Monthly Archives: October 2009

A day of losses

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Nelson and Hans accompanied us today, a pleasant variation for Nate and me. The wet, stormy highways made me thankful I could ride rather than drive. After two hospital appointments, our plan was to drive the mile to Nate’s office to visit his many friends there.

My sister had arranged for a wheelchair, but once at the curb in front of his office, Nate gathered his strength and wanted to walk his once-daily routine. We slowly entered the lobby, passers-by unaware of the significant event unfolding.

Emotionally-charged hugging began before we even got to the elevators as the security guard rushed from her place behind the counter to throw her arms around Nate. She patted him as if they were the closest of pals, telling us how much she loved him. Nate seemed to love her right back.

Stepping off the elevator on the 13th floor, we walked through the thick glass doors with Nate’s name included on the list of lawyers there. What were his thoughts? Three weeks ago, when he left the office to meet me at the doctor’s appointment that fateful day, he never dreamed he wouldn’t work again.

One by one people emerged from their offices to shake Nate’s hand, most putting their arms around him at the same time. It was “old home week,” and I watched him take it all in. Several were holding back tears. One labeled it bittersweet. Everyone knew the painful truth.

The conference room barely held us all, every eye on Nate, but we quickly fell into an easy banter. If anyone was shocked at his having become a shadow of his former self, no one let it show. I looked around the room and thought of the great differences in the many personalities there, politically, religiously, culturally and in age. Somehow this group had managed to work side by side for 19 years in a happy crowd of humanity that appreciated each other for what they had in common.

In a tender gesture, many of them wore Christmas neckties and necklaces. Nate’s legendary collection of holiday ties had allowed him to wear a different one each day in December. He appreciated the joke and mustered a smile.

Later, standing behind his desk surveying the monumental work Rob and Tom had done in his badly cluttered office, he was quiet. Again I wished I could have read his mind. When we left, I believe he knew he’d never be back. He didn’t say anything negative, but surely he was struggling with the many losses… his office, his files, his clients, his co-workers, his career, his identity, his routine and even the security guard. Although he’s had losses of some sort every day, this day was overloaded with them.

Later, back at home, Nate ended his day with the comfort of a hot bath. But one more loss was added to the day’s total when he had a fall getting out of the tub. It took three people to get him up, but we were thankful a badly bruised knee was the only damage. All of us, Nate included, are wondering what tomorrow will bring… or what it will take away. I marvel at his stoicism and refusal to complain.

When Nate was finally settled into his hospital bed for the night, his face flush with the effort to get there, we read today’s comments on the blog, as well as many encouraging emails. Quite a few of the messages mentioned Nate being a testimony of God’s faithfulness. As we prayed together he said, “Oh Lord, I’m not worthy to be a testimony of you. Please make me worthy.” When I peeked at him, a single tear was running down his cheek.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name. You are Mine! When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you, for I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” (Isaiah 43:1a-3a)

Happy anniversary… or maybe not.

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Last night I was tidying up Nate’s night stand. Next to the half-glass of Gatorade was a rainbow assortment of Post-it notes, his long-term method of staying organized. Most were ready for the trash and none had any interest to me, but I peeled them up for him anyway. Stuck to the table-top at the bottom there was one that interested me. It said: 11/29/09, 40, carok.

Nate was noting our upcoming anniversary, our fortieth, reminding himself to be prepared. But what about the word on the bottom of his Post-it? I figured it was probably something in Russian. Nate has always studied languages and enjoyed a college minor in Russian. He speaks it fluently and loves practicing his vocabulary words. All of us know a smattering of Russian as a result of his consistent practicing on us.

This morning, on the way to radiation #11, I tucked his anniversary Post-it into my purse. As we waited for treatment, I handed it to him.

“Our anniversary,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, but what’s that last word?”

“It’s ‘forty’ in Russian.”

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Lately, we’re holding hands a great deal. Today I studied his hand as I held it in the radiation waiting room. His wedding band has never been off since I slid it on during our ceremony at Moody Church, in 1969. Since that day, he’s always been fully committed to me, protecting, providing, participating.

Forty years ago, each of us made vows to the other that were meant to be honored “til death do us part,” and it looks like death is about to part us. The official rending began last night when a hospital bed arrived at our house around 8:00 p.m. The flight of stairs to our bedroom had become a mountain Nate could no longer safely climb. A near fall and frequent stumbles, even though others have been “under-arming him” both directions on the steps, had motivated us to request the bed.

But last night as I put my head on the pillow in a room twenty feet from Nate’s new main floor “bedroom”, our physical separation settled hard on me. He was needy but was too far away for me to hold his hand… or hear his breathing or feel his chest move up and down. My bed was lonely, a sad foretaste of the future. Will we be together to commemorate our fortieth? Or will he be far away in another realm entirely, out of sight and out of touch?

As I tucked Nate in tonight after a busy day that wore him out, I asked how he liked his new bed. Too tired to speak, he just nodded approval. After I bent down to kiss him, I said, “I love you.” Too tired to reciprocate, he winked at me instead. In forty years, I can’t ever remember him winking at me. It was youthful, cute and loaded with meaning, and it made me kiss him again. He’ll never miss me like I’m going to miss him.

“Love bears all things. Love endures all things. Love never fails.” (Parts of 1 Corinthians 13:4, 7,8)

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The excruciating truth

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Now that Nate has ten radiation treatments under his belt, we’ve gotten acquainted with the eleven a.m. crowd in the waiting room. Each of us has the same time slot five days a week. Some arrive in wheelchairs and others with canes or walkers. One elderly gentleman has a gleaming cane of clear Lucite with a thick, see-through handle. Gorgeous. Another man brings a white flannel blanket, wrapping himself in its comfort as he awaits his turn on the ice cold table. A young mom, waiting for her husband to finish treatment, brings their four year old daughter with her bag of crayons and coloring books.

Creative head gear abounds, keeping bald heads warm. We see everything from baseball caps to fancy scarves, knit hats and head wraps. The waiting room is freshly decorated in dusty green with cushy seating for 32. Making sure coffee, tea and hot chocolate are available for all of us, a receptionist keeps the pots fresh with new brew. A flat screen TV tuned to CNN talks softly, but no one is watching.

Looking around the room, I wonder about everyone’s story. All are fighting a battle they might not win. The bottom line is that they want to beat the greatest enemy of their lives: death.

Several precious friends of ours are praying for Nate’s complete healing from his metastasized pancreatic cancer. Although I have no doubt about God’s ability to do that, he probably won’t. And if he doesn’t, I trust he has excellent reasons. We’ve already experienced some of them as our family has drawn together and shared unnumbered blessings from each other and countless others.

I’ve polled all the friends I know whose mates have died of cancer. Some of those spouses never accepted their own mortality, even on their death beds. Others believed they would die, based on the probabilities. Which is better?

I believe Nate’s cancer is the beginning of the end. Before we’re done with this whole mess, I may swing around to the opposite point of view, but for today, my reasoning goes like this:

If we expect death and receive healing, what unbounded joy we will have!

If we expect healing and get death, priceless opportunities will have been lost.

When a dying person finally gives in to the excruciating reality that earthly life is ending, not one moment is squandered on anything without eternal benefit. The rest of us might bop along through our days, filing “eternity” in a special category labeled “some day.” In reality, all of us are up against eternity, but the terminally ill are the only ones thinking seriously about it.

Nate’s alert moments are fewer each day. He has excellent plans to have one-on-one time with each of his children and with me, to get some significant things said. He’s thinking, planning, jotting down words on Post-it notes. I pray he’ll have time to say and do all he’s hoping he can. His words will be cleansing for him and life-altering for us.

Before he gets to that, however, he’s trying to put other categories of his life in order. He’s given me the phone numbers to call when he’s gone. He’s put my name on his bank account. He’s drawn up a power of attorney for me. He’s straining hard to think straight while taking narcotics to deaden pain.

His priceless plans are being acted upon only because he believes he is soon going to die. If he was focusing on a miraculous healing, these important tasks would remain undone, just like our friends who died saying, “I can still beat this.” In those cases, there were no life challenges, no thank yous, no handing off of responsibilities, no goodbyes.

Recently, Nate was sitting quietly, his hands fingertips-to-fingertips on his chest when he said, “If I was healed of this cancer, I know I’d be a changed man. But at some point down the road I’d just have to go through it all over again.”

It was a telling statement and, I believe, an acknowledgment that the number of his days is soon to finish.

“You (God) saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” (Psalm 139:16)