"We're halfway to being orphans."
"I don't think it works that way... Not when the kids are in their twenties."
So that "let's paint this sad story in another sad light" approach is shot. But my mom is still a widow. No one will be there to greet me on Monday morning when I'm about to drive back to town at 4:20 am. Suz won't have her father to walk her down the aisle. We won't get to groan when dad tickles mom's thighs at a restaurant while she tries to read the menu and then laugh when she slaps his arm away and grumbles, "Ugh, Rich, I'm trying to read, leave me alone." No one will ever ask me to text them when I get home again. What will we do with the many $2 pair of reading glasses (more often than not, clearly designed for a woman) that are spread throughout the house and cars?
My sister had the discernment to comment that the grief we were dealing with was a first-world problem. My reactionary instinct was to disagree, since, when I hear "first-world problems", I think of Safeway taking away the sale on whole milk but not on the 2%, so that to be frugal I have to buy milk with less than 4% fat. In fact, I still disagree, but only to the point where I think second-world citizens should be included in that statement. The death of a loved one will always be sad, but if you've ever been within a couple football fields of Joseph Kony, I doubt you've been able to spend time sending emotional texts to old friends or contemplating the nuanced ways that a death affected you. Or getting a friend to photoshop an invitational flyer to a funeral.
As our family sits together and discusses in depth every thought, feeling, and reaction we've had over the past three and a half months, I have to really appreciate the treatment I've received from my friends, girlfriend, and family. The resounding sentiment of "I can't imagine how you feel, but I'm here if you need anything" contains so much honesty, humility, and sympathy that I wonder if these people even realize the value of their words. Several months ago, while dad was still very much alive and arguably high in spirits, someone very close to me who had witnessed her mother's long, exhausting and emotionally draining fight with breast cancer told me that she couldn't imagine how I was feeling. Not 24 hours after he had passed away, a friend sent me a deeply moving message on Facebook and then immediately called because she thought that the written word was too impersonal. Just now, I received this text:
"Hey, man. I dunno what to say, really. Hope you're holding up alright."
Honest, humble, sympathetic. When someone wants to let you know they care but is self-conscious about the way they present that message when you're so fragile.
I wish my dad had received the same style of comforting. Don't get me wrong - he had many friends who cared a lot for him. He was blessed to have many visitors eager to try to cheer him up, but they didn't all have the necessary self-awareness and realism for these tender situations. Now, ever since the first CT scan showed a foreign body on his pancreas, I was immensely comforted by the fact that my dad strongly believed that an eternal heaven was awaiting him on the other side of this life. He sure didn't want to die, but at least he was free of the existential fear of nothingness. After his own father had passed away when he was 3 days away from his 13th birthday, he had prayed that God wouldn't let him have children if he wouldn't be around to raise them. Well, his children had made their way to adulthood, and though they had gone through some considerable rough patches, his and his wife's stern but unceasingly patient love had turned them into successful members of society. His wife was financially stable. His death would not destroy his family, which, outside of God, was easily his main passion in life. My mom, sister and I made it a point to tell him that we would be okay. We told him how much we loved him. We told him about our many great memories from childhood. He had done a fantastic job as a husband and father and we wanted him to know. We obviously hoped it would make it through but knew the numbers weren't in his favor.
But others came along who also hoped that he wouldn't die. Rather than accepting reality and reminding him of Christianity's positive message of life after death (while holding onto the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could get better), they built up his hope of beating cancer by telling him of the words they had heard from God - that he would survive; that there was a job waiting for him after he was healed; that his story of beating cancer would become a powerful testimony for him. He thoroughly bought into it and was excited about his future. The rest of our family talked about this, and in one of the few conversation I was able to have with my dad about death, he brought up my fear (that he had heard about from my mom) that his strong belief in his healing would leave him crushed and depressed if and when things made a turn for the worse. He said it was important for him to have faith at this point in his life and promised me that he wouldn't be emotionally destroyed if this disease was to be the end of him. Unfortunately that's not a decision people can make and stick to with will power.
I understand the part where humans have the urge to take our instincts, desires, and fleeting senses and turn them into something more substantial. We have a complicated coping system. But to tell a dying man, especially one so deeply rooted in faith, that God has personally spoken to you and ensured you that he'd be healed, is painfully reckless behavior. As the son of that dying man, who watched his father's demeanor shift from hopeful and joyous in spite of discomfort and pain to weary, listless, and depressed as he was bereaved of this hope, I find it cruel. Intentions may be important in determining a person's character, but there's a line. When you foolishly attribute your own notion of hope to the omniscience of a God Almighty and tell someone that they will survive stage 4 pancreatic cancer, you either are not concerned with the impact that being wrong would have on that person or you have abandoned reflection and humility. This is the mind-numbing, unwarranted confidence and abatement of logic that leads many people to look down on, and oftentimes despise, religion. (Has no one of your faith ever died of cancer before?) I know better than to apply this to all religious people, but unfortunately many people stumble across religion as a method to deal with major issues they have. And these issues typically persist, just through a new, narrower conduit. When you condescendingly tell my dad and his family that they need to have more faith, and that when you pray, "things happen", you have a personality disorder. Mentioning the degenerated physical state of the man you're about to pray for while admonishing his lack of apparent faith makes you a disgusting person. Do not interact with people. Please. Leave these messages to the truly good and sane people (and to those people: thank you for being a source of healthy light for my dad).
You know what isn't disgusting? His marriage of 33 years. Twelve hours before my father died, I sat next to him on his hospital bed in my parents' bedroom, trying to hold back the tears while telling him how much I couldn't wait to tell my future children the same things about him that he told my sister and I about his dad. I didn't know if he could understand me. I didn't even know if he could hear me, but I knew that I needed to thank him for being the most loving, patient, forgiving father I could ever have hoped to have. Intermittently dabbing up his cold sweat, I grabbed a photo album and pointed out pictures of his family to show him what he had done with his time on earth. But I couldn't feign happiness. I wanted him to feel like he was surrounded with love and joy but it was too hard to look at him and force a smile. Then, as I sat there with my head down, my eyes shut and my hands on his shin, my mom strolled into the room, looked at his emaciated, pale, and lifeless body, with his eyes perpetually half-shut and his jaw locked open, and told him, perhaps for the last time, how handsome he was. She gave him a kiss, and then another kiss for his children, and another for his mother. Whenever I remember this, I can't help but cry, because it is both the saddest and most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It is the truest fulfillment of marriage vows.
He died early the next morning, with her standing over him, holding him. She was his rock and his foundation. When he was in excruciating pain and when he was crippled by fear, she was the one he wanted there with him. And she was with him.
