Nate's Dad, Monte, died on April 25th, three days after my birthday. It's been about six months now. Surprisingly, after being there with him and then without him and then with the family all summer it is just starting to hit me hard that he is lost to us in this world.
8/14/14
What can be said about cancer? Maybe that’s part of what
makes this so difficult- that it’s not at all special. Everyone has either had cancer or someone they loved has. Instantly it’s just
another fact, another person, another line on the list of prayer requests. One
person tried encouraging me by saying, “Medicine is so much more advanced now.
Maybe in the past he might have had only five years, now he could have ten!”
She didn’t know how much that hurt. To even consider putting a timeline on your
life already- something I was completely unprepared for. To have to know what that evil
thing is that might be the end of your life; I don’t even want to speak of it. As an anxious, ridiculous mom I’ve imagined
the tragic deaths of my husband and children over and over again- when I call
and they don’t answer right away or I wake up after a nightmare. In some ways I
feel like I’m more prepared that way. The worrying would remove the sting of
surprise if anything did ever happen. I never thought to worry about you. You
were always so strong, healthy, and young. You would live for as long as was
“normal.” I could wait to start worrying until a more appropriate time, maybe
20 years from now. And then your cancer was the new normal. We were
all strapped into the roller coaster whether we wanted to be or not. You were
checked into the hospital by days end. And for some reason it already felt like old news to everyone. Because everyone has cancer. My sister did. My
mother did. My dad did. There was a little girl at my church with that.
Everyone cares but to them it doesn’t seem as outrageous as it
does to me.
No one has anything that truly encourages me. There
are those who understand because they too have had someone close to them go
through it. They have all the medical knowledge and ask how the therapy is
going and if you’ve reached nadir.“We’re praying for you.
My dad died of cancer.” Thanks? For some reason it keeps getting me mad every
time someone insists that you are dying soon. And yet it makes me just as angry
when someone has confidence that you’ll be healed.
Your DNA is broken. That’s
what hurts the most. I didn’t want you to break.
You are a pillar and I hate to
know you are suffering. You are Mr. Strong. It’s supposed to help that you are
so strong and tenacious, but that makes it worse. Something that strong shouldn’t
break. Someone that fresh shouldn’t need a restart.
I remember so many of our conversations. Some of my greatest
memories are the road trips to you, either in Mexico or Idaho. We would always
stay up late the night we arrived, until 1 or 2 in the morning, just talking. I
loved to listen to you talk with Nate. You were always so wise. Sometimes you
were frustrating. I could never tell if you were exaggerating or not. You are our Big Fish.
I
remember you telling me once after reading about the book, “Heaven is for Real”
that you saw Jesus in your dreams. He looked just as the boy described. He took
you flying. I think about that now, desperately hoping it’s real but feeling
more and more like a chump for wanting to believe life is more than just an
accident. Sometimes it ends before you think it will. It doesn’t mean anything.
I guess mostly it’s just hard to be so far away. I don’t
feel the closeness, love, or comfort of God in this circumstance. I always
thought I would automatically in tragic circumstances. But it’s just like everything else. I have
to choose to believe it in spite of what I see.
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