Lessons learned from a dying woman

Dear Mum,

I never would have guessed that even as you lay dying in that hospital you were still teaching me lessons that would last a lifetime. Sure, there were the lessons about caring for someone and telling them that you love them every chance you get and not taking for granted the time you have with a loved one–the usual life lessons from an experience like that. But there were odder lessons that you taught me that are just now coming to light.

Seeing you doped up on morphine to the point that you didn’t know who you were or who I was, but you still knew the hymns of faith that you’d loved all your life, so that if I sang them, hummed them, or whistled them you’d calm down when the dope was wearing off and you were trying to pull out the tubes and get out of bed when you weren’t supposed to, taught me to be calm around my wife when she’s not herself during her hospitalization right now. I learned dealing with you in that state that I can speak firmly to Laurel as if she’s a little child, because I had to speak to you that way sometimes. It was weird then, because you were 51 and I was 17, but it had to happen or you would’ve hurt yourself. I’m older than Laurel, though not by much, but I can see that if I’m visiting her and she’s about to do something that will inadvertently hurt herself, I’ve got to be quick and firm to stop her. You taught me that, Mum.

Now, something you didn’t teach me is to get straight, candid answers from the doctors. My experience in losing you taught me that, though. And I found out recently that I wasn’t the only one of your children not to get straightforward expectations about your condition from the doctors treating you. We were all misled about your life expectancy, apparently, and I resented those doctors for a very long time. I guess they thought they were doing me a favor by not telling me the harsh truth that my beloved Mum was going to die, but I’ll tell you what, Mum: It was worse that I kept being told that you might survive the bone cancer, because I held a false hope in my heart that nearly killed my trust in God.

In the end, though, I learned to ask doctors for candid expectations. Dr. Robert Chavko gave me precisely that. Laurel’s first weekend in ICU, he told me that he did not expect her to survive the flu pneumonia, especially after the mild heart attack she suffered on February 9th. I told him that we had hundreds of people praying that he would be wrong about that. On the evening of the 11th, he called to tell me that for the first time since he began treating her four days earlier, he had hope that she would make it. That’s the day I began to hope she would make it, too. He was candid. I knew I could trust his judgment.

So Mum, these are some of the lessons you taught me while you were dying of cancer 32 years ago. I think there were many more than these. And Dad has been by my side in this trial, because he learned many lessons while you were dying, too. He prays for me daily, and we talk every other day or so. I’ve leaned heavily on him during this crisis; he’s invited me to do that, and I’m so grateful to him for that. He and Jo pray for us every day.

I post updates on Laurel’s condition on social media every day. God is sustaining the boys and me, and of course, Laurel, too. However, I would be lying if I said I’m not running ragged. My emotions are raw, and I want to crawl into a ball and hide from life. I want to sleep for two days without being responsible for anyone but me. I go to sleep every night and pass out from exhaustion, Mum, like you used to after supper. Then I wake up early the next day, filled with lists of things that have to be done. By the time my day is three-quarters finished, I’m exhausted again, and I’m anxious to be done with it. God help me, Mum, I’m worn out, and it’s only been three weeks! Lord, I need Thee every hour.