Too Much Death

The holidays are difficult for many people for hundreds of reasons.  For some, it's the pressure of financial strain on an already tight budget.  For others, it's the great void of loneliness stretching out in the "festive" weeks ahead.  For a lot of people, it's a time of stress and travel anxieties - ferrying kids to one grandparent's house then the other, of trying to evenly divide hours between divorced parents.

For many, I think, the holidays represent the anniversary of a loss.  They are a painful time because celebration is blanketed by a sense of regret, loss, longing, and sometimes shame. 

Lately, I've seen far too much talk of death on facebook.  A friend's mother lost her long, long battle with cancer just a few weeks ago.  A friend posted about a two-week-old baby passing away.  A former co-worker's grandmother just died.  All of this in the past month.  Over the past few weeks, my family has been touched by the cold hand of death, too.  First came the dreaded due date: December 5th.  Our son Bennett was supposed to be in our arms right now - just one week old.  But we lost him.  Then, my sister-in-law, Lindsey, lost her beloved bunny, Erte.  I know that pets and people aren't the same, but like us, Lindsey and her husband Jay have no children.  They adored their pets and, frankly, they were probably more like family than Ross and I were - at least in the sense that we only got to see Jay and Lindsey a few times a year, where their bunny and cat were constant companions.  As I grow more and more attached to Thor and Loki, I can see why people take losing a pet so seriously.  So I grieved with Jay and Lindsey over the loss of their quirky, sweet little 12-year-old bunny.  In fact, for years, the holidays have been difficult for me.  Although God has restored my family in ways I never would have expected, it was around Christmas time over 15 years ago that my Dad left my Mom.  I can wholly understand why people dread the holiday season.

But just a few minutes ago, things got much harder.

I just got word from our church office that Linda Kessler went home to be with Jesus.

Linda had recently been diagnosed with an extremely fast-moving cancer that had spread throughout her body.  In a matter of weeks, she had grown weak and sick.  The doctors had performed test after test for other illnesses before realizing it was cancer.  They gave her one month to live, without chemotherapy.  They guessed she might have up to a year, with it.

Linda had three days of chemotherapy.  She ran into the arms of her Savior last night.

I hate obituaries, because they try to wrap a person's life up into a tiny, four-line black and white package to be printed in an upcoming newspaper that few people will ever see anyway.  Therefore, I will tell what I can of my experience with the amazing, wonderful Linda Kessler - before the cancer attacked her.

Linda was a woman of medium height and build, with long, slightly graying blonde hair.  She always dressed simply and modestly.  She wore Vanilla Fields perfume, the same brand my mother liked to wear.  When I told her that - that she smelled like my mom - she smiled hugely, as though it were the kindest thing in the world I could have said to her.   She worked at Sam's Club.  She had been divorced, but I never knew any details.  She had children - one of whom was a son who died last year, around the time we lost Bennett.  I remember going to her and just hugging her - like she'd hugged me so many times before, both in joy and sorrow.  I said, "I don't know how I know, but I am sure your son is taking care of my babies in Heaven."  She nodded fervently and said, "Michael loved kids.  He adored them.  I know that's exactly what he is doing right now."  And we both found hope.

Linda was a worshiper.  She could be found every Sunday morning, standing off to the side in the front of the sanctuary, so as not to disturb anyone else, waving her banner and holding her hands outstretched to the Lord.  She had a look of peace on her face, with her eyes closed and a little smile on her lips.  Her brows were always drawn together, as if her love for God was so great it might hurt her.  When I began to take pictures during church events, I frequently focused on her.  She was always there, always passionate: the picture of someone madly in love with Jesus, and humbled in turn by His love for her.

Linda was an encourager.  In spite of what she had endured in her life, she was a genuinely loving and happy person.  She liked to make other people feel happy, too.  She loved children and teenagers.  They often ended up sitting near her during special services, or before they left the sanctuary to attend their classes.  Linda liked that.  She wasn't one of those crabby older women who just wanted to be done with kids, or thought they were disturbing the "real people" from paying attention to the pastor's message.  I liked that a lot about Linda. 

Linda was faithful.  She was at almost every meeting I could think of; she served as an usher and greeter every Sunday and served at nearly every special service we held for Pastor Billy Burke, a healing evangelist.  She scheduled her whole life around church, it seemed.  It was where she was happiest.  It was where she could make other people happy.

Last night, she breathed her last and opened her eyes in paradise.

This is hard for me, personally, because I feel like I let Linda down.  I had the chance to visit with her this past Sunday, and bring to her a card the youth group had signed.  I remember being very impressed with what the kids wrote to her.  Not a single one of them simply signed his or her name.  Even those who did not know her well had something cheerful, kind, or encouraging to write.  I was deeply moved.  The kids who I worried about - the ones who sometimes seemed like they cared more for themselves than anything else - wrote loving, sweet, thoughtful things to encourage a sick woman. 

And, because I didn't visit her on Sunday, she never got the chance to read them.

I kept thinking that one day wouldn't make a difference; I had asked Ross to mail the card yesterday morning.  He did so, going so far as to pull a stamp off another letter because we didn't have any more stamps.  And, as I got out of the shower this morning, my phone chirped an e-mail notification.  I read the message from the office and I began to cry.  Thor came into the bathroom immediately.  You know how they say that animals just know things?  He curled up in my arms and licked me and purred in my ear and meowed his sympathies until I stopped crying. 

I had received my healing last week and I believed that Linda would, too.  If God could mend a tiny tear in my fragile retina, what could possibly keep him from plucking cancer out of the cells in Linda's body?  The youth group prayed with us.  Ross and I have prayed the last few days.  Linda received prayer at a healing meeting last month. 

Why did she die?

Christians struggle so much with this question.  I don't have an answer.  I don't know why Linda had to succumb to the cancer, and why some other people are healed through surgery, therapy and radiation, and why others are healed miraculously, never to get another negative diagnosis again.

I don't know.  Because I am not God.

Something that comforted me deeply when I lost my babies is this thought: God didn't make any mistakes and all of us were designed for a specific purpose.  I believe that some of us were designed specifically for Heaven.  Our roles and existence await us there - passing over a life on earth.  I truly believe that my three children had jobs that were so urgent waiting for them in Heaven that they bypassed time here.  I'd like to think that God had a Linda-shaped hole in Heaven and a job that only her compassion, gentleness and faithfulness could possibly complete.  I don't know that such an idea is found anywhere in scripture, but it doesn't conflict with anything there, either, and so I have accepted it to gain a little bit of peace.  If you are a person who is genuinely eternity-minded - like Linda was - the vastness of "forever" isn't scary or daunting, but comforting. 

I wish I could have said good-bye.  I sincerely do.  But it would have been temporary at best.  It won't be long before I get to see Linda again.   And she can introduce me to her son who so lovingly has looked after my children.

That is the hope of Christ is us.

NWNE: An Excerpt

As promised to my faithful facebook friends and fans (and maybe some random people who took pity on me), here is a short little morsel of one of my two current novels-in-progress.  It's called Normal Was Never Enough.  This story, I admit, is nothing new: ordinary people find themselves suddenly in possession of abnormal powers.  It's a story literally as old as time itself, but I'm endeavoring to tell the story with a sense of humor, a sense of morality, and a sense of style.  In the following excerpt, we learn a little of the backstory of two of our main characters, Ben and Merrick.  Please do not use this, or any of my writing, without my explicit permission.  If you want to share, please post a link to my blog.  Thanks for protecting the integrity of my work!

With a bit of a sigh, Merrick muttered that Ben had darn well better appreciate what he was doing.  Ben glanced at Merrick’s Superman hoodie and stifled a grin, instead replying, “I know, man…thanks.  I didn’t know who else to take.  And you can’t beat free tickets.”

Merrick shrugged, his expression bland, but Ben saw through his façade.

Ever since they had met in fourth grade, when Merrick’s family moved to Pittsburgh, they’d pretended to be superheroes on the playground.  They had found a few (very few) like-minded friends and hunkered down in Merrick’s basement for hours of Dungeons and Dragons.  They vowed to each other that they’d always – always – get tickets to the midnight showings of the new action movies that came to town.  At least once a week, they snuck out of study hall to visit the local comic book shop.

Then Merrick got a girlfriend. 

            It was in eleventh grade.  The day was burned into Ben’s memory like the ring around an eclipse.  They’d made plans to pick up Mexican food and join a few buddies for a Star Wars marathon on cable.  He’d borrowed his parents’ station wagon and had stopped at Taco Bell (which was even busier than normal, as it was a Friday night).  He pulled into the Merricks’ driveway and stopped short.  Merrick was walking out the front door with a girl.

Not just any girl, of course.  A pretty girl.

Liz Cramer.  She wasn’t the most popular girl at school, not by any means – but she was cute, and she wore shorts that were just a little too short for school, and she had her own car, and she always smelled like apples.  That night, she was wearing impossibly tight jeans and a huge smile.  Merrick’s smile matched hers, but as Ben got out of the car, it faded.

“Oh, man,” he said, “I tried to get a hold of you before you left home.  I, uh, I can’t hang out tonight.”

“Hi, Ben,” Liz said.  She had a few fingers curled around Merrick’s hand.

Ben stood there for a moment, holding the soggy bag of tacos.  “But, nachos,” he said dumbly, as the grease dripped onto the sidewalk.

Merrick forced a grin and waved him off.  “We can get something for lunch tomorrow.  You don’t have to go to your grandpa’s, do you?”

Ben silently shook his head.  He had mowed his grandfather’s lawn two days before and it was still looking pretty good.  He was free for the weekend.  “But, Star Wars,” he pressed.

“Ah, I’ve seen it before,” Merrick said with a dismissive shrug.  “Hey, if you still wanna do something, I know that Curt and Billings are free tonight.  Maybe I can join you guys later, if I’m not out too late.”  He sent a raised eyebrow Liz’s way, and she grinned back.  She gave his hand a noticeable squeeze.

Ben hadn’t moved from his position outside the car.  Curt and Billings were supposed to meet up with them to watch the movies.  They always went to Merrick’s house because his parents didn’t mind them crashing in the basement.  They often played card games and watched movies late into the night, and it wasn’t unusual for them to wake up the next morning to Merrick’s (very attractive) mom flipping pancakes for them on a bright Saturday morning.

“Can’t Liz stay and watch the movies with us?” Ben persisted, hearing a bit of a whine creep into his voice.  The bag kept dripping.

“Ew, no,” Liz laughed good-naturedly.  “That’s not my thing.  Wait, that’s with the girl with the cinnamon bun hair and a whole bunch of robots, right?”

Ben’s face fell.  “Star Wars is…it’s a film that broke all types of records…it’s the ultimate story of good and evil.  It was ahead of its time.  It-it…”

“Cinnamon buns, yeah,” Merrick supplied as he guided Liz to her car.  “Give me a call tomorrow, Ben,” he threw over his shoulder as he opened the door for her.

At that very moment, the bag of tacos exploded onto the pavement, spattering Ben’s well-worn Nikes with grease and hot sauce.  Ben stood there, watching Liz and Merrick drive away, and, for the first time in his life, his confidence was shaken.  He’d always realized he was an introvert, a nerd, and he’d been fine with that – as long as he’d had someone to share in his nerdy indulgences.  Merrick’s betrayal was as cutting as if he’d used his Dark Elf to slay Ben’s Healer Priest.

As his socks began to soak up cheese sauce, Ben made the decision that he would never compromise who he was for something as trivial as a date with a pretty girl.

Which explains why he ended up spending most weekends alone.

 

And now, Merrick was “between girlfriends”, meaning that he was spending his weekends alone, too.  Ben had won a pair of tickets to the convention by answering some trivia on the radio, and he was quite pleased with himself.  Maybe, for a few hours, things would be like old times.  Before girls, before college, before jobs.  Merrick didn’t even seem to mind that Ben had donned his Doctor Who costume, complete with sonic screwdriver.

“You know there are going to be like eight million of you dressed like David Tennant,” Merrick had pointed out.

Ben grinned.  He copped a fairly decent British accent. “Right then, I’ll be in good company.  I’m not going for originality.  Just style.”

Merrick rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Can we just agree that we will try to act normal?”  When Ben turned an aghast face on him, Merrick amended, “Normal for geeks, I mean.”

“I’m in complete control,” Ben answered innocently.

As they entered the convention center, Ben felt himself getting giddy.  He barely paid attention to the bored-looking older gentleman scanning his ticket.  How could he, when he was surrounded by pointy-eared Vulcans and shiny androids and armed Avengers and two dozen other Time Lords?  He felt himself getting light-headed.  Then, he felt himself actually getting lighter.  He glanced down and noticed that his scuffed Converse sneakers were hovering a few inches above the floor.  He tried not to panic and forced himself back to the ground.  Merrick, watching a bikini-clad slave Leia saunter past, hadn’t noticed.

Ben wasn’t ready to tell him yet.  Maybe after the convention.  Maybe never.  Things had changed so much between them that he didn’t know if he could trust Merrick anymore.  Not the say he used to.  He wanted to.  But this wasn’t gossip or a secret crush he had to talk about.  This wasn’t high school drama.  This was real.  He took a deep breath and suggested they head to the booths and check out some local comic book artists. 

Merrick, still eyeing the princess, half-heartedly nodded agreement.

Hole? No, WHOLE.

Today was a difficult day.  Actually, it wasn't today so much as yesterday.  Yesterday, I got into a disagreement with my husband before he left for work, which always leaves us both frazzled.  Then, in an effort to bring some holiday cheer into the house, I began to put up some Christmas decorations.  When I got to the stockings, I began to cry.  There shouldn't be two; there should be five.  One for each of us...myself, my husband, and my three babies.

Today was supposed to have been Bennett's due date.  We lost him six months ago.

I broke down completely, and my poor dad chose that exact moment to call and let us know about some last minute plans regarding their visit to see my sister's graduation.  "What's wrong?" my dad asked, sounding a little panicked.  "There are only two stockings," I sobbed, as if he was supposed to know what that signified.  After he calmed me down a little, I sighed that I didn't even know why I was decorating.  Although the family spends Thanksgiving at our house, no one visits us between December and oh, the following April.  They're the better for it, of course, because our ancient, drafty house is rarely warmer than 60 degrees in the winter, despite our best efforts.  Still, that wasn't the point.  The point was that I didn't feel cheery and decorating for Christmas was making things worse!

My dad then promised he'd bring my stepmom and grandma to visit.  I made a mental note to remind them to wear sweaters and bring Snuggies.

Ross was dealing with a lot of frustration about his job situation, and wasn't in the mood to talk when he got home from work, but I had a lot to say.  Which meant that I snuck out of bed to curl up on the living room couch and cry.  Not long after, Ross trudged down the stairs and asked what was wrong.  I made every effort to carefully explain my feelings.  I was dealing with disappointment, sorrow, rejection, and loneliness.  Even after I'd seen my friend Jen that day, who had lovingly crocheted for me a beautiful prayer shawl.  Even after I'd received a special word of encouragement from Pastor Mark earlier in the week.  Even after I'd been contacted by an international ministry that wished to use my photographs in its newsletter.  I was still heavy with sorrow.  Things weren't made easier by the doctor's appointment scheduled for the following day, of course.  I was going to learn when I would need eye surgery.

Last week, I went to a new eye doctor to use up my insurance benefits before the end of the year.  From the doctor, a charming young woman about my age, I received the usual lecture about not wearing my contacts too long, and carefully cleaning them each night, but then I was blasted with the revelation that there was a hole in my right retina and that I should consider getting surgery right away.  She explained that a torn retina can quickly lead to blindness unless corrected immediately.

I was utterly defeated.  The sheer number of horrible things that have happened to Ross and me in the past three months was overwhelming enough, but to suddenly have to worry about my very ability to see threw me over the edge.  Plus, there had been some confusion regarding my health insurance after I was let go from Fenner, and at the time, I was without coverage.  I sat down and had a heart-to-heart with God.  You know, one of those little chats that consists of nothing but tears, threats, accusations and pouting?  Oh, you call that a tantrum?  Okay, then.  I sat down and had a tantrum.  Fair enough.  I just didn't think I could handle much more.

This morning started out ordinarily enough, with the cats panicking over their breakfast (well, actually just Thor panics.  Loki just follows after him and imitates him, so it looks like they're both in a panic).  Even though I didn't sleep well last night, I felt pretty good this morning.  I was going to meet my dear friend Lindsay and she was going to go to the hospital with me, then we planned on having lunch together.

Well...I'm not the Queen of Navigation, nor the Empress of Promptness, so I got out the door later than I had planned and I soon realized that I didn't have time to get to her place, near Station Square, then over to Allegheny General for my 10:30 appointment.  So I let her know, and went in alone. 

Although the opthamology practice at AGH was really large (the office itself was about three times bigger than most I'd seen), the staff was friendly, personable and kind.  Noticing that I appeared to be the youngest patient present, I filled out my paperwork.  I then met with a technician, and sat still for a few tests.  I finally met with Dr. Verstraeten, a tall, polite man with a shock of fading ginger hair and a faint German accent, who promptly smiled and said, "There's nothing wrong with your eye." 

Even for someone who believes in miraculous healings - and who was praying for one! - I could hardly accept what the doctor was saying.  He went on to tell me that I indeed had benign floaters, likely caused by blunt force trauma when I was younger (I had noticed them since I was about 12, which is, in fact, when I suffered a fall and it my head).  He said that I have nothing to worry about, but that if my vision suddenly grew blurry or I saw flashes of light, that I should contact them right away.

I left the office in a pleasant daze - well, partly because my right pupil was still dilated.  I was so grateful for the news.  Either my other doctor had misdiagnosed me - which I had no particular reason to suspect - or God had healed my eye.  Either way, I was overjoyed that I didn't have to worry about the surgery (simple and quick) or the recover (long and arduous).  Oh, and that we got to save money, effort and all sorts of other drama.

I picked up Lindsay and we had a lovely lunch together (her treat, in honor of my birthday last month, even though I fought her for the bill).  Every time I hang out with Lindsay, I am recharged, and I feel like I can take on the world again.  She's such a good-hearted, simple person, but she has that effect on me!  I keep wondering why we don't make plans more often, and I'm determined to change that.  I really feel that God put us together to encourage and sustain each other.  When I recently learned of her prengancy, I felt that brief stab of jealousy that comes for, I am assuming, many childless women, but the Lord almost instantly led me to a place of deep thankfulness for her pregnancy.  I genuinely want to rejoice with her.  I know she will be an excellent and loving mother, and I am excited for her. 

With each pregnancy my friends experience, I am getting one step closer to my own healing.  I don't think the sorrow itself over losing my children will ever completely disappear, but one day it won't have the same weight.  It will be a historical fact, rather than a deep, defining scar.  I will tell the children I have in this lifetime that their sister and brothers had a job in Heaven that was so important, God couldn't wait for them and he needed them right away.  I wouldn't be surprised if, after his birthday celebration with Jesus today, Bennett finds himself before the throne of God, singing and dancing and shouting with joy that he is in the presence of his maker for eternity.