Category Archives: Disease and dying

What about today?

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Last week as Jack and I were walking on an extremely windy beach well after sunset, white water was a feast for the eyes and ears. But down the shoreline there was an alarming sight: the red and blue flashing lights of a police vehicle, right at the water’s edge. It was several miles away, but the distinctive blinking lights gave me the same chill as if I’d seen them in my car’s rear view mirror.

“Probably just crazy kids at a beach campfire,” I said to Jack. We continued walking, not thinking much about it, but over the weekend we learned more. While we were again at the beach, an official-looking dune buggy appeared from the north. The driver, bundled in a down coat, mask, goggles and earmuff-hat, stopped right next to us.

“What’s happening?” I said.

His answer shocked me. “We’re looking for a body to wash up here.”

Apparently three teenage boys and their kayaks had braved the high waves of a recent windstorm with a tragic outcome. Though all were experienced swimmers wearing wet suits, life jackets and helmets, once out in the churning waves, some as high as 14 feet, they capsized and were yanked under by vicious rip tides. One boy managed to get back to shore for help, and police arrived quickly, along with the coast guard. They were able to rescue the second boy and spotted the third clinging to his kayak, but before they could reach him, he slipped from his life jacket and disappeared under the waves.

While I was picturing that panicky scene, the beach official interrupted. “He’s dressed in black. If you see his body, call 911.”

Immediately my thoughts turned to this boy’s family. Their agony must have been compounded by knowing rescuers saw him in the water, still alive, still battling to hold on, yet couldn’t get to him in time. And surely he saw them trying.

In the ensuing search from the supposed safety of a $180,000 boat, even trained experts were overturned and landed in the hospital. “There were high waves from all directions,” one of the rescuers said, “and extreme rip currents. A rogue wave broadsided our boat and overturned it.”

Most of us wake up each morning confident we’ll crawl back into bed that night, but none of us knows for certain.

When Nate was terminally sick, we all knew death was close, which caused us to live and act differently. His rapidly changing appearance was a day-to-day visual reminding us to make the most of every hour. Valuable words flowed freely and loving touches were continuous, because we knew what was about to happen.

But normally, we don’t know. Mitchell Fajman didn’t know. Scripture says: “Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow.” (James 4:14) Although we acknowledge this in our heads, our busy lives say otherwise.

Oh, that we might all live today like there was no tomorrow, appreciating each other and each moment.

“You ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will, we will live… and do this or that.’ ” (James 4:15)

Appreciating Differences

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I’ve recently met again with Nate’s cancer doctor, Dr. Ross Abrams. In the last two years he’s graciously agreed to meet every few months, 5 times in all since Nate died. Each time we’ve had an interesting and challenging conversation in his hospital office.

This time, as I approached the Rush University Medical Center where Nate and I first learned of his terminal cancer, it was hard not to let my feelings wander. I knew if they did, they’d head toward melancholy, since every hospital memory, including 14 radiation treatments and multiple scans, was tainted with the disease that ended in death.

But I found myself once again in the radiation department surrounded by cancer patients, grateful for the sensitive, expert treatment Nate received when we were there. Dr. Abrams had much to do with that.

Although he and I are about the same age, we have little in common. His strengths are in medicine, and I generally avoid doctor’s offices. He’s methodical and deep, while I’m slapdash and flighty. Most significantly, Dr. Abrams is an Orthodox Jew and I am a Christian. One of his sons is a rabbi, and several of mine have been on missions for Christ. Yet two years after we first met under the stressful conditions of stage 4 cancer, we’ve become friends, because we’ve found some common ground on which to meet.

In the beginning it was all about his patient, my husband. We had a shared concern for Nate’s best welfare and tried to get him through his vicious cancer without being overwhelmed by suffering, though we both knew his disease would eventually conquer. Dr. Abrams remembers Nate as a strong, courageous man who endured suffering bravely. This means a great deal to me, and I’ve appreciated him telling me that.

The doctor and I have also shared common ground in enjoying our big families, and I’ve become acquainted with his wife and children through the line-up of 8” x 10” photographs on his office shelves. He’s winning at the grandchildren game, though, his 10 to my almost-6. But as he says, “It’s not a competition.”

We’ve also shared common ground in our love of Scripture, and both of us relate to God the Father as his children, although in different ways. As we participate in our conversations, I often wonder what God is thinking about the two of us. Both of us trace our start to Adam and Eve, and because they were both made in God’s image, Dr. Abrams and I were, too. In this we are the same.

Both of us are also recipients of God’s love. The Father does, I believe, desire to forgive us both from personal sin and restore us to himself, when sin causes us to break fellowship with him.

I look forward to our future conversations, particularly as they relate to faith matters, and know God has specific things in mind to teach both of us through our friendship.

”Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love.” (Lamentations 3:32)

Special Delivery

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During the 6 weeks when Nate had cancer, we made almost daily visits to one pharmacy or another in an effort to secure the many drugs prescribed for him.

As the days passed, we sat in pharmacy drive-through windows longer and longer, arguing with insurance companies through pharmacy employees. “They said no more of these pills and only half of those.” As part of the larger health war we were fighting, these smaller skirmishes were necessary but draining, especially for Nate, who was often in the car feeling bad about  it all.

After Hospice entered the picture, they took our place on the front lines of all pharmaceutical battles, allowing us to step away, a tremendous gift. The drugs they prescribed came directly to our front door via FedEx’s daily visit. All the way to Nate’s last peaceful breath, the deliveries were always one step ahead of his need.

Jack, our usually-silent dog, always announced FedEx’s arrival with rude barking, so others in the family routinely beat me to the door to receive Nate’s prescriptions. But one day I made an effort to get there fist, wanting to apologize to the woman driver for Jack’s bad-mannered greeting.

“I’m sorry,” I told the tall, blond driver. “We’ve got a difficult situation inside, and the dog’s just nervous about everything.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” she said. “I love dogs. And really, he’s right. I’m not supposed to be in front of your house or even on your street.”

“What do you mean?”

“My instructions are to leave all FedEx deliveries at the mail house by the entrance to your subdivision where they sign for them, and that’s what I’ve always done for other people. But you really need what I’m delivering, and you’ve got better things to do than run up to the mail house. So here I am.”

I was astounded this young woman would take such a risk for us, maybe even jeopardizing her job. Her thoughtfulness impacted me deeply.

This morning as I sat in a prayer group of 4 ladies, I looked at the empty chair in our circle trying to picture the Lord in it, because of course he was. Much like the FedEx driver, he comes all the way to us, knowing we are in need of what he’s equipped to deliver. He goes the extra mile for us, aware that we’re often too depleted to even meet him half way.

Better than that, though, he can deliver a custom-made remedy for everything that ails us, from disease to debts, infections to infractions, sickness to sins. The FedEx lady could deliver only what she had in her truck; God can deliver the gamut, because he owns the whole warehouse.

And boy, can he can deliver!

“He will deliver the needy who cry out, the afflicted who have no one to help.” (Psalm 72:12)