Finding the Power

March 31, 1999

By Ronnie Polaneczky

My sister Franny bursts into the hospital cafeteria, in her efficient-nurse mode, and gives us the news. "Mom's got a 70 percent blockage, so they're going to open it up. But she'll be fine, Dad, so don't worry, OK?"

OK, we say, relieved that, because Franny works here, she's taking charge.

She hustles out to talk to the doctor - I swear there's a trail of smoke under her shoes - and my father, sister Peg and I settle in to wait for the thumbs-up that the angioplasty has gone just fine.

My mother has been sick so infrequently in her 73 years that we're pretty much in shock that a blocked artery caused the chest pain that brought her here the day before.

"Son of a gun," my father says. Then he takes off his glasses, puts his face in his hands and begins to shake violently. Forty-five years of marriage to the mother of your nine kids and 16 grandchildren will do that to you.

Peggy quickly puts her arm around him; I do the same. We coo every platitude we can think of, that Mom is in good hands, that it was a good thing she took that aspirin when the pain started, that she'll be home in no time.

Then Peg says something that unwittingly prompts a rite of passage.

"Dad, do you want us to pray with you?" She says this to him, but she's looking at me. I'm glad his head is down, because my jaw drops, as in "Who, us?"

"I'd appreciate that, kids," he says.

In my family, it's my folks, not their children, who are the pray-ers. Oh, my siblings and I have fairly strong spiritual opinions, and we attend different sorts of religious establishments with varying degrees of commitment. But I think I speak for all of them by saying we lack my parents' core, unshakable belief, which is so legendary that some of our friends routinely call my folks when faced with a special worry, asking them to "put in a word with the Big Guy." We believe their prayers have a potency that ours can't match.

Then again, none of us ever faced the daunting prospect of having to shepherd nine children safely into adulthood. That's bound to make a believer out of you.

"How in the world did you guys do it?" I ask my parents when I'm overwhelmed with my toddler's demands.

"Prayers," they answer. "Lots of prayers."

So now it's our turn. We jump in, Peg-the-Almost-Agnostic and Ronnie-the-Lapsed-but-Still-Hopeful-Catholic, not really knowing what to say but hoping the effort of saying it will soothe our fright.

We ask God to give the doctor a steady hand, that Mom not be scared, that Dad will feel calm. We thank Him for letting the doctors find the blockage before it did Mom in, and we ask for patience while we wait for the procedure to get done. Our big finish is a thank-you for Franny, whose authority makes us feel less small in such a big, scary place.

Dad lifts his head, takes a heaving breath and the color returns to his cheeks. Peg and I look at each other, pleasantly stunned, newly minted authors of prayers that, like upward rain, have ascended inexplicably to the heavens and - there can be no doubt from the relief on my father's face - have been heard.

Did we do that? I silently mouth to Peggy.

I think so, she mouths back.

My father recovers from his shakiness, finds the crossword puzzle in USA Today and serenely fills in the boxes, like he's used to miracles happening so this one was no big deal.

But I spend the rest of the day in fuzzy suspension as Mom, whose angioplasty goes just fine, is wheeled to her room and gets settled in for the night. And I make a decision.

I decide that, while I will continue to rely on my parents' prayers, I will start regarding them as a backup to, not a replacement for, my own faltering ones. After all, my folks became believers over time, not overnight.

Maybe all I need is practice.

©1999 Philadelphia Newspapers Inc.

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