The Accidental Bath

The move to my permanent apartment was over. I was weary and needed a shower, but I was too exhausted to hang my shower curtain. I just wanted to lie down. I knelt in the tub intending to throw water over myself, but then I thought, why not take a bath. So I did. I lay down and let the water flow over me. I almost fell asleep it was so soothing. It was exactly what I needed.

It had been years since I had taken a bath. My interim apartment had only a shower, but all the apartments before had bathtubs. My daughters had always taken advantage of them, but I very efficiently only showered. Rarely had I allowed myself to even linger.

Two days later I hopped a train to attend my father’s treatment conference with his oncologist in Pennsylvania. After examining him, she discussed the diagnosis, prognosis and treatment protocol. Next we went to another room where the nurse educator outlined the length of treatment, the chemotherapy medicines and the probable side effects. She explained that Daddy would not be allowed to drive himself home after treatment and that his nutritional needs would change.

Before I left Washington I had stopped at the Center for Prayer and Pilgrimage at the Cathedral where I was greeted by a stunning arrangement of three huge sunflowers bobbing in a tall clear vase. To me sunflowers have always symbolized hope and life. I tried to photograph them with my BlackBerry but failed. When I arrived in Pennsylvania, I asked Greg to photograph the entire arrangement with his iPhone. I smiled when I received it.

As the nurse educator discussed the side effects of the treatment, Daddy assured her that I would be there to monitor them. When he said this, a thought began to grow in me. Almost at the same moment I looked above the nurse educator’s head and saw a calendar with a painting of three sunflowers. I smiled. When I noticed an arrangement of artificial sunflowers sitting on top of the bookcase to the left of the calendar, I nearly giggled. The thought grew.

I stayed with my father for another week and reveled in the familiarity of my childhood home: Listening to the choir of crickets, cicadas and birds chirping at night (I had sworn it was the stars twinkling). Hearing the creaking of the steps as we walked up and down them. Feeling the wind circumnavigate the open windows. Wrestling with doors swollen with heat and humidity.

I also experienced the frustrations of being in a former steel town that time seemed to have forgotten: Twenty miles to the nearest Starbucks. Public wireless that either didn’t work (McDonald's) or was very slow (the local library). Driving across town (albeit a short drive) to my cousin’s to get a Broadband connection. No contemplative community within 50 miles.

I couldn’t argue with what drew me: Fresh tomatoes from Daddy’s garden outside the kitchen door. Sugar sweet corn at the local farm stands. Stars (not satellites) that you could actually see at night. The loping pace of a rural county seat. Time to listen to my father’s stories.

As I rode the train back to Washington all of these conversations, images, sensations and realities converged upon me. By the time I arrived at Union Station, I knew what I needed to do. I spoke with my program directors and made plans to take leave for the semester while my father was in treatment. I left, however temporarily, my beloved community, sources of income and opportunity, my cherished God’s lap and a beautiful new unpacked apartment.

I have been in a place that seems to operate in much the same way—or, frankly, much worse—than it did when I left almost 40 years ago. Still, like the bath I experienced last summer, in some ways it has felt soothing and like exactly what I needed. It has both re-rooted and formed me in unexpected ways. In Benedictine language, my being here has been a surprising mixture of conversatio morum—change of life—and stabilitas—being rooted in one place.

The day of Daddy’s first treatment, we were to meet with the oncologist in the same treatment room where she had initially examined him. As we sat waiting for her to come in, I noticed for the first time the painting on the wall: three pitchers of summer flowers.

Thinking of the sunflowers, once again I was bathed in certainty.