs, combined with some unforgivable hospital errors, he could barely breathe and eventually slipped into unconsciousness. I was working at McDonald’s (down the block from my grandparents’ house) when I received a call. I was to leave work immediately to stay with my younger sister, as my parents had to go to the hospital. I did so, and my mom took the car to meet my dad there. I was only home with my sister for about a half an hour when I got another call from my mom, this time to meet her at the hospital. From what she didn’t say, I knew it was bad. My neighbor, Mrs. M, would drive us.

Mrs. M is an uncommonly kind woman. I had always liked her very much, and, in fact, she had even taught sex ed at my religion classes, and in a fairly straightforward manner. I have nothing but respect for her; however, that day I hated her.

My sister and I were in the car with her, not saying much. I felt my sister gripping my hand as tightly as she could; she usually never stopped talking, but she was afraid to open her mouth that day. As we rode along, Mrs. M tried futilely to comfort us. I don’t remember all of what she said, as I tried to answer politely, but I do remember my fury when she said this:

“If it’s his time, God has to take him. God has his reasons,” she said.

If I had the brain power to kill her with my thoughts, I would have absolutely had done so at that moment. I know this is a fairly conventional and so-called “comforting” platitude offered to family members. But it was ridiculous in this case. He was dying because of two human errors. The first was his: the decision to smoke for so many years severely weakened his lungs (although, his was the era when cigarette commercials mentioned how doctors approved them, so it wasn't entirely bad judgment). The second was the serious medical error the doctors made while treating him. How could it possibly be “his time” when two human beings caused it? God forced him into smoking? God made the doctor screw up his treatment? How does this connect with the “free will” I was taught in my religion classes?

When we got to the hospital, we literally ran out of the car. I managed a civil good bye and thank you for the ride. Later, as they disconnected the tubes from my grandfather’s immobile body and he slipped into death without cracking one last joke, or even a smile, those words were never far out of my mind.

Intellectually, I had been done with religion for a long time. I loved science, and especially evolution. It was fascinating, and I wanted to know more. But my church never discussed it, so I could live with the two coexisting. I was pro-choice, but the church didn’t really talk much about that either (although it did have signs for rallies), so again, I could ignore it. But that day, under the hot August sun, my emotional break with the church came. I could no longer rationalize the divide between what I actually believed in and what I was just following because of family loyalty.

Religious friends and family who are aware of this reasoning say that I am just angry about my grandpa's death, and that someday I'll get over it and turn back toward religion. Religion will comfort me, they say. God will heal my wounds. Well, I am angry, but at the hospital, not at God. I know we all die, but he didn't have to die then. And, as I mentioned, my break was a long time coming. Grandpa's death didn't turn me against religion; it simply gave me the courage to do what I knew was right for me. And although my grandpa may not have agreed with my decision, he would have been proud that I was displaying the bravery and strength that he showed every day of his life.