Angels, not Ghosts, Reside in Bath

     Often, when I meet someone for the first time, and I tell them that I live in an antique colonial on Washington Street, they ask me if I’ve seen or felt the presence of ghosts. To which I reply, “No, I must not be spirit sensitive, but others are.” That practiced response has been known to produce a shiver, or two. But if I were to drop my guard and reveal my whole soul, a lot of doubters would become believers, and the ground beneath our feet would shake! Get ready!

     Typically, on the Fourth of July, I run a road race. I don’t run to burn calories; rather, I run to produce endorphins that help me feel less stressed. Simply stated, running makes me feel better, and on the Fourth of July I need a little extra help to feel okay. When I was in my twenties, my mother was rushed to the hospital on the Fourth of July, and she died five days later. For my family that was the saddest holiday. Since then, I have tried to keep busy on the Fourth, and I try to start the day with a long run. That be-happy plan became a way to survive this summer. In mid March, my cousin Robert told me that he had been diagnosed with lymphoma. On June 18, I was at his bedside at NYU Medical Center because it was his fifty-fourth birthday, and because we were as close as cousins could be. On a crowded oncology floor, I told him how I  loved him before he was even born, and how our lives would be forever entwined. And once again, I repeated the story of our beginning: On June 17, 1964, I was racing my bike down the street, chasing a fire engine, when I skidded on gravel and went over the handle bars. My aunt Mona, my mom’s youngest sister, lived one house down from us, and she was due to have her first baby in July, but she saw me go over the handlebars, and she started to run down the hill to rescue me. I was only seven-years-old, but I knew that a pregnant woman should not run down a hill, so I stood up and shouted, “Stop!” My aunt went into labor that evening; I prayed silently in my bed all night; my cousin was born the next morning. My brother, Michael, and I went to the hospital to see our baby cousin. We stood outside, and from the sidewalk below we spied Robert – a bundle wrapped in blue with a shock of brown hair. At that moment, I learned that love was unstoppable.

   

This July, as I prepared for Bath Heritage Days’ Five Mile Road Race, I waited for some good news from Robert’s team at NYU, but there was no good news. In fact, on July 3 there was no news at all. I woke up on race day with one purpose. I would run the race for Robert. It was hot and humid, and I was not as focused as I should be, but I started. I hydrated at mile two; I made the turn at the end of Washington; I climbed a hill and felt the stress; I saw there were only bottles of water, not cups, at the last hydrating station, so I foolishly passed it by; I climbed another hill; I started the descent, and then, severely dehydrated, I tucked and rolled at mile four. I was on my hands and knees, when Adam, the runner behind me, arrived at my side. He said, “That was the most graceful tuck and roll I have ever seen.” He didn’t tell me until later that my eyes were moving back and forth in an alarming way. (Apparently, that eye movement is a sign that the body is trying to regain its equilibrium.) Another man quickly appeared, and after a failed attempt to stand up, he offered me his Gatorade. A third man on the scene took out a cell phone and called in the emergency. He handed me the phone, and a voice on the other end offered me an ambulance, but I refused. I handed the phone back and told all my road angels that I had to finish the race. They heard my resolve because the phone disappeared. I told them all to go, but Adam refused to leave. He said he was worried about me and would like to walk with me. His wife came up behind us, and he told her to keep running. Despite my protest, Adam stayed with me. And we talked as we walked. I told him all about my cousin Robert, an amazing athlete and Manhattan advertising executive who once beat Jim Palmer (baseball pitcher and Jockey model) in golf and won a promotion because of it! And Adam told me that he and his wife were going to close on a house in Bath on July 27, which happens to be my birthday.

As we walked by my Federal-style colonial, I told him we would be neighbors, and that made him smile. In no time at all, we were at the corner of Washington and Centre, and I told him I wanted to run up the hill. He took my hand and said, “Let’s do it!” On the way up, I spotted my husband, Joe, and he took our picture. I passed a friend, and I shouted, “This is my angel! He rescued me!”I paused at the top, so Adam could pass through the chute first, and then the volunteer tore off the slip at the bottom of my number, looked at it quickly, and said, “Congratulations! You’ve won first place in your age group.” I looked at her in disbelief, and whispered, “That cannot be true.” She laughed and pointed to the trophy stand.

     

     I won a trophy on the Fourth of July, the only first-place trophy I have ever won. My left cheek was a little bruised, my arm and wrist were very bruised, and my left hip was even more bruised, but an x-ray the next day confirmed that nothing was broken. I don’t believe in coincidences. My cousin Robert woke up at NYU Medical Center the night of July Fourth and asked his wife why he was still there. He thought he had died, but God didn’t take him on July 4. In 1964, when I went over the handle bars of my bike, my Aunt Mona came to my rescue. That afternoon, 54 years ago, I received four stitches in my left cheek. Today, you can barely see the scar, but the effect of that event is still apparent. I believe in miracles, and I believe in angels, and I always will. My cousin Robert called me on Saturday, July 7. I was walking down Front Street on my way to the Farmer’s Market, and I stopped by the RiverWalk Condominiums. I knew what the call meant, so I walked closer to the water’s edge. I sat on the base of a lamp post and listened to my cousin’s steady voice. He told me his team’s lead doctor spoke to him that morning, and told him they could not get this strain. He assured Robert that he had done everything he could, but now it was time to go home. Because of his infection, they would send him to Riverview Medical Center in Red Bank, New Jersey, for hospice care. I listened. And then, borrowing from Paul’s letter to Timothy, I said, “Robert, you ran the race, you fought the fight, you kept the faith.” And I told him about the road angels on the Fourth of July. He actually laughed and said, “You use words better than anyone else in the world.” And then I laughed because I realized my cousin was trying to make me feel better.  I remembered how Aunt Mona had run down that hill in 1964 to rescue me, and how Robert was born the next day – a miracle from the start. My aunt and uncle had tried for 15 years to have a child, and without the aid of any fertility drug or medical intervention, they were blessed with a son, their one and only! And I told him our stories would forever be entwined. I also told him that Joe and I would head down to Red Bank, and we would share some of our best stories. I said, “I’m hugging you right now, Robert!” And with the voice of an angel, Robert answered, “I feel as if you’re in the room with me.”

     Joe and I had one more visit with Robert. It was priceless. We talked and reminisced, and I had the chance to meet his train buddy who had commuted with him for twenty years, and his neighbors, and some of the volunteers who coached with him at Holy Cross grammar school. A constant, loving stream of people passed through his hospice room. I had a chance to hug a lot of them, including some of the gang from the old neighborhood, from The Wonder Years. We returned to Bath on July 11, and my cousin passed away two days later.
   

     Before setting out for Robert's funeral, I went to The Mustard Seed Bookstore in downtown Bath because it is one of the most peaceful places on Earth, and I saw Susan Shipsey. I remembered she was standing in front of the shop at the end of the Road Race when they announced my name as a winner in the 61 to 69 age group – the only woman running in that age group on that HOT day! I felt compelled to tell her why I had run, and how Adam had helped me finish. I wanted to tell her the whole story – from beginning to end. Thank heaven the store was quiet, and Susan was willing and able to listen. When I told her my cousin’s funeral would be on July 17, and we would be flying from Portland to Newark because Joe and I felt too emotional to drive, she dabbed her eyes. I told her how some people see ghosts, but I see angels. And I believe angels, not ghosts, reside in Bath.

     When we returned home from my cousin’s funeral, I found a note waiting on top of a mound of mail on the rug by our front door. It was written in beautiful script, and it was signed with love from Susan Shipsey and the staff of The Mustard Seed. In my soul I know, Bath is a City of Angels, as well as a City of Ships. My cousin’s wife and daughter will be visiting soon. Love is unstoppable.