TRANSITIONS
It was the end of summer and the sun was gloriously fading as I landed at the Athens airport in Greece. I had just finished reading ‘Homer’s epic poem, ‘The Odyssey’ on the plane and by the end of that visual saga, I felt I had actually lived through a magical experience of going back to our source. Now I was returning to my ancient home like a Homeric spirit who had come back to the womb after a long absence in a distant land. I had been invited by some Greek producers interested in developing a series based on a lawyer’s true experiences exposing corrupted officials in Europe. I loved the idea of playing a spy and in the language of my ancestors, and for my parents, a dream come true.
Usually I make sure I’m cleaned up before disembarking, because you never know what relative lurks at Greek airports or the occasional photographer looking for a new triumph. On many occasions I had bumped into cousins and the last thing you want them to see is ‘you’ unprepared. Never give them a reason for criticism, a reason expressing that the ‘Statue was chipping’ when they got back home. My life in show business was never letting the public see you, unless it looks like you just jumped out of a television set, or a movie studio. Well not all the time, that wouldn’t be normal. But that was my training and I thought it best that I change in the bathroom before exiting the terminal, as I was going straight to a meeting arranged by my journalist friend, Alkinos Bounias.
As I exited the plane and stepped down outside of the terminal, a dozen Greek reporters ran at me with Alkinos in tow. Their cameras flashing, microphones stretched out, blurting out passionate questions about Greek affairs like, “What do you have to say about Greece and Macedonia?” All I could think was the last time I looked in the mirror my hair was standing up like ‘Alfalfa,’ and I was still wearing the clothes I slept in and certainly not ready for a close-up. I was caught. Pulling myself together like the part required, I luckily happened to have in my carry-on bag, a book about ‘Vergina,’ a place in ancient Macedonia where Alexander the Great and his father Philip the second had lived. By coincidence I had picked up a copy in the United States as I had become fascinated with Alexander’s beginnings and the places he chose to conquer. ‘How appropriate’ I thought, ‘how bloody lucky.’ Like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, I flashed the book in front of their cameras and calmly replied, “Macedonia is Greek, read History.” The cameras flashed and the journalists went crazy. Forgetting I was wearing overalls I spontaneously played along with the ritual, answering their questions with abandonment. It made the front page and the evening news, and so did my hair. They were impressed that a foreign Greek new more about their history than they did, and an actor no less. I love smashing myths about actors being dumb. God was watching.
with Alkinos Bounias at Meteora, Greece
The next evening a dinner had been set up with a commercial producer and his wife. Alkinos and I arrived early and had a chance to catch up and strategize. He was a respected journalist and had his own afternoon talk show that enhanced his wacky humor, such as when his guests would enter through a refrigerator door and he would interview them from his bed. It was an original setting, where he could be lethal, at times hysterical, and a temperament that could explode through the roof. But we got along well, except when he was chain-smoking cigarettes, the tone would get sharper, and at times illogical. And he was dark featured which made it all the more dramatic. But behind all this façade, Alkinos had a heart of gold; you just had to find a way through.The Mission Impossible series I had starred in the early nineties was such a great success, that Mega channel in Greece had repeated the episodes for years. Because of that, this dinner was set up to discuss my playing a James Bond character in a commercial for Drambouie liquor. We finally all sat together and had a wonderful and expensive dinner. The atmosphere was relaxing and it gave me a chance to discuss the subject in Greek. Everyone seemed delighted. Now all the details of the commercial were put on the table. The action exciting and the product presented in style, we all thought how wonderful the concept was. Then the money budget came up, and what was left for me, as a one- time by out was embarrassing. Alkinos froze, but now the producer and his wife had put on a mask, money does that. I sat there dumbfounded. There was no argument, just a take it or leave it deal. Now I was about to witness business Greek style. Alkinos excused himself for the rest room and went straight to the Maitre d’ that he knew well, and quietly asked him for a favor. After he came back to our table, within ten minutes the waiter arrived and handed the producer the bill. Reluctantly he took the check and Alkinos in a manner fit for a King elegantly said, “Thank you so much, me next time.” The producer was not happy, firstly dismissing his offer and now he was left with a hefty bill. We made small talk as there was no deal happening not even a toast to Drambouie, and so we departed with my friend’s actions giving us the upper hand. Even though it was a disappointment, Alkinos finished it off in Greek style, “Next” he said, “tomorrow we see producer Leana Patera for a film and then Saturday evening the head of Mega channel wants to take you to dinner to discuss a series called ‘The Red Stamp.” We were moving forward.
The next day we visited Patera in her office that lay below the ancient Acropolis. She was a respected producer that survived in a male dominant society. Leana was an attractive fair headed woman in her mid forties, and very professional. The story she was producing was being written presently, taking place during the Second World War in Turkey where the protagonist was being held prisoner. She wanted her sister who was an actress, to play my love interest. Also by meeting me, she could have the writer incorporate her observations of my personality into the character. Animatedly, she told us the war story with passion, besides “Greeks love tragedy” Patera explained, “ And why not, we invented it.” We shared ideas about how it would end and then the question of salary came up. Again we were shocked. “That is insulting” Alkinos responded. He explained my popularity in Greece and the fact that “Thaao is International.” He played it well and I laughed out of embarrassment as in the US, deals are made without the actor present. She explained her predicament with the budget but Alkinos passed.
Corinthian Canal
Besides he told her, “We have great interest from Mega channel. On Saturday they have invited us out to dinner.” This piqued her interest but Alkinos was reluctant to go into details. Another meeting fell through because the offers made, were cheap. We were not about to start at the bottom. I thanked her and wished her well on the film, but her expression revealed suppressed anger, but I smiled and we parted. “Next meeting” I told Alkinos, “Issues on salary are not to be discussed in front of me, it makes me uncomfortable, and it’s unprofessional.” He agreed.
Lion's Gate, Mycenae
It was early Friday morning and I wanted to change the atmosphere by visiting what I loved most; an ancient historic place that spoke back to me. As I had adventured into Troy and read many books on the subject, I wanted to see the city of Mycenae, where the archaeologist ‘Heinrich Schliemann’ discovered the Royal Shaft Tombs of Greek Kings and warriors of the Trojan War. It all began there, and took the Greeks ten years and many lives to destroy their Trojan enemy. He first discovered Troy in the 1870’s because of his unshakeable belief in the words of Homer, whose poems were a map to finding Troy. He did it in the same way when he uncovered the Citadel of Mycenae and Tyrins, completing the circle of all those involved in the Great War, and by doing so opened up a New World of Archaeology. The world was paying attention. What a treasure he found, including golden death masks, weaponry and even the preserved remains of kings that disintegrated before his eyes. It’s a great history and I was grateful and contented that I had read Homer’s books on the ‘Iliad’ and the ‘Odyssey’ before coming here. It only took a year. Now I was prepared to witness it for myself just as I did Troy.
Early the next morning I hired a driver to pick me up and take me to the Northeast part of the Peloponnese in Argolis, two hours outside of Athens. It was a beautiful ride through pine forests on rocky landscapes passing through the amazing Corinthian canal, which separates mainland Greece with the Peloponnese and is called the ‘Isthmus.’ It was an idea and dream that started back over 2000 years ago and completed in the 19th century. This narrow canal was created so that ships saved several days of sailing around the Peloponnesian landscape. It was a marvel of construction. Now we continued on to Mycenae and into the world of Homer’s myths.
Mycenae was the center of power in the Late Bronze Age (1600-1100 BC). I could see this as I walked along the path of ruins, with the Lion’s Gate standing in front of me as it had for thousands of years. Two Lions sculptured into ancient stone, stood on top of its entrance. The monolithic stoned walls dominated the setting. What phenomenal memories of history must have been absorbed in those walls? Its culture was the source of epics and legends, the labors of Hercules, the Trojan War, and Agamemnon’s tragic life and death; their stories legendary. And now it all appeared calm. As I entered through the gate I could see the excavated ruins that Schliemann and his Greek wife ‘Sophia” had discovered on top of the rocky hill protected by these Cyclopean walls.
Gold Mask of Agamemnon, Mycenae
I explored the hill and landed in one of the Bronze Age burial sights. I lay down where Agamemnon may have been buried in a great ritual, filled with treasures fit for the great warrior and King. When Schliemann discovered this as the Tomb of Agamemnon with his golden mask and weapons of great artistry, he proclaimed this as the Greek King himself, who led Greece with a thousand ships to Troy. But after Schliemann’s death it was discovered it belonged to another age, five hundred years earlier. At one point the bodies uncovered kept disintegrating into dust. Learning from this Schliemann brought some lacquer and sprayed the last body with it. Miraculously it held together. The villagers when hearing about this carried the royal soldier through the town in respect of who he was in their long history. I thought it an interesting story, so when I had gone back to the archaeological museum in Athens I asked “What happened to the body?” the officials had no idea what I was talking about. I loved Schliemann’s story even though in his day they called him a dreamer, a man who improvised on history, a liar, a fraud and brilliant. Whatever he was, he did make a difference. Because the Greek officials denied him a wing in the museum acknowledging his finds, he swept out the Trojan treasure and donated it to Germany, his country of birth. During the Second World War the treasure disappeared. But fifty years later it turned up in the basement of the Pushkin Museum in Russia by two curators, ‘Akinsha and Koslov.’ They brought it to the world’s attention along with millions of other pieces of art, regarded as war booty. The Russians had no choice but to put it on display in 1994 with Greece, Turkey and Germany demanding its treasure back.
But the Russians have so far ignored their demands, and why not? The treasure’s worth is about two billion dollars today, whereas the Mycenaean haul has remained in Athens. Those haunting golden masks are so alive and so beautifully executed during the zenith of the Mycenaean Culture. I walked around in the hot sun and looked for some overlooked treasure waiting for me to find. I didn’t have to own it; the discovery was the prize. Searching among the ruins I found many pieces of pottery, felt them, talked to them and left them where they landed. What Schliemann must have felt uncovering all these jewels that had waited for him to discover. One can only dream.
Argos Plain, Mycenae
It was a great day going through the beehive shaped tombs and all the Citadels overlooking the Mycenaean landscape while taking a sandwich break, thinking how archaeologists had worked on their puzzles, putting all their pieces together. But to the average visitor the walls remained silent and what an eerie silence it was. It is left to one’s imagination what tragedies unfolded here, where in theheart of the palace, Agamemnon was murdered by his wife Clytemnestra and her lover after he returned victorious from the Trojan War. What’s left are just the grey ruins scarred for eons by the weather.
with Alkinos celebrating, Athens
It was time to go back to Athens and have an early night, rested for tomorrow night’s dinner with Mega channel. I always liked to fill my mind and spirit with great history, before work or taking meetings, for that always fed my passion to excel.
At 7.30 on Saturday evening Alkinos and I met with our group of professionals at a wonderful new restaurant in Athens. There were ten of us, with me sitting at the head of the table and Mega channels bigwig, ‘George Andreas,’ directly opposite. In his beautiful suit Andreas was an imposing man, bald, rich and in his mid sixties. On my left was an ordinary but highly intelligent man wearing heavy glasses, whose character I was to portray in ‘The Red Stamp,’ and was he fascinating, a lawyer challenging European Democracies with a strong pen, exposing their clandestine cover-ups, whilst he lived the life of a Spy. He loved Mission Impossible and he was thrilled I would portray him in the series, mostly because we spoke the same language. He thought of us as old friends. The rest were publicity people, their wives and a couple of producers. Alkinos sat next to the bigwig, so he could draw out as much information from him about the impending deal and when the series would be shot. But during dinner Mr. Andreas out of nowhere and in an imperious tone asked me “How much money are we looking at?” A little surprised after my previous meetings, I responded “I don’t discuss money over the dinner table.” “Well just give me a clue,” he said. “No” I retorted. The table was silent for the first time. We just stared at each other. Breaking the tension I said, “You remind me of my uncle.” “Did you love your uncle?” he asked. “No,” I said. Not everyone was laughing.
At that moment the producer ‘Patera’ crashed the dinner party. She came straight up to me with a beautifully wrapped gift and kissed me on both cheeks. “Hmm,” I thought, “Greeks bearing gifts. What was she up to?” She greeted everyone at the table and like Judas, kissed Mr. Andreas on both cheeks as well, and whispered something in his ear and left, like a ghost. Alkinos looked at me and then stared off after Patera suspiciously. George Andreas perturbed, stared at me for a moment and said “I thought you were making your debut in Greece with us? Patera just told me she got you first and got you cheap.” I was shocked and insulted, but I held back my anger. For the first time I finally understood the meaning of ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ Its origin took place during the Trojan War, when the famous wooden horse filled with Greek warriors, created by the crafty Ulysses, was presented to the enemy as a parting gift. By accepting and bringing it into its sacred grounds, Troy was destroyed by fire and Greece had its glory. Alkinos jumped in proclaiming it was a lie and then looked at me wondering, if I had made a secret deal with Patera behind his back. I looked at the big honcho right in the eye and said, “Alkinos is correct. But let me be truthful here, the past few days I have experienced how you do business here. I’m not impressed and I don’t come cheap. Doing this series will not change my career. I wanted to do something Greek for my parents. But I want to thank you and everyone for dinner but it’s time for me to go.” I shook hands and parted. They all objected in vain. Two hours later Alkinos was screaming on the phone, accusing me of betraying him, after all he had done. I never forgot that experience and that gift, which was a beautiful gold clock. It has remained in my closet to always remind me how distrustful people can be, with those kisses and that empty smile always on their face.
My father's parents and sisters
That night I didn’t sleep well considering, but I had a dream in the early morning that changed my life. I woke up in a sweat, feeling that something was wrong with my family, specifically my mother. In my dream she was climbing a stairway and her mother who had passed, was reaching out for her. I called Australia right away and found out that her cancer had come back and she was given only months to live. I sobbed for hours. I didn’t answer the phone, as it kept ringing; I was not interested in playing those games anymore. My trip home to Greece turned out to be hardly Homeric. Something more important was calling and I had to get back before my mother made her transition. I packed and left on the next plane to Sydney. Except for Alkinos, my path never crossed with those Greeks again, even though they kept calling, trying to seduce me with new ideas. The bad taste that was left lasted a long time, and it took many years for me to return.
with my parents at their house in Sydney
I arrived in Sydney where my brother picked me up and drove me straight to the hospital. She had lost so much weight and my father who was not known as an affectionate man, was beside himself. He belonged to that Victorian era where men remained reserved and emotions held tight. My sisters Connie and Pauline arrived and we stayed close to each other for strength. The whole family loved her dearly. Mother always had a sense of humor but thelife she had lived with my father was difficult, as Greek men didn’t always respond to their partner’s needs. Being her first born son, she brushed my father aside, and I always believed he resented me for that. That’s why through the years she always worried about me, being away from her in America; my father in his temperamental tantrums blamed me for her cancer because of my long absence. But now we were all together and she was in great need. I sat massaging her feet and hands and told her of my experiences in Greece and she had a chance to laugh, calling them all “A bunch of crooks.” I held her as long as I could until the doctor came in to check her condition. I think the new drugs were not responding and her lungs were filling up with fluid, and that was not a good sign. The relatives were sitting in the waiting room, all looking sad. In life they should have spent more time with her, but they never heard her call.
My brother and sister visiting me in Los Angeles
The next day I went to a furniture store and bought her a new bedroom suite. I told my siblings that when she got out of the hospital, she had something to look forward to. They all loved the idea. We gave the old furniture to goodwill and when the new furniture arrived my father became emotional. That was a rare experience; he had a heart after all. I went back to see my mother as I wanted some time alone with her in case she passed. The expression on my relative’s faces was ‘they could see the end coming.’ I wanted to lift up her spirits and have her feel that death was not a closed door, that she had things to look forward to, like seeing America and Greece again. She smiled always when she saw me, especially when I brought her papayas and healthy salads and soup. The chemotherapy was cutting down her appetite and her cancer was spreading. After I told her about her new bedroom suite, she glowed. I described it in detail knowing her spirits would stay elevated. I spoke of my latest journey to the Middle East and she always would have the same response, “Aren’t you ever afraid?” I would always laugh afterwards. She loved hearing about the spiritual places, because her ‘God beliefs’ are what she held onto. When I told her about lighting candles in her name, in Sacred Places where the Holy Family passed through, or in Jerusalem at the spot where the Christ was born, her eyes would light up and tear. Faith had its connection there, and through me, she found a link.
with my parents at Universal Studios
Later that afternoon, the doctor took me aside and kindly told me they had done all they could. “What did that mean?” I asked. “Well I think she would be more comfortable in a Hospice now” he replied. When he left I asked myself, “Isn’t that a place where people go to die?” Concerned and still in denial, I said goodbye to Mother as there were some relatives waiting to see her. As I was leaving my cell phone rang. It was my older sister Connie telling me that my father had a heart attack and he was in another hospital in the Eastern suburbs. I caught a cab and rushed to see him. My family was already there with expressions like “What is happening to us?” As I walked in to see him, his voice could be heard,telling the nurses who his son was. I slowly went in and fromhis bed he pointed with pride, “That’s my son.” How time heals. He was glowing at the nurses, and they smiled back at him with joy.
They explained quietly to me that he had a mild heart attack and he would have to remain in hospital for just a few more days for observation. Of course he asked about mother and the thought of her leaving began to wear on him. After sixty years of marriage perseverance had won through, and so had love. It was a wonderful exchange we had and he thanked me for sending them overseas so many times; and my work had enriched both of their lives. “Let the past go,” I thought, “after twenty years of spiritual counseling about mental and physical abuse, it was forgiveness that let all that baggage go.” We embraced and he assured me he would be fine, but not to tell my mother as she had too much on her plate. I told him that I was leaving in a couple of days because of work but that I would return as soon as I could. As I was leaving, he asked, “How did you know your mother was ill?” “I saw her in a dream with Grandma, waiting for her” I replied. “God must be talking to you? That’s good, maybe it’s a blessing?” he responded. I looked at him carefully and I smiled. The look of regret was on his face. Without doubt, he allowed himself to really see me for the first time.
I noticed that my female relations waiting in the hall, all looked defeated, as if the paths chosen for them didn’t quite parallel the journeys they came in to fulfill. Male dominance and the quiet power of mothers, didn’t allow them to finish their education because a woman’s purpose was to marry and help raise their children. By the look on their faces, love was not permeating through their lives, as if they asked themselves the question, “This is it?” And sometimes I caught them looking in my direction with a critical eye, wondering ‘how I got away and did it on my own.’ I suppose I was an enigma to them; I was the first Greek male in his youth who left his family in Australia and succeeded without them, against their judgments and dismissals. “He left a failure, he’ll come back a failure,” one of them said.My immediate family had to deal with it until I proved all of them wrong. The wait was long as it was not an overnight success.
with Mum and siblings in Sydney
I returned to my mother, knowing that none of us had any intention of letting her know about father’s condition. An ambulance was to pick her up and take her to the hospice. As they were carrying her out, she looked at me and said, but always in Greek, “Are you riding along with me? “Well of course,” I said as I held her hand. We drove off and I will never forget that expression in her eyes; that she felt safe at that moment.That lovely face looked haunted as a result of that disease. Fifteen minutes later she lay in a hospice room, wondering what was next. “Why hasn’t your father come to see me?” I covered my emotions and told her ‘he thought it best to stay home, as too many visitors would tire her out.’ She accepted it and I excused myself go the bathroom. When I was returning, a nurse was carrying a tray with ice cream into my mother’s room. I pulled her aside and to explain that ‘ice cream was not to be given to patients with my mother’s disease as it fed the cancer.’ She bluntly replied, “Your mother has tendays to live. Let her enjoy her last moments.” Stunned, I was lost for words; nobody had even bothered to convey that to me. I sat with my mother for another hour as I watched her eat the ice cream. I told her quietly that I had to leave that evening, as I had to be on set in two days. She touched my face lovingly, “Thank you for coming from so far away. My little boy, who had pennies in his pocket and grew up to be rich.” “I will see you soon Mama, please wait?” We held each other for a while and I kissed her good-bye. I prayed that this was not our last time together. I cried all the way home. Late that afternoon I sat with my brother and sisters exchanging ideas on how to proceed in case our parents died.
My brother George was a schoolteacher, and a good one at that, happily married to Helen with two wonderful sons. My sisters were great but part of the old regime never allowed them to have their own careers, especially when they both excelled at school. With marriages arranged they certainly had reasons for regret. But their husbands, part of the old school, reflected the same beliefs. Certainly the doubts were there, always reminding me that I was a man and therefore free to make my own decisions. If only they knew what it took, the struggle I went through to survive New York and Hollywood, as an Australian Greek with a strange accent. It took a while for all of it to come together, and as a wise man told me “Perseverance wins out.” Then the front door opened and there was my father standing with open arms to say goodbye.He didn’t want to miss that opportunity.We gasped,and he told us that he lethimself out of the hospital, as he was feeling fine. I kissed him on both cheeks and scolded him for his careless action. He dismissed it and I spent my last hour in Sydney talking about our mother without telling him what the nurse had revealed. He looked concerned that she would leave him behind. It was interesting to see whathappens when you get older and death is facing you and how you handle the inevitable. He again told me how he loved the new bedroom and how our mother would be sitting up proudly, like a queen. He couldn’t wait for her to see it. I hugged him and my siblings and as I turned back I remembered thinking ‘I should have held onto him a little longer.’My parents’ wedding
My parents' wedding
It was difficult leaving them behind, but my plane took off for the US and I had plenty of time to think of all that had transpired; the Machiavellian Greeks and the beauty of their history, but now that all seemed unimportant in contrast with those human elements that we were all experiencing. The loss of your parents happens but once and now it was our turn to face this common tragedy. I got back and quickly immersed myself into the work. Yet every time a scene ended, my mind kept flashing back to the family in Australia. But once back in the performance, I learnt not to waste those emotions that kept surfacing, by filtering them through the dialogue, and finding a creative way of releasing them.
That evening I got a call from my sister Connie; dad had a massive heart attack and was in serious condition in the hospital. Within the next hour my other sister Pauline called to say he had passed away.She had gone into his house and witnessed the moment he had the heart attack. It was massive, and it threw him against the wall where he suffered a bad gash on his forehead. “At least he wasn’t alone,” I said. The inevitable had taken place. “At the end of the week I will be back home. Make sure mum doesn’t find out.” I hung up and I let out a howl and found myself slipping onto the kitchen floor where I sat for two hours. My mind kept racing, mainly concerned for my mum, but the way in which my father died so violently, upset me deeply. Did he let himself out of the hospital because he wanted to say goodbye to his children, standing on two feet, whole, that he knew his time was coming? But what of his wife Eva, how did he finish that? It was not over.
My mother and my Uncle Bill in 1930's Sydney
For the next four days I checked my service to make sure the family was holding together, and thought how difficult it must have been for them to be in our mother’s presence and not reveal father’s passing. That last day before I left work, I checked my messages, but there were none. Within that half hour of getting home they had called. The message was: ‘Mother died quietly, never knowing her husband had passed away.’ I was numb. But something strange had taken place. While my sister Connie was giving my mother some water, she commented that it tasted bitter. As my sister turned to get her something else to drink she heard my mother call out, “Agapitos.” That was the Greek name for Peter. Connie turned and found my mother looking up at the ceiling with her eyes wide open; she had passed on, and my father had come to take her with him. Those next fourteen hours of flying back to Sydney were the longest I had ever known. We were to bury both of our parents together.
My brother had met me at the airport and we went straight to his house where the rest of the family was waiting. As soon as I embraced my sisters, whatever emotions were held back, had surfaced. Everyone broke down. That night we went to a common ritual, before the church service and burial, where our parents were put on display so the families could come by and pay their last respects. It was still an unbelievable and solemn ceremony to go through. After having lost so much weight, my mother’s face had been stuffed to give her a better appearance. The make-up was overdone and I hardly recognized her face. So still, I wanted to cry out but I thought of Patera’s comment in Greece, “Greeks love tragedy, and why not, they invented it.” Suddenly some humor came to the surface, I was not about to fulfill that cliché. My father was ice cold when I kissed him, the scar caused by the hard fall, was still prominent on his forehead. It was the evidence of how he died that late afternoon in February. Everyone including my relatives took turn in their final goodbyes, muttering their personal words, bringing a final comfort for themselves. It was the last time we would see them again. I thought maybe they left together to prepare a life for us on the other side when it came time for our transitions. But now I kept asking myself, ‘With their souls carrying them to the other side, where do they go?’ A couple of months later I found out.
The day of the funeral my favorite Uncle Bill grabbed the cigarette out of my mouth and tossed it to the ground, stamping it out, and cried, “That disease is what’s killing all of us.” Before I could respond two hearses arrived together in front of my parent’s house. That visual has stayed with me my entire adult life. It was so shocking a reality that I had to be excused. The church service was packed with friends and relatives. I don’t remember much except the two coffins were closed, immersed in flowers, and the sermon by the priest where he said, “Their unusual love was the reason they left together.” I think my father died first because he was afraid to be left alone. She was exhausted and it was her heart that finally gave out before the cancer killed her. The people came up to the front of the church to pay their respects. I shook a lot of hands, as did my brother and sisters. While I was waiting outside the church a cousin came up to give his condolences at the same time telling me about his struggles and how ten thousand dollars would help him out. At that moment my brother interrupted us. I looked at my cousin straight in the eye and said, “The reason you’re struggling is because your timing sucks. You don’t listen.” We left him to ponder his inappropriate behavior. We carried the coffins into the hearse, and left for the final ceremony at Botany Bay cemetery.
Standing beside a large hole, the priest said his final sermon. The ritual of lowering them down on top of each other, and the soil being shoveled in with a thud, sealed their final outcome. I was the last to leave. I struggled to tell them stories I couldn’t even remember now. There was no euphoria of going to a better place; just a new sense of knowing that only comes to you after your parents have gone. I was now in the front line of life, no buffering, just death facing ‘you’ for the first time. It’s life and everyone goes through it when his or her time comes. The relatives came back to my parent’s house and ate with us as a celebration of their life together.
Three days later I had to leave as new scenes were being written into the show I had just left. I was expected to be on set that next Monday. I said my goodbyes, leaving everyone to quietly persevere with their own pain and eventual healing. In the years that followed I would still reach for the phone to call my parents when good news had crossed my path. But that was just one of many things that happened that automatically recalled my parents. Television shows, especially ones dealing with a son’s relationship to father and mother brought on the floodgates. Work went well, when suddenly my producer called me into his office to tell me my character was being killed off. I actually laughed, remembering somewhere, that the two worse things to happen to anyone is the loss of your parents and losing your job. I got both within two months. What else could I do? My producer was perplexed by my attitude and I wasn’t about to give them the expected response, of an actor defeated. I left feeling free with no obligations except to find a professional person who could give me an answer to my question, “Where did my parents go?”
I eventually found a man called Ray Lingini who was capable of reaching those who had crossed over. He was an Italian from New Jersey in his late thirties. One afternoon I sat with him in a guesthouse in Hollywood, where he began a foreign sounding chant. On the table that separated us was a bottle of rum, some beads and a cigar. ‘Interesting recipe’ I thought. His body started to shake and a deep voice of a female spirit came through. He took the rum into his mouth and sprayed it all around me. He did this a number of times to clear the negatives. Then in a female manner lit the cigar and out came this roar. “Who are Eva and Peter? Before I could answer she responded in a Jamaican accent. I went totally quiet. “They are on the other side. Your mother went through a lot of pain and is exhausted. Who is Maria, because she is holding your mother in her arms to comfort her?” Maria was my mother’s sister who had died a year before from Leukemia. I couldn’t say anything because my emotions began to erupt. She continued, “Peter is sitting on a bench looking very sad because he did not support his son through his youth and now he is grounded, somewhere between here and the spiritual world. In order to make his transition, he needs you to wear his ring, and that way he can connect and guide you in the coming years. It’s for you to help him pay the price for not having fulfilled his destiny. He apologizes and loves you very much.” It all made so much sense. I was happy to understand and know that we all have another place to go to. That death is just a transition where the soul is able to go back and exist in peace with its lessons learned, and that ‘Karma’ is a law that comes at a price. I felt sad for my father’s lonely place but elated that my mother was safe. I left content that I had been guided to the right place. The amazing thing was he actually knew their names and that gave me a strange satisfaction. I called my family and told them of my experience. It brought them some peace of mind maybe believing that life was an ongoing process that didn’t end in a coffin.
My brother sent me my father’s ring and I haven’t taken it off since. I sometimes find myself unconsciously touching it, and wonder if he is around me, fulfilling his Karma? For three years I did not work. I felt it was so stupid this game of disguise that was my profession for the past thirty years. You see my success was based on rescuing my parents and seeking their approval for having abandoned them in my early life. It was always for them but never for me. Now I was faced with looking finally at myself. I felt pregnant but empty. I was full with knowledge but an emptiness of not knowing where to put it. It took a few years to fully process this, to do it for my own understanding. It came through when I was ready. The day I awoke was the day I was asked to come back to the show where my character had been killed off, after my parent’s death. These were the transitions I had to go through to have a better understanding of change. And when I procrastinated out of fear, when I couldn’t see what was around the corner I learnt that the only thing served was opportunities assassin.
I finally went back and boarded another train knowing I was back on track to fulfill my last renaissance.
© Thaao Penghlis. Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved.
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