Bargaining is the third of the five stages of grief,

or at least that’s what some psychiatrist wrote more than 50 years ago. It’s right there between Denial and Anger, Depression and Acceptance. But those who mourn aren’t expected to follow a linear path from Denial to Acceptance. That’s a relief to me, because I’ve been stuck at Bargaining for a while now. 

My mother died unexpectedly in 2014. My father died from Covid in 2020. I don’t deny they are gone. I’m not angry with them. Depression is multi-pronged, but their losses are not the only reason I sometimes feel down. I accept that I’ll never see them again.

But I don’t like any of these things, which is why I can’t let go of Bargaining. What would I do or give or say to speak to my parents again? Who can I make a deal with so that can happen?

I want to apologize to my mom because I didn’t call her the week before she died. I want to tell my dad how sorry I am that I was so nonchalant when his Covid symptoms, including a fever, worsened. I’d tell him that driving him to the hospital where he died a month later, leaving him alone there, still haunts me.

That’s why I went to the Rail Park on a cold, windy day this week. The Thread is a temporary art installation that invites visitors to sit on the provided bench and use the disconnected rotary phone next to it to speak to someone(s) you’ve lost. It was inspired by Japan’s Wind Phone, an old-fashioned phone booth a man placed in his garden in 2010 as a symbolic way to talk to his deceased cousin. Interviewed later, the man explained his motivations: “Because my thoughts couldn’t be relayed over a regular phone line, I wanted them to be carried by the wind.”

Visitors to The Thread are invited to tie one of the provided ribbons to the installation or the nearby fence. Some ribbons had messages. Most did not. Based on the number of strands I saw blowing in the wind, hundreds of people had sought solace here. 

It makes sense. Not everyone considers this the happiest time of the year.

Speaking with pyschics

I used to watch Long Island Medium and cry happy tears as Theresa Caputo delivered messages from lost loved ones. I have no strong religious beliefs, and an afterlife has always seemed unrealistic.

But watching this woman reassure grieving family and friends that their loved ones were safe and happy, gave me hope. I mean, people would sometimes try to trick Caputo, by hiding something or wearing a piece of the jewelry to see if she, or rather the deceased, would comment on it. On TV, Caputo always caught on. 

I watched this show, and secretly hoped that one day, I would get a message from someone I’d loved and lost.

I sat on the bench, holding the receiver in place using my chin and my shoulder. I called my parents’ home number which has been  disconnected for years.

Two events, years apart, shut down that hope.

Pre-pandemic, I wrote entertainment stories for a NJ newspaper, interviewing the famous folk performing in the area. When I got the chance to interview Caputo, I was SO. PSYCHED.

Then, before she got on the phone, her assistant or handler or whoever told me sternly that Caputo would not be doing any readings over the phone. I did the interview. When I hung up, I knew she was a fake. 

 Because there is NO WAY she would have been able to withstand the psychic onslaught from my mother, my grandmother, and my great aunts, as they tried to communicate with me. My mother alone would have broken her ear drum, screaming in Caputo’s ear until the so-called medium finally broke and said, “OK, Natalie, I do have to tell you something. These women are insane.”

That didn’t happen.

My second experience with a medium came after the pandemic. After my father’s death, my sister and I met a woman who was reportedly tuned in to all-dead radio. We had some specific questions, including, “What does this key do?”

The medium struggled from word one. (I took notes. She was so bad that I actually felt bad for her.)

“Who died from something with the heart?”

Every person ever.

“I see a woman in a chair with knitting by her side. She wants to talk to you.”

Well, we don’t want to talk to her because we don’t know who she is.

“Who had cancer?”

Don’t know. Can’t help you. 

I picked up on her patterns. At one point, she asked, “One of your partners has also lost a parent, correct?” Why would she ask that? Because …

1. 1. 1. She took a chance because she saw we were both wearing wedding rings, and we’re of an age when people lose their parents.
      2. If we’d replied that both of our partners had healthy parents, she would have said, “This person was like a parent to your partner, just someone close who loved them.”
      3. If we’d replied that our spouses had been raised by wolves and had had no contact with humans until adulthood, she would have said, “Yes, there is a lot of fur. There’s howling.”

 As it was, I told her my husband’s father had died years ago. She then had a message for my husband from his father, something along the lines of “I’m so proud of you. I’m always watching you.  I’m always watching you.” When I got home and relayed this  less-than-profound message, my husband  said, “Um, that doesn’t sound like my dad.”

So instead of turning to outsiders, I’ve been bargaining in my head for years now with a God I don’t believe in, promising to do almost anything for one last conversation with my parents. 

Cut off a finger or toe? Not ideal, but I’ll do it.

Give up something I love, like Mardi Gras in New Orleans? OK.

Do something that goes against the very core of my being, like cheer for the Boston Red Sox?

Please. I’d rather give up a finger or a toe.

Speaking into the wind phone

 The Thread didn’t ask me to make a sacrifice in exchange for the privilege of speaking to my parents. So I sat on the bench, holding the receiver in place using my chin and my shoulder. I called my parents’ home number which has been  disconnected for years.

Still, I felt oddly emotional as I used a finger to spin the dial. Touching the phone, taking time and care to get the numbers right, meant something. It felt like a movie, the camera focused on the dial, tension and excitement increasing as I completed each number’s circle.

I sat there thinking of all the things I wanted to say to my parents. I want to say thank you for everything they did for me. I want to apologize to my mom because I didn’t call her the week before she died. I want to tell my dad how sorry I am that I was so nonchalant when his Covid symptoms, including a fever, worsened. I’d tell him that driving him to the hospital where he died a month later, leaving him alone there, still haunts me.

I would tell my mom she was right about a lot of things  I’d thought she was wrong about.  I’d let my dad say, “First I complained I had no shoes. Then I saw a man who had no feet.” without responding, as I typically did, “Does the guy with no feet have any extra shoes? Because I could use a pair.”

I was crying when I left the Rail Park. I let the cold wind dry my tears. Did I talk to my parents? Yes. Did they respond? No.  But the visit was still cathartic. 

The installation is scheduled to be taken down at the end of the year and moved elsewhere. I might go there again because I have more to say.

The Thread will remain at the Rail Park until December 27 and is free, open to the public, and wheelchair accessible. Follow @thethreadphilly on Instagram for more updates about The Thread’s new home in 2024. While the installation is down, you can share your story or talk to someone unreachable to you using The Thread’s voicemail line: (267) 314-7161.

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