Kathy Troccoli - Am I Not Still God?

I was fourteen years old. Usually my Saturdays began with my mother cooking up a huge breakfast for my dad, my sister, and me. It was a weekly ritual to have hot rolls and eggs. Even now the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee reminds me of those special times with my family.

But this Saturday morning was different.

For the last couple of weeks my dad had been losing weight, and on this morning he had awakened with strange pains in his stomach and looked pale and gray. He couldnt stop vomiting. My mother immediately put him in the car and left for the emergency room. As she left in a panic, she told my sister and me to have breakfast next door at my aunts house. We knew something was wrong, but we didnt know how wrong.

With each hour that passed, I worried more. Something was definitely not right. Every time the phone rang, my heart jumped but my spirit sank. I had an awful premonition that we were going to hear terrible news.

A storm was brewing that was going to turn my life upside down, close the door of childhood forever, and force me to begin a journey that would lead me into pondering life and death, suffering, eternity, and the heart of God.

Finally Mom called. All I heard my aunt say was, Oh, my God! Seventy-two hours to live?

I thought, Am I hearing right? It turned out that cancer had infested Dads colon and peritonitis was poisoning his system. He ended up living eleven more months. I look back now and think, How could a young teenager have understood what was going on? It was almost as if I were in some sort of weird fog. I dont think I ever acknowledged how sick my dad was. I dont think I really believed he would die. He was my dad. He was strong. He worked all the time. He never got sick. Besides... this was an awful intrusion into our lives. I am ashamed to say that many days of my adolescence were infused with a subtle selfishness. I watched my mom lose an incredible amount of weight as she continued to work, take care of my sister and me, and attend to all the duties of being deeply committed to a dying man. I often think about how she also managed to hide her own pain.

My dad was a printer in New York City. He was a foreman with many responsibilities. Every day Frank Troccoli needed to meet deadlines, handling numerous gigantic printing presses. His job made his hands different from those of any of my friends fathers. No matter how much he cleaned them up, the lines in his fingertips were engraved with dark black ink. He worked hard. He worked long hours. He lived for the weekends.

I grew up in a little town called Islip Terrace, Long Island, from where my dad would take the 5:30 train every morning into the heart of New York City. He would usually come home anywhere between 6:30 and 8:30 at night. Yes, Saturday and Sunday were his days. They were also the only days I would get to spend any time with him. What I remember most about him was that he was consistently kind and good-natured. He loved people and was extremely social. There were many summers when my parents would throw big pool parties in our backyard. Lots of food. Lots of laughter. Lots of fun. My dad took so much pride in how his house and his yard looked. The majority of my time with him was spent mowing the lawn, or weeding around the bushes and fences. At the end of the day, with sweaty bodies and dirty hands, we would look around at our freshly groomed part of the world. He would have this look of contentment on his face, and I would always know that it had been a day well spent.

My dad was five-foot-eight and stocky. He always looked so strong to me. He acquired the famous beer gut that can work its way onto the physique of many men, but he kept shoulders and arms that were solid and athletic looking. That is why it grieved me to watch his body become slight and frail as it was ravaged by cancer.

I talk about Dad being a printer and also of my fond memories of us working together on hot Saturdays making our yard look like a paradise. Its funny, because two specific memories, pertaining to each of these things, have stayed with me, deeply etched in my heart.

As my father became more ill, it was obvious that he could not keep up with the responsibilities of his job. Just traveling to the City to work exhausted him before he even began his workday. I know it broke his heart not to be capable of doing what he loved doing. I remember a specific day when Mom took my sister and me to McDonalds. On the way home she said that we were going to visit my dad at his new job. I will never forget what I felt when I walked through the doors of what looked like an old barn. My heart experienced a strange kind of breaking. There, in the midst of lots of old wood and sawdust, was my father. He was working with one little printing press alongside an elderly man. This man owned and ran this tiny printing business in his backyard. My dad greeted us with a big smile on his face, and I realize now how humbling it must have been for him to work in conditions that were so inferior to his former position. It has spoken to me many times of his work ethic and his integrity.