Sacrifice

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Dept. of English
Humanities Building
SUNY at Stony Brook
Stony Brook, NY 11794-5350
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State University of New York at Stony Brook

Site Designed by Melissa Bishop/DoIT Last Modified 06/12/2006 09:54:50 AM EDT

There is no reason for any daughter to be her mother’s mother. I explain this assertion to my client, making eye contact across my long desk and sharing concrete facts uncovered for my senior thesis on preserving parent-child roles. The last client of my day is the usual – a middle-aged daughter overwhelmed with her care duties for her elderly mother. Like most of my clients, my 4 o’clock no longer knows how she can be a good mom to her three grown children and watch over her mother as well. Her children have their own lives, and she can’t ask them to help. I explain to her that people are living longer, which is creating what is known as the “sandwich generation.” Adult children are “sandwiched” between the dual obligations of caring for both their own children and their parents. Yet, she must remember that her children are her children and her mother is her mother. An elderly parent is not a child, and no adult should ever be treated like one. Her eyes glance at my name, Elena Stanacopolous, imprinted on the framed Masters certificate on my desk, and she hesitates to question my opinion. “St. Mary’s on Thirty-Second has an excellent Dementia unit where they have developed many effective tasks for people like your mother,” I tell her. “I will have someone teach you techniques on how to treat your mother like the competent person that she is,” I say while I rise from my chair and walk her towards the door at exactly 5 o’clock.
I shut the door and stride back to my leather chair with rollers that never turns away from the big mahogany desk and piles of papers. My back faces the big windows towering twenty-two stories above the millions of people – all of whom I don’t know - who share New York City as their home. I look at my notes in the open file.

Dorothy Watson, 72:

- Severe loss of short-term memory

- Impairment in social functioning

- Cognitive decline

- Unable to care for self

- “Spunk” gone

I write a note to call St. Mary’s tomorrow. Problem solved. Then I turn to the large pile of paperwork that has built up over the week. It’ll have to wait until after this weekend. For the first time since last Easter, I have chosen to return home to see my family for the holiday. I became a geriatric care manager at Elder Care New York, directly after completing my Masters in Social Work at the University of Chicago last May. This job, especially the location, became my chance to really be independent. My mother retired from her law practice in December, and now spends more time at home than she did in the twenty-six years that I lived there. I call her once a week to find out how she and my yia yia (Grandma in Greek) are getting along. While I keep in touch, I am happy to be away from home – happy to focus on myself. My mother has been able to explain to the rest of the relatives that I am helping people care for their loved ones and can’t leave such important work to return home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Maybe next year. But there is no holiday to rival Easter for us Greeks. No one misses Easter. Ever.

I have made it home to Chicago just in time to pile into my Uncle George’s black Ford with my mother and my yia yia. We are heading to the late Saturday service that will usher us into Easter Sunday. My uncle is twitching his black mustache and cutting off every car that pauses for a brief second.

“Your yia yia would have pushed through this traffic by driving on the sidewalk if she had to, Elena,” says Uncle George. “Boy did she have spunk!” he says, speaking louder so he can be heard over the people honking at him.

We are inching along in traffic just a block away from the church. Chicago cops are flagging in all the Greeks who have come late – basically everyone coming to the service - into the parking lot and trying to keep order. My mother and uncle continue to tell stories about my yia yia.

“Remember the time she yelled at your Sergeant when you got sick in the Reserves?” my mother asks Uncle George.

“I never thought I would see that Sergeant afraid of anything. That was our mom,” says my uncle.

“No one can mess with you. Can they, Yia Yia?” I ask. She is sitting next to me with her red babushka tied in a bow under her chin. She smiles at me as if she has just realized I am there and then turns back to her passenger window.

“Tell us the story you told us all last Easter, Yia yia. The one where you pour red Kool-Aid on the blonde bully in Uncle George’s elementary school class.” I tap her, but she doesn’t turn. My mother and uncle continue to discuss the slow movement into the parking lot and whether or not we’ll get a seat or have to stand.

For as long as I can remember, the four of us always have found seats together at the Easter service. After my parents divorced when I was five and my Papou (Grandpa in Greek) died when I was seven, my mother, Yia Yia, Uncle George, who never married, and I created our unique version of a family. Both of my parents are lawyers. I never really saw them - before or after the divorce - except for a couple of my dance recitals and a parent-teacher conference. My yia yia took me to my Brownie meetings and helped me make my dioramas. Since we already lived in the city, I commuted for my undergrad and graduate studies. All through college, my yia yia still wanted to help “her baby” with her homework. My move to New York became my chance to be independent and to really get out there and help people.

A Jeep honks at Uncle George, and my attention jerks back into our car. My yia yia is reading the signs that she sees from her window. “Jimmy’s Beef. Soap Opera Laundromat. Mykonos.” She turns to me and smiles when one of the signs she is reading is a Greek place, and then she continues.

“Holy Apostles Greek Orthodox Church,” she says slowly as we enter the parking lot.

We make it into the church and are able to find four seats at the end of a pew towards the middle. We have a clear view of the large dome that rises above us. It is adorned with an iconic mural that depicts the twelve Apostles, each with oversized heads and unmoving eyes. Everyone, except for the young children and my yia yia, seems to feel them warning us all to be quiet and attentive. The dome causes every sound to echo. Just as the priest raises the golden-bound Gospel and chants, “Let us be silent and listen to the Word of the Lord,” my yia yia uses her deaf-whisper to ask, “You think they’ll have cherry coffee cake after this?”

“The Gospel is from St. Mark…”

“If not cherry, maybe blueberry,” she says loudly to herself.

“Let us be attentive,” says the priest.

“As long as there’s lamb. I’m so hungry.”

“Mom, the priest is talking,” says my mother. I can tell she has said this many times.

When Midnight hits, all the lights are turned on in the church and we all sing the “Christos Anesti” chant, declaring that Christ has Risen. The Priest lights his candle from the lamp behind the alter that is always lit and spreads the flame throughout the congregation. We each hold a tall white candle and move it up, down, to the left, and then to right, making the sign of the cross. Parents around us begin paying very close attention to their children who are directed to hold their candles with both hands and not to move. My mother only pretends to light my yia yia’s. She flings her unlit candle forward - causing the woman in front of her to jerk away and pull her hair closer to her body – and smiles at me.

After the singing, we go through the regular Sunday service. Families begin to drift away because their children are becoming antsy, and the Crying Room fills up to capacity. When communion time approaches, all the women in the church begin to remove their lipstick, and my mother reaches across with a Kleenex to wipe the pink from my yia yia’s lips. After all of the crying babies with their mothers and the regular parishioners have received communion, I follow slowly behind my mother who is helping my yia yia find her way from our pew to the alter and take her turn. When we have all had communion, the service comes to an end. I realize that my yia yia is still staring at the empty alter. My mother exits the pew, takes her arm, and catches my eye. I slow my pace, yet refuse to treat Yia Yia as if she can’t find her way to the door in front of us.

After getting our fill of early morning lamb, we leave the church to bring Yia Yia home and get back to our own home two blocks away. We will need our rest for the family gathering later that afternoon. My mother and I walk her into her one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of a three level complex. I follow her to her bedroom, help her remove her coat, and place it on the empty single bed next to her own. My mother is looking through the kitchen, opening and closing the refrigerator and freezer. My yia yia removes her coat from the unused bed and hangs it over a chair in the corner.

“Nick doesn’t like anything on his bed before he sleeps,” she says. My papou has been dead for twenty years. Before I can think of what to say, my mother returns to the bedroom with a note she has written.

NO more mustard!!!

“I’m putting this note on your refrigerator. Make sure you read it before you tell anyone to buy you more groceries,” my mother says to her mother.

Before I leave the apartment, I take a look in the fridge. Sure enough, I count seventeen bottles of unopened mustard.

When we get back into the car with Uncle George, there is a brief silence after my mother and I shut our doors. Uncle George puts on the oldies station and tries to get us to sing along to “I Will Survive.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the mustard?” I ask.

“You weren’t here,” my mother answers.

“She’s not a child, you know. She just needs help,” I say.

“You’re not here.”

“You should know something about that,” I say.

Uncle George continues to quietly imitate Gloria Gaynor.

Later that morning, the phone rings at 4:34 A.M. I jump out of bed and dash to my mother’s bedroom, expecting an emergency. Without looking at the caller ID, she simply lifts her arm over and lowers the volume on the answering machine next to her bed. I begin to head back to bed and the phone rings again. I stop for some water, and the phone rings again. I go back to my mother’s room and look at the missed calls on the flashing red machine.

Flash. 4:34 A.M: Martha Stanacopolous.

Flash. 4:36 A.M: Martha Stanacopolous.

Flash. 4:39 A.M: Martha Stanacopolous.

Flash, Flash, Flash…

I look at my mother, with her body slumped and her pillow over her head. It would be just like her to ignore us.

We arrive at Uncle George’s for our Easter gathering at 2:00 P.M. To my family, this day is a chance to get together, kiss every person on each cheek – even the unsuspecting friends from work – and eat. Eat, a lot. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that you just can’t not eat lamb and still call yourself a Greek. My Uncle George brings a tooth brush every year to pretend to brush the lambs’ chops and terrorize the little cousins. Some things never change.

After making it through the kissing Aunts, I take a seat with the others under our lamb roasting tent. While everyone is talking at full volume to the person sitting next to them, I am watching my yia yia watch the lambs slowly turn around the spit. Her eyes are fixated and her cheerful expressions are fading in and out of her face as if they are riding a merry-go-round.

“Elena. Eleeeeeeeeennnnnaaaaaaaa!” My cousin Nikki catches my attention. “How is New York City? Your mother tells us you are really helping those old people.”

I look back to my yia yia who is now watching the little cousins laugh while Uncle George is doing his tooth brush act with the lamb. Her smile remains constant even when the kids run off to play another game. I wonder if she really knows what is going on and then I wonder if it matters. She is smiling.

My cousin is still waiting for me to answer her about my New York heroics, but Uncle George calls everyone to gather in his garage for his annual speech and our candle ceremony. While we head to the garage, one of the little cousins delivers a tall white candle from a big picnic basket to each of us. We enter the garage and circle around a small table that is draped by a red tablecloth flowing off the sides. A large white candle rests at the center. Uncle George stands beside the table and takes out his wrinkled notebook paper where he has written the speech he says every year. He clears his throat.

“Today is a day when we consider sacrifice. When we light these candles, we say Christos anesti, Christ has risen, and then alithos anesti, truly He has risen. Christ is a part of our family. He took us out of darkness and forgave us for all of our sins,” says Uncle George as he lights the candle on the table beside him. “He gave up his life, so that we can all live better lives together. Now we -”

“We’re going to do the song now, Elena,” my yia yia calls out loudly. I nod to her and apologize to Uncle George for the interruption.
“Yes, we are, Mom,” he says with a smile. He then gestures for my mother to come forward first and light her candle from the candle in the center. She then turns to our cousin Nikki and lights her candle, who lights the next, and the next. Everyone avoids lighting my yia yia’s candle.

When my mother has turned her back, I turn to my yia yia and say “Christos anesti,” and light her candle for her. She smiles, brings the light close to her chin, and stares straight ahead at the center candle. I watch her watching the light and say “alithos anesti” for her. We all begin to sing, first in Greek, then in English.

We chant, quietly at first, and then louder and louder, “Christos anesti, ek nekron thanato, thanaton.” On the back three walls of the garage, shadows from the lit candles are bounces up, down, to the left, and to the right. I can see the three figures of my yia yia, myself, and my mother in the middle, crossing in unison. We continue, “Patissas ke tis en dis minimassi,” chanting louder and louder. I notice goose bumps spreading up my arms, even though I feel hot from the flames. The song comes to a climax, “Zoin charisamenos,” and startles us all by ending.

Uncle George starts us off with the English, "Christ is risen from the dead, having beaten Death by His death.” It is too loud to hear anything but the chanting, yet I feel first one and then a second candle roll towards my feet. My mother has dropped her own candle and flung the lit candle away from the bow of Yia Yia’s babushka. The kerchief is now beginning to frame Yia Yia’s face with an orange glow. Everyone on the opposite side of the garage remains unaware, watching the shadows on the walls, and looking to the ceiling to send up a prayer. They continue to sing, “And having given,” louder, “The gift of life,” louder and louder, “To those in the graves." Together, my mother and I yank the flaming babushka from the blank face of my mother’s mother. I look at my mother and see the face of a frightened child.

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