LITMIR.BIZ

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      On the way back to our apartment, Diane broke down, sobbing. “I feel so all alone,” she said, “here in this strange place, doctors I don’t know, nobody I know.”

      “When’s your mother getting here?” Diane had been keeping her parents current and as the week dragged on, her mother offered to come and help, do what she could.

      “Tomorrow night. I’m meeting her at the airport. You’ll be at the hospital – I’ll take Peter and Emma.”

      That afternoon I called Father Alois, the priest from our parish who worked with the CCD program and was preparing Emma for her first Holy Communion. He said he would come over that afternoon with the Sacrament. I wavered but decided not to include Peter and Emma. They were having a hard enough time as it was. Diane begged off. I didn’t blame her, but it would be plenty hard on me too. The priest heard Paulie’s confession as I stepped out of the room... what could a nine-year old possibly have to confess? Then communion, and the anointing with oils. The prayers seemed more positive than I recalled. I saw it administered many times in Vietnam and was told they gave it to me in Saigon. In the corridor Father Alois reminded me that along with its spiritual benefit the Sacrament may have a healing effect on the body, though, he added, that is nothing to count on.

      The doctor put Paulie on a drug that dilates the blood vessels, making it easier for his laboring heart to pump blood, but he still wasn’t responding. On June 12, the sixth day of the ordeal, his little heart went through forty-five minutes of uncontrollable quivering. That evening we sat in Dr. Charpentier’s office, exhausted and discouraged. “I am not sure how much more stress his heart can take. With fibrillation also comes the possibility of blood clot and stroke. I am requesting that you allow me to schedule the surgery.”

      Diane and I had decided if it had to be, it had to be. We looked at each other. “Yes,” I said, “go ahead.”

      “Dr. Martel is a wonderful surgeon, he has performed this operation on children many times and with great success. I will be there as attending physician.” We had met Dr. Martel a few days ago, young for such a reputation.

      “We put our faith in your judgment.” I thought to myself, we have no choice, but these people seemed to know what they’re doing.

      “Thank you. The surgery is not without risk, but it will give your boy his best chance.” He looked down at his desk. “I assumed you would want to go ahead so I have scheduled it for tomorrow at eight.”

      That night the phone rang. I got out of bed and glanced at the clock. Three-thirty.

      “Monsieur Bernard, Dr. Charpentier here.” I caught my breath. “I’m very sorry to tell you, your son has died. He suffered a massive heart attack and we were unable to restart the heart. I was at his side. It happened in his sleep, just a half hour ago. I am very, very sorry.”

      I looked at Diane who was sitting up in bed, her eyes wild with alarm. I sat down beside her. “It’s all over. Paulie had a heart attack. His heart just... stopped.” We sat a long time, holding each other, sobbing. “The poor little guy,” I finally said.

      “We should never have come here.”

      Mrs. Archer appeared at the door, her hair tousled, tying the cord of her robe.

      “I heard the phone...” Then she stopped. “Oh my dear,” she said, sitting on the bed beside Diane. “My poor, poor baby. Here, take this,” she said, handing her a tissue.

      Diane wiped her eyes. “I hate this place, Mother. I don’t want to live here any more.”

      Her mother took a deep breath. “I know, baby. Try to get hold of yourself.”

      The funeral was at our old parish church. It broke my heart to see the tiny casket, the flowers and candles. We buried Paulie in the Archer family plot. I felt that was more appropriate than Rhode Island. Catherine and Jim came down, providing the day’s only solace as I saw Peter and Emma with their cousins. Fred and Alan were there, a number of others from the paper, Benny and Nathan as well. The O’Connors sent a floral arrangement and showed up at the wake the night before.

      During Paulie’s illness I had managed to steal a few hours, trying to regroup and prepare for the Poland trip. I warned Tom and Didier I might have to cancel – I couldn’t leave Paulie or put that burden on Diane. Then this. On the flight to New York Diane had been surprisingly positive. “Go. It’s important to get your mind off things. I’ll handle everything.” I told her the plane was scheduled to leave the very evening of the funeral and she seemed all right with that, but as the time approached she broke down again. I’m ashamed to admit, it had crossed my mind that she wanted me to leave, to handle this herself, but her tears told me otherwise.

      My bags were packed but two o’clock came, then three, and I still didn’t know what to do. Possibly I can catch up in a day or two but, I thought, but that’ll only postpone the misery. Finally I asked Diane to step into Mr. Archer’s study. Hanging around, his cousins having left, Peter followed us in. Diane had calmed down some but she was still upset. After we talked a few minutes Peter found the words I had been looking for. “Dad, you should go. Paulie would want you to go.”

      Diane nodded. “Peter’s right. I’ll muddle through.”

      About five o’clock my cab for LaGuardia appeared. At the front door I hoisted Peter and Emma in the air and roped Diane into a threesome, but when I went to kiss her, she averted her face. “See you at home next week,” I said. She didn’t reply.

      OVER THE ATLANTIC I BROODED. Somewhere I had picked up the idea that the death of a child brings the parents closer together, but that’s not in the cards for me. As the plane approached Orly we broke through the clouds and I gazed at the rooftops, the spires, the broad boulevards and twisted streets, ran my eye from Nôtre Dame across the Seine and up to our neighborhood. I had so much... I had so little. Never before had I felt so discouraged. During the crossing I couldn’t fight off this upsetting thought – it is possible, even likely, our marriage will not survive.

      Somehow, airborne on the last leg of the flight, I rallied. We turned north and east, toward the Alps, toward Switzerland, Germany and Poland, and I began to focus on something besides myself. I read what Didier prepared for our entourage. Since becoming Pope, John Paul had made only one visit to his native land, a pilgrimage, a triumphant visit. General Jaruzelski was not eager to see the Pope again, but now, nearly four years to the day of that first visit, he returns.

      As John Paul traveled, our entourage followed, hearing his message of perseverance, encouragement, hope, reporting on the crowds which everywhere greeted him. Warsaw. Czestochowa. Krakow. The Pope pulled no punches. He likened the suffering of the Polish people to Christ’s on the cross. Your freedoms are denied, your dignity trampled on, but call good and evil by name, do not permit fear to rule your lives. Forgiveness is not weakness, but the power of love. Provocative, seditious words.

      The outpouring of affection stunned the Communist leadership. The enthusiasm for John Paul’s message was deeply troubling, his special rapport with the young an ominous harbinger. This unprecedented embrace of the enemy, televised worldwide, must have caused harsh words between Moscow and Warsaw. Reluctantly, the government authorized a private meeting for the Pope with Lech Walesa, and before the crowds he endorsed the labor leader and his banned organization. He overrode the Polish Church’s go-along-get-long attitude toward the Communists, ending talk of cutting Solidarity’s loose. I wrote two articles about these amazing events and outlined Dispatches which would set them in perspective.

      Our audience was set for the day before the Pope’s departure, in the chapel of Cardinal Glemp’s Warsaw residence. John Paul was taller than I had anticipated, crisp in his white alb and short jacket and wearing his white skullcap. As we filed past, a member of his party introduced each of us by name. I was at the tail end of the line. The Catholics among us knelt to kiss his ring and receive his blessing and he offered words in flawless, accented English for everyone. When my turn came I knelt as best I could and as I rose he remarked that we have both tasted war’s bitter fruit, mine against

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