Category Archives: Family & Relationships

The Patron Saint of Whatever

I recently found an Infant of Prague medal that belonged to my grandmother in a small red box tucked away in my jewelry armoire. Before putting it back, I placed it on a gold chain and wrote a note on a tiny scrap of paper, in case anyone should find it, that it was hers, and as such, sacred to me, and to never discard it.

The Infant of Prague medal reminded me of all the patron saints that I prayed to over the years with my grandmother.

In Catholicism, there are over 10,000 patron saints (special protectors and guardians) for all aspects of love, life, health, death, and suffering, and many of them were an integral part of my early upbringing.

I was named after St. Therese, “The Little Flower,” aka St. Therese of Lisieux, known for her simplicity, purity, and courage. While we never really prayed to her, she obviously played a large part in my Catholic persona.

My grandmother had her patron-saint-praying down to a science.

If I wasn’t doing well in school, she prayed to Thomas Aquinas.

If her Caribou, Maine, family had troubles, she beseeched Our Lady of Assumption, who was apparently all in for the French Acadians.

The Holy Mary, Mother of God—the blessed Virgin Mary—was the big kahuna of all her favorite saints, duh. There wasn’t a day that went by that we didn’t pray to her for one thing or another.

If someone was getting engaged or married? It was the perfect time to give thanks to St. Valentine.

If there was a medical emergency, a family fight, or a recent death? She would muster up a prayer to Michael the Archangel. And she prayed to him when we had money trouble as well (which was a lot of the time).

When my dog Raleigh was sick, we prayed to St. Francis of Assisi.

Any time someone was baptized (including me at age five), she gave special thanks to St. John the Baptist. She also “prayed on him” anytime someone took to the water.

And then there was John, the Apostle, not the Baptist. He was her go-to for friendship, loyalty, and if you had burned yourself. Don’t ask me the why about the burn thing, I just know she prayed to him for burns when burns became an unfortunate part of our lives.

When one of her sisters was committed to an insane asylum, we were all relieved because she was an evil nut job. But my grandmother prayed to St. Dymphna, who was the patron saint of mental illness, to keep her sister safe, even though she got what was coming to her. And my grandmother would pray to St. Dymphna when she got “all nerved up.” I only found out years later that Dymphna was also the patron saint of victims of incest. I sometimes wonder if my grandmother knew that.

Speaking of victims, I chose St. Maria Goretti as my patron saint for my Holy Communion. My mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother tried desperately to talk me out of choosing her because she was known as the patron saint for victims of rape. They were mortified at my choice. But, as the patron saint of young women and girls, who had a younger sister named Teresa, I wasn’t changing my mind about Maria Goretti, despite several nuns and Father McHale also trying to talk me out of it. Even at seven, I was extremely headstrong, although I have to admit that the paper I had to write and read aloud to my classmates at St. Ambrose about why I chose St. Maria Goretti was challenging and made the kids squirm.

I think my grandmother’s favorite saint was St. Christopher, because she prayed to him a lot, and for myriad reasons. He was her go-to saint for traveling on short trips, like driving around Bridgeport in a car or on a bus. He was also her saint of record for longer trips, like driving nine hours to Maine, and the one time I traveled with her on a plane to California so she could help out with another nut job sister. Christopher was also the saint she prayed to for all things child-related (good and bad). I’m reasonably sure that St. Christopher had his fill of me from her.

If she knew someone who was a desperado or seemed to be a lost cause, my grandmother would ask St. Jude to help them. Jude was also known for instilling hope in those facing impossible situations, which happened to us quite a bit, so I imagine she called on him way more than some of the others.

And for whatever reason, St. Augustine was the patron saint of Bridgeport, Connecticut. When I looked him up for this blog post to find out why, it said Augustine lived much of his life in impure wickedness and had many dangerous and bad habits, which pretty much summed up a lot of people who lived in Bridgeport at the time.

When my grandmother got “the cancer in her lungs,” we prayed to Raphael the Archangel, who was the patron saint of bodily ills. We prayed to him a lot, but he didn’t save her.

The Infant Jesus of Prague was the patron saint of freedom, who also watched over families and protected their health and their family lives. And if you came into money, the Infant was the one you thanked. People also turned to the Infant seeking healing and relief from suffering. I assume that the Infant was a favorite of my grandmother’s, because of the medal I found. I do recall that once the cancer spread to the rest of my grandmother’s already weakened body, I wrote out the prayer to the Infant of Prague on a piece of paper, which we used to recite every time we were together, in the hopes that the Infant would heal her, but to no avail.

My grandmother died anyway, in excruciating pain, and very young, and was taken from me way too soon. I often think about how different my life might have been, had she lived—even for a few more years.

Without her saintly influence and steadfast faith, I never prayed to a patron saint again, although I suppose one should never say never, for who knows what the future may hold?

The Itsy-Bitsy Spider Fiasco

The Itsy-Bitsy Spider was my daughter’s favorite nursery rhyme.

She sang it non-stop.

Wherever we went, she would belt that song out like a professional, and she had a cute little voice.

But I was mortified.

Why?

Because instead of Itsy-Bitsy Spider, she would melodiously chant Itchy-Bitchy Spider.

Repeatedly. And over-the-top loud.

As you can imagine, her nursery rhyme cussing did not reflect well on either one of us.

And did I mention that I was non-stop humiliated and hugely embarrassed?

Who wouldn’t be? It wasn’t a good look. At all.

But she didn’t care.

No matter how often I tried to correct her or how many times I tried to shush her or explain to her that she was using a “dirty word,” my beautiful but spunky little girl continued to call that spider an itchy bitch.

As I wandered through grocery store aisles, stood in line at the bank, or dropped her off at nursery school, she would croon about that bitch of a spider who never seemed to make it to the water spout.

♪♪ ♪ ITCHY ♪♪♪ BITCHY ♪♪♪ SPIDER ♪♪♪

Some people laughed, others stared blankly, but most just gave me dirty looks.

What could I do? Gag her?

A gazillion years later, she’s still precocious, with an itsy-bitsy potty mouth.

Hide and Seek

On Father’s Day, one of my granddaughters asked me to play hide and seek with her and eight other cousins and grandkids.

I found some great hiding places. And so did they!

While hiding in what was later voted the best hiding spot ever, I had time to think.

Too much time.

That’s how triggers work.

They pop up out of nowhere.

My hiding spot made me think about where I would hide my little loved ones if Hamas terrorists were seeking to find and butcher us.

As I sat quietly, my anxiety shot through the roof.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” the kids screamed out mischievously.

The game took on a whole other meaning, and I was terrified.

For them. Not me.

I’ll Never Forget the Way We Were

It’s been a tough week.

First off, the holidays over the past twenty-plus years have created a lot of angst for me. I’ve lost a lot of people, and as the years grow on, I keep losing more and more.

And then, to make holiday matters more dire, there was the loss last week of a dear friend who fought a dignified and courageous fight against cancer to the bitter end — mostly on his own.

Much like my grandmother, Mammy, who silently and stoically fought what she called “The Cancer.”

The one constant when times get tough is the memory of my grandmother. And even though times were tough back then as well, we always had each other until “the cancer” took her away from me way too soon.

So, around this time of year, I often find myself reaching out to her, asking her for advice, courage, a sign — anything.

Can you hear me, Mammy?

And yesterday, even though I was suffering, for whatever reason, I didn’t reach out to her.

But apparently, she wasn’t having that because as soon as I got into the car and turned on the radio, there it was:

Liberace was on some random radio station playing “The Way We Were.”

Yeah, Liberace.

My grandmother adored everything about Liberace.

Me? Not so much.

But back in the late 50s and early 60s, we watched his television shows together all the time.

And Liberace began and ended each show by singing “I’ll Be Seeing You,” which became his theme song.

Liberace’s song choice was the perfect ending and beginning to every one of his shows, capturing the hearts of so many, including Mammy, reminding his viewers of love, hope, and, ultimately, the pain of separation.

I was never a fan of Liberace. But I endured hours and hours of his flamboyance because it gave Mammy such joy, which she usually didn’t have much of.

And his “Specials” were the Liberace highlight of her year. Urgh. It seemed like every month Liberace had another special — Valentine’s, Easter, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Las Vegas, Hawaii, London…

You name any Liberace show; I probably watched it with Mammy.

Perhaps you could say that tuning into Liberace on the radio yesterday was a mere coincidence.

But I don’t think so.

I turned up the radio super loud and belted out the words as Liberace played the piano:

♪ ♪ ♪ MemoriesLight the corners of my mindMisty watercolor memories
Of the way we were ♪ ♪ ♪

♪ ♪ ♪ So it’s the laughterWe will rememberWhenever we rememberThe way we were ♪ ♪ ♪

Thank you, Mammy. And rest assured, I’ll be seeing you.