Eighty-Two Years Later
by
Maniko Dadigan

Peggy Baye Margaret Ann Maxwell Dadigan celebrated her 82nd birthday yesterday. It is miraculous. Especially since more than 10 years ago she survived a brain aneurysm, then a massive stroke, then kidney failure and was then held together for 6 months by medical machinery in the intensive care unit while in a coma. But she woke up one late morning fresh and innocent. She began talking about her vivid dreams, becoming scared like a child is scared, for in her dreams, she killed someone. It took quite a lot of persuasion to convince her that it could not have happened. She had not even an inkling that she had been in a coma for 6 months in the hospital, with her husband there daily, calling her back into the world of the living, calling her back to him. Calling her back and promising that if she made it through, he would take care of her. Even the doctors did not think she would survive. She had to start from the beginning in many ways. Her husband, my father, has been her full-time care-taker everyday for everything since that day.

Margaret was born March 11, 1925 or so it is stated on her birth certificate. No one knows for sure. She was adopted at 6 months by a wealthy family from Florida. It is possible that she was born in Virginia, since that is where the orphanage was. She knows that when her adopted mother saw her, she was what was called a “blue baby”…then thought to be caused by lack of holding and love. Now it is considered a congenital heart condition. Whatever the condition is really, Margaret turned a healthy pink shortly after adoption.

Eighty-two years later she is being served a champagne brunch prepared by her youngest and only daughter. Not only that, for the first time in over 20 years all of her children are together to celebrate her birthday. Another miracle. Her first born son from her first marriage, Richard, is relocating back to California from Florida, where he is finished raising his family and so happy to be back in his home-land. Timothy, her next born and myself, the last and only girl, the two children she had with her current husband.

Though she lives in constant pain and is completely dependent on others for everything, she does not complain, ever. That is perhaps the greatest miracle of all. While I was growing up, my mother was not even close to someone who “suffers in silence”. If she was unhappy, it was abundantly known in a multitude of ways. Which makes this very real transformation an incredible blessing appreciated very much by her children. I have been witnessing with awe, both of my parents navigate old age (my father turning 88 a couple of months ago) with humor, grace and courage. As my oldest brother says with his characteristic bite, “Yeah, they are finally a good example of something!”

Margaret's 82nd birthday was a day of much happiness for her. While her daughter was preparing the meal, her boys were installing a water fountain, planting flowers and fixing the back door with a ramp so that she can enjoy the outdoors, so that she can come and go without need of help, thanks to these great new electric wheel chairs. Conversations were flowing in all directions from everyone, overlapping and interrupting with rhythmic consistency. Brother Tim interrupts our father to ask where the ladder is, while he, father, is telling us how his body is shrinking and bragging about how he used to run over 10 miles to and from school every day as a youngster. Brother Rick interrupts our mother to tell me how to make his favorite cocktail sauce for the shrimp, while she, mother, is telling me about the drama club she is starting at her senior center. It is another miracle too, that even with all the overlapping and interrupting, everyone is able to finish their sentences. It was almost musical to my ears. My father even yielded control of his kitchen for the occasion. Another miracle. And there were only two arguments in the whole day, both with my father of course, who gets a bit anxious when he is not in absolute control. But once he announced to everyone that he is in charge here, we happily agreed, which turned him into a total sweetheart. He immediately forgot what he was ruffled about and decided to get cucumbers and onions from the store, returning with a magnificent bouquet of roses and some asparagus.

By the time we sat down to eat outside under the plum blossoms, it was 2:00 on the most perfect spring afternoon anyone could ask for. A champagne toast to 82 years alive, and to family, and to a great meal. Once again the confluence of conversation, 3 or 4 going at once; stories of brother Rick's daughter's graduation from NYU, and how much he digs moving back to California; brother Tim tells of his idea to start a “Solar Landscapes” enterprise after he builds his new house; I am asked about my upcoming trip to Bhutan. “What's that country you are going to?” And since no one has a clue about a place called Bhutan it morphs into an appreciation of mid-life. My mother gives up trying to hear it all. Her presence quietly expands in full-hearted happiness, outside in her own back yard for the first time in years, listening to her children and husband talk over each other with updates on kids, challenges and changes. This is a family that does not reminisce in the past. This is a family that rejoices in the present. I am witnessing another miracle. Everyone at this table is at peace, with themselves and each other.

After cleaning up, everyone finds some form of napping off the champagne; brother Tim watches the ball game with my father, brother Rick checks his voicemail and email, my mother has settled back into her bed realizing that she completely forgot to take her pain medication, saying that “happiness is a good pain killer,” and I doze for a while on the couch while my father comes out to luxuriate in having me as a captive audience. I listen to him tell me about what the Sacramento Valley was like in the 30's and I hear my mother calling his name. He is enjoying being absorbed in his story, so I interrupt him to tell him that Mom is calling. He immediately gets up and goes to her. I am blown away by how he has kept his promise to her. It is not an easy one to keep.

Just before it is time for me to go, my mother, Peggy Baye Margaret Ann Maxwell Dadigan, who has lived 82 years today, calls me into her room and asks me to sit with her. I listen to her make up new versions of things that have happened in her life, the hard stuff, the joyful moments, and what she has learned and what she is delighted that she will never repeat, what she misses and how it all fits together. I listen with just enough acknowledgement to encourage her. I am so touched by the wisdom of this woman, so moved by how incredibly well she sees, how whole she is in soul and spirit while living in a body that barely functions. I am gifted in this serene moment, with the reflection of what I inherited from these two people, my mother and father - intuitive wealth, insight and emotional creativity from my mother and the ability to do good work and overcome obstacles from my father.

“I pray that I go before he does.” She says, “But I don't tell him that.”

I pause for a very full but very short moment, feeling and listening for the most sensitive way to respond, feeling with tenderness and respect, the honor of being trusted into this very sacred contemplation of love and death and marriage and mystery. I pause only long enough to find a way to say what all of us kids know and feel, a pause short enough to find a way to speak that gives her the support and confidence that she is looking for.

“It's most likely to happen that way Mom. Or… you guys will go pretty much together.”

“That would be wonderful,” she says.

A gentle joy opens up in the silent intimacy that we are sharing, a very large space of being, a place where words do not belong.