On January 17th, around 7:30p.m., my 55 year old sister Laura, who lives three doors down, called to tell me she’d been to the Dr that morning and he’d found a large mass in her brain. My life changed immediately and it hasn’t been the same since. For starters, I’ve been wearing a lot of green. My favorite color—I have a lot of green shirts. It’s also Laura’s favorite color because it sets off her green eyes. I wear it almost every day.
Also, I’ve been showering every single day—right when I wake up. No time for the gym, but I want to feel ready and this is something I can control. I need to be clean and wearing a bit of make-up to feel ready: Ready to run an errand, run to the hospital, run to Lauras, or run into a friend delivering a meal or a pot of tulips, or a plate of cookies.
And then I have my “go bag” —actually just my backpack with chapstick, a few snacks, notebooks and pens and my journal. Just in case. Just in case I have to spend minutes or hours or all day in a hospital room or sitting on Laura’s bed while she talks in her chair.
The night she was in the ICU, we texted Jeff: “need us to take a shift?” He said “Yes!” We stood up and rushed straight to the car. I had no coat. No bag. No wallet. Those were some very cold hours in a very cold room. Sitting on a metal chair holding Laura’s hand while she moaned, cried, and almost vomited. Over and over. The ONE time I didn’t take my backpack. No more being unprepared. Now I will take my wallet, my airpods, my things, with me. Every time I leave the house. Every time.
The first few days I woke up every morning to a million texts. Then Jenny and Mak made me send the “mean” text: No visits. Brain Rest! And the texts to me dried up a tiny bit. I didn’t need those texts to stop. I needed to feel useful. So now I’ve taken over sending the updates. I want to be involved. Laura is normally pretty independent. She has a hard time asking for help. This time I will help whether she likes it or not.
I’m helping by finishing her sentences. ADHDers love to finish other peoples sentences. Okay, maybe not love but feel compelled to. We know what you are trying to say and you are taking way too long to say it. When Laura’s speech started to go, I started to automatically and quickly fill in the blanks. She would nod with gratitude. Later she would start a sentence, point at me and let me finish. Finally a use for an annoying habit. Finally I can be useful by doing something I’m going to do anyway: talk too much!
Now I write the text updates to send to friends and family. Information and details without too many details. I personally like to overshare. I think oversharing makes people feel closer to you. I will tell you or show you everything about my life. But this is Laura. What would Laura do/say/share? Would she hate this? Will she hate this when/if she gets better? Will she be so mad or so embarrassed that I sent a picture with her half smile or uncombed hair? Will she be grateful and glad someone sent something besides “Laura is still recovering. Thank you for your prayers”. Too late now. I sent the long updates already. Not as long as I would write for myself. But maybe too long anyway.
What about my kids? How are they doing and how are they processing? If there is one thing I know it is that kids can be intensely selfish and callous and/or alternately deeply sensitive and malleable. Which category do they fall in? Does it change day by day or hour by hour? Probably.
Lincoln has turned to books. Unsurprising. Laney in “The Vanderbeekers” got Leukemia but got better. He is re-reading the books for clarity. Gray is in denial. He just does NOT want to talk about it. He can’t talk about it.
”Aunt Laura! You’re alive” Elder Sammy exclaims! He is not prepared to see her and she bursts into tears to see him. I shouldn’t have answered his P-day face-time call while sitting with her. But I am always with her so what else can I do? She wants this experience to mean something. To soften hearts and change lives. She doesn’t need the testimony building. She doesn’t need the lessons in humility. She wants them for others. She wants them for our kids. For MY kids. She wants them to see the bloody miracles and soften their stubborn hearts. But will it work? When I’m with her I believe there will be miracles but when I come back home, I doubt. Will we get miracle when so many others don’t?
Gabe stops me in the kitchen tonight after everyone else is in bed. “Is Aunt Laura going to be okay? Is she going to die?” I don’t know and I don’t know. How would I know? Is the peace the peace of healing, or the peace of eternal rest with God, or the peace of disassociation and shock? How do I parse out the difference? Where do I put my faith? I will put it with God and God and God. Because where else would I go? “To whom shall we go?” To the sheer terror and despair of unbelief?
Our parents and grandparents were so faithful. They lived and breathed miracles. They didn’t question. They didn’t analyse everything. They didn’t doubt but believed. I don’t need to say “What happened? Where did we go wrong?” because I know what happened and I know where we went wrong. The world infiltrated our homes and hearts and relationships on tiny shiny super computers and it gave us beautiful sophistries and seductive half-truths and billions of hits of dopamine all in exchange for our time, attention, and allegiance. No introspection required.
Our parents and grandparents and their friends and neighbors went to church. Everyone went to church. They had community and Christ and love and fellowship. Now so few go. And what do they have instead? The world and all of it’s impending sense of doom. People are dying and crying and trying to find meaning or giving up and believing the lie that nothing matters. Where have all the faithful gone?
I’m too tired to go on. My eyelids are heavy. My day has been long. Tomorrow will be more of the same.
Goodnight
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