FROM IN BETWEEN TWO LIVES

NOTE : These were written a few weeks apart, first ‘To my grandchild’ in anticipation of his birth, and then 3 weeks later ‘My Dad left’ when he rapidly succumbed to unexpected pneumonia. I put them together only because my grandson was born on the day of my dad’s funeral. Not sure if they should be integrated into a single piece.

Part I
My Dad left yesterday. I didn’t actually see him leave; it was more like I helped him pack.
And on the following day someone new was scheduled to arrive. Such is the way of the world. I don’t believe souls are involved in some sort of metaphysical relay race, but when death and birth occur so close, it hits me like whiplash. Best I can do now, is to hold on tight to the parts of my life that are blessed with a peaceful inertia. Nothing remains still in the universe.
My Dad seemed content to be still, the last time I saw him, lying in his bed, arms and legs so thin he appeared as an image of an Auschwitz survivor, which of course he was not. And still, very still, except for when he moved the sheet with his bone thin arms, covering precisely only that which he felt needed to be covered. His thighs, but not his ankles.  His chest, but not his shoulders. Precise, all his motions were very precise.
The sheets, for some unknown reason, required constant adjustment, which my father executed with exquisite efficiency.
When I arrived, Robin and I, his response to my booming, “Hello Dad” was a broad welcoming smile, followed by an outstretched arm, which grasped my own. He encircled my wrist and slid his hand upwards toward my elbow, and then back down, as if he needed to feel the fingers on my hand to be sure of the body part he was touching.
The effort tired him out and we moved a bit closer to allow for a gentle pressing together as I sat on his bed, each of us knowing this would be the defining moment before he left.
On the floor, the unused cannula made a gentle soothing noise, a white noise. I lifted it up and offered it to my Dad. He brushed it aside, as if it was the last item that had to be packed before he left. The next day he left.
Death is not poetic. It is the end of the recording, the part when the needle lifts off the record, or the tape runs off the spool with a soft flapping sound.
We would all be fortunate to exit life’s stage in such a manner. This was his reward for a lifetime of placing the needs of his children ahead of his own needs, in each and every moment of his life.

Part II
To Belay a Climber: The procedure of securing a climber by the use of a rope; a climber is on belay when the belayer is prepared to lock off the rope connecting the climber and the belayer  in the event of a fall, and off belay when the climber has reached a secure place and the second may discontinue the belaying process.
 Where it all began doesn’t matter. How it began, well, probably it began with a kiss and a gentle caress. Such was your beginning, my first grandchild. And, in the coming days, weeks, and months, you were kept safe and warm, on belay, by an umbilical cord. The other end, securing your safe journey, was your original belayer, your mother, Marisa. Backing her up, protecting her, keeping her safe, was your dad. That’s the way it was at the beginning. And as you grow, this idea, this physical construct existing in your mind, will continue to keep you safe, while those at the other end of the rope will change over and over, as will the nature of the connection between you and your climbing partners.
Life is like climbing. But in place of focusing intently on the three-square meters that always surround you as you scale up the face of the cliff, in life you must focus on the time and the people that surround you. Aim your compass high, towards the highest part of the mountain you can see. In this world, we are all blessed with an uncanny ability to achieve most of what we are able to conceive for ourselves. I could spend hours of our time detailing all those who have kept me safe every time I shouted out the climbers opening question, ‘on belay?’, and heard the reassuring reply, ‘belay on’, followed by my own expletive, ‘climbing’, and the closing words, “climb on, have fun!’ When climbing, you always need to believe there is a hold. Sometimes you have to take a chance. You might find yourself halfway up the side of a cliff, high above the deck, with no easy retreat, no foreseeable way to move upward. You stand there, tense, probably scared by the uncertainty you face. You try your best to find a way to rest, before you make your move, knowing life won’t let you stand still. Maybe you need to take turns with your hands, holding on first with one hand, then the other, fighting the burning sensation that is building up in your muscles. You know your heart is racing, but you feel nothing, only the danger you face. Maybe you feel for the first time that it’s not your earthly body that matters. Maybe your earthly body is all you’re thinking about. It makes no difference. 
‘I’m going for it’, you shout out to your belayer below. You wait for the response: your dad, your friend, your wife, your coworker, your partner, your god. It doesn’t matter who has the other end of the rope, as long as you’ve chosen someone. You don’t have to wait long. “I've got you, go for it’, comes back the reply from your belayer. You make the move around the corner of the rock, taking a step into the unknown. You're not looking up or down; instead, you're fingers are feeling blindly around the corner of the rock, surveying the surface for something secure to grab hold of. Anything is better than nothing, any port in a storm. A tomorrow is all you want. You feel something; you lock in a single finger, then the next. Soon you have a hand-hold, and you step off, climbing up and around the corner. You can see the top now; you know you are closer now. The way forward is in focus is again; clear, if only for a moment. You’re at a good spot now, and you take a well-deserved rest. You are on a ledge, hundreds of days from your birth, hundreds of days from your death. Here, you can rest; here you can think, here you can use your hands as you wish. You wipe the sweat from your face, comb your fingers through your hair, and secure yourself on this new ledge.  “Off belay,” you shout out to your belay partner.  “Off belay” comes back the acknowledgement. Now it’s your partner’s turn to join you. You arrange your gear and build your anchor. Now it is your turn to be the belayer, and your partner’s turn to climb. “On belay’, you shout out to your partner. ‘Climbing,” comes back the response. ‘Climb on!’