In the musical, Carousel, Bobbie Bigalow, during his one day leave from Purgatory,
has his wish granted to see his wife, Julie, living a good life on earth.
When he does appear, unseen by everyone else, Julie knows he’s there by her side.
When I lived in Manhattan many years ago on weekend days, I’d get up about 5:00, grab a cup of coffee, and head to Central Park. There I’d enter at 72nd Street, head north, walking fast, skirt by the Sailboat Basin to 103rd Street, about forty blocks, more if you counted the blocks from East 71st to the entry to Central Park.
There were frustrations as I strode through the park—dogs fighting, angrily barking, folks talking on their cellphones, but when I entered the Conservatory Garden at 101st Street all was peaceful. It was my haven. I left all my worries and frustrations behind when I stepped through the beautifully decorated tall cast-iron gates.
As usual I turned left and headed toward the Wildflower Glade, stopping on the way to pick up my second cup of coffee and a donut.
As I leaned forward and up to pay the cashier, I suddenly felt lightheaded and stumbled back. A kind stranger righted me and with the help of a second stranger guided me to a bench.
They called a security guard over.
“Should I call 911?” she asked.
“No. No, thanks. If you could help me to the street where I can catch a cab, I’ll be fine.”
With the help of a second security guard they got me up the steep, uneven steps, called a cab, and helped me in.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked. “I can’t hear you, speak up!”
I leaned forward as far as I could and gave him my address.
“You don’t look good,” he said.
When we drew up to the entry of my building, he tapped his horn twice and signaled to the doorman.
The doorman opened the door and went to help me out. I couldn’t move. He signaled to the other doorman.
“I think we should call 911.”
I shook my head No.
They helped me to the elevator, and one helped me to my door.
I grabbed the walls to keep up upright as I struggled to get to my son’s room where I collapsed onto the bed.
I wished I had my cell with me now. I hadn’t carried it with me that day, fearing I’d be mugged.
There was no way for me to get to the master bedroom where I knew my husband was still sleeping. I slumped down and rested my head on a hard bolster pillow. I had a terrible headache, and my chest hurt.
I was always told by my family, friends, and my doctors, that I just needed to relax.
A few years later after going through extensive tests, I was told that it had nothing to do with my state of mine, but rather it was my anatomy.
The heart is like a battery, if the electrical wires don’t connect properly the battery misfires and the car doesn’t move, but just sits there shuddering.
My cardiac electrical wires were very close together, and physical stress could cause one to hit the other, causing the heart to beat at an alarming rate. I could have died with any one or those beats.
But, of course, I didn’t know that. I tried relaxing. Nothing. I began to pray. I didn’t want to die alone. I began to cry. My crying turned to sobs.
Then I felt someone behind me, and a hand touched my shoulder.
It was my father. He’d never been a consoling man in my life. That fell to my mother and sisters. And he had died decades earlier, no longer able to criticize or comfort.
“Don’t be afraid. Whether you live or die,” he said and rubbed my right shoulder. He kept his hand resting there.
I relaxed, and soon fell asleep.
I woke when my husband, concerned that I hadn’t returned from my walk, opened the door.
He came around, and took my hands.
“Your left hand is cold, but your right is warm! How can that be? And there’s a dent in that pillow! Who’s been here?”
I started to say, Dad, but thinking how weird that would sound, I said, “I’m not sure. Would you please get me a glass of water?”