Kiss Your Miracle

I’m sitting at my dad’s bedside this afternoon, and right now the two of us have the room to ourselves. My mom finally agreed to go upstairs for a nap and my aunt Mary headed home for some rest and a shower. Neither one of them has left my dad’s side for more than a few minutes at a time recently, and my guess is that they’ll be back soon. The rest of my family is around too, some in the next room, and some outside getting a bit of fresh air. But for now, I sit in this room alone with my father, marking these moments in my memory.

Yesterday morning was difficult. My dad was in pain and nothing seemed to help. His pulse was fast, his breathing was raspy, and he couldn’t stop moving around in the bed. Finally, after multiple calls and visits from the hospice nurses, a continuous care nurse arrived, and by 5pm or so, my dad had settled into a deep sleep. Our nurse said she thought the end would come soon, maybe that evening or during the night, but of course, no one except God knows for sure when that moment will happen. We all gathered around his bed and took turns praying for him and thanking him for loving and taking care of us. We passed around plenty of Kleenex.

But we haven’t just been crying. We’ve been laughing too, and telling lots of stories, and looking through old photo albums. The babies have been in and out of my dad’s room, chattering away like they always do. Last night neighbors brought us creamy chicken and rice soup, bread from Panera, fresh apples, and chocolate chip cookies. No one wanted to go upstairs to bed; most of us drifted off in our chairs instead. Throughout the night, my dad remained in the same quiet position that he is still in now. His blood pressure is extremely low and his pulse is faint, but he continues to sleep peacefully, taking in slow, shallow breaths.

My dad is dying and that in itself is awful, almost too much to stand. But that horrible pain from yesterday morning seems to have faded, at least for now. We are hoping and praying that his last breath will be peaceful, and right now it seems like that is a very real possibility. My family is still together, and we’ve all had plenty of time to hug and kiss my dad, and to say goodbye. The tears and the laughter are both sweet in their own way. How gentle of God to give us both.

It’s been just over five weeks since my dad’s terminal cancer diagnosis and our emotions have rolled us in every possible direction, sometimes all in the same day. But as the cancer has spread and my dad has grown weaker, his pain steadily increasing, we have come to a place where we are starting to see his death as a release from the trap his body has become. As Christians we know that my dad’s soul is eternal and isn’t harmed by the cancer.

Still, the sadness is overwhelming. I find myself extra sensitive these days. We’ve flown in and out of Chicago several times this past month and I can’t look at its familiar, sparkly skyline without crying a little, thinking of how my dad has worked in his office on Wabash Street for years, but won’t be back again. Lately everything seems to remind me of my dad. And everything makes me miss him. He is still here in a sense – his heart is still beating. But he is not the same Papa who raised us. As the hospice workers have pointed out, “He has one foot in each world – ours and eternity.” Just breathing consumes all of his energy. He is now past the point of eating, talking, and even being awake.

This past week Adam and I flew back to Florida for a few days, and on Wednesday Adam’s grandma, uncle, sister and parents came over for dinner. I was happy to see them, but to be completely honest, a little tense too. I figured they would want to talk about my dad and I wasn’t sure I was up for it. I tried to be normal as they arrived, but found myself more comfortable working in the kitchen while they chatted in the living room. I was standing by the stove when Adam’s parents showed up. John, my father-in-law, immediately walked over to me and gave me a hug. Then he said, “I just want you to know how sorry I am that this is happening to your family.” His eyes filled with tears and he went on to specifically describe how my dad had encouraged him a few months back. My own eyes filled with tears and then he hugged me again. I felt my body breathe a sigh of relief and my tension faded. The whole interaction was probably two minutes long, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

Later that night as Adam and I gave Sky a bath, I told Adam what his dad had said. “I don’t even remember his exact words,” I said. “All I know is that they were perfect.”  When I thought about it more, I realized that what John didn’t do was just as powerful as what he’d done. He didn’t asked me a series of questions. He didn’t pressure me to explain my feelings and he didn’t give me any advice. He didn’t tell me to try this or try that, or to pray this or pray that. He didn’t start talking about himself and his experiences or tell me that he understands how we feel. What he did was deliberately, sincerely acknowledge my family’s pain. And then he stepped back. We spent the rest of the night talking about other things and that was exactly what I needed.

I hope that the next time I’m close to someone in a crisis, I remember John’s example and how his nearness, his carefully chosen words, and then his space showed me the meaning of the word sympathy.

“A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.” – Proverbs 25:11

On Monday, Adam, Skylar and I flew from Michigan back to Florida. I’ve been gone for three and a half weeks and things at home have been piling up. Skylar and I both have doctor appointments this week, and Adam needs to put in some time at work. Our plan is just to be here a few days and then fly back to my family this weekend.

I guess in a way it’s nice to be home. Our house feels spacious and quiet compared to the noise and chaos of my parents’ house in Michigan. But I can’t really enjoy being here. All day long I think about my family up north. I wonder how my dad’s day is going – whether he was able to sleep last night, if he’s eaten much, if he’s feeling calm or anxious, the things he’s said today, his pain level – all things I would know if I were still there. I can always call my mom for an update, but I know how busy she is, and that long phone conversations are a burden to her these days. If I were home, I’d catch her in the kitchen while she makes her standard breakfast (rice cakes with peanut butter, eaten while bustling around) or I’d sit on her bed and talk to her while she puts on her makeup. I’d be able to see for myself how my dad is doing, and I could hug him and tell him I love him before he goes to bed, which is wonderful even when he’s not coherent enough to say much in return.

Leaving my family for the week has only emphasized to me what a blessing it’s been to be with them. Every day with my dad is precious and I want as many of them as I can have. Even though traveling with Sky, our firecracker fifteen-month-old, is not easy, the thought of flying back to my family this weekend is a relief. But as I approach the third trimester of my pregnancy, I wonder how long I’ll be able to stay. It’s just one of the many question marks that cover the days ahead. Thank God it’s not up to me to find the answers. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t plan out the next few months of my life. But the Lord knows what will happen. He knows our son’s birthday and he knows how much I want to be near my parents through the crisis of my dad’s cancer. He will work things out for our best. And all that’s required of me is to follow Jesus today.

“Now what I am commanding you today is not too difficult for you or beyond your reach.” – Deuteronomy 30:11

This past Thursday I went with my parents to see Pastor Colin Smith, head of our old church in the Chicago suburbs. That day happened to mark the one month point since my dad’s diagnosis. It’s hard to believe that just over four weeks ago he was putting in busy, twelve-hour days at his law practice. He now has difficulty walking and trouble formulating his sentences. Those who’ve had experience with pancreatic cancer know it’s not like any other disease. Its vicious appetite shocks us daily.

When we got to the church, Pastor Colin and my dad talked privately while my mom and I waited near the sanctuary. We found a little bench and decided to sit down and pray. At one point during her prayer my mom said, “Lord, we wait with anticipation. We are excited to see how you will work things out over these coming days.” I opened my eyes and looked up at her. Had she really just used the word “excited” about the future? As soon as she finished praying I asked her about it.

Me: Is that how you really feel? Excited?

My Mom: Why shouldn’t we feel excited?

Me = blank stare

My Mom: Linnea, your father’s world here is narrowing. Every day there are more things he can’t do. He isn’t interested in food. Talking is difficult. He’ll never work or drive again. Can you imagine how hard it must be for him?

Me: Exactly, it’s hard!

My Mom: But he’s about to go to heaven. His tiny world will be blown wide open! Think of all he’ll get to experience, and it’ll be much, much better than anything we have here. If we are truly believers, then that’s where our hope is – in heaven. Not here.

***

There aren’t words to express the level of difficulty and stress my mom is currently facing twenty-four hours a day. She doesn’t want to say goodbye to my dad, and I know she battles her share of fear and uncertainty and sadness. But she doesn’t stop there. She always comes back to the promises of God. The words of scripture are her daily vocabulary and they shape her perspective. I don’t think anyone would blame her if she fell apart. But instead she is reaching out for God’s grace, and she is setting the tone for our entire family. No matter how hard things may be, my mom is quick to remind all of us that life here on earth is not all we have. And when we are overwhelmed with sadness at the thought of my dad leaving us, dwelling on heaven is the only thing that helps.

“But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.” – Philippians 3:20-21

My dad’s cancer is the main thing on my family’s mind these days. We’ve spent hours praying, talking, and wondering what the future holds. But at the same time, life rolls forward. Since I got here three weeks ago, the leaves have changed colors and the air has grown cooler. “Your belly is definitely getting bigger,” I hear from someone just about every other day. Sky is fifteen months now, and since we arrived she’s learned to repeat names and say her first full sentence – “I don’t know” – which she says like a teenager, making us all laugh every time.

The other day Adam and I took Sky over to my cousin Johanna’s house. She has a two-year-old named Beck and a nine-month-old named Ruby. My brother Hans and his wife Katy were there too, with nine-month-old Nicholas. The kids ran/crawled around in a chaotic mess, and we all marveled to think that a year from now, there will be three more babies in the mix (our baby boy, due in February, and Hans and Katy’s twins, due in April).

I have to be honest. I haven’t spent much time lately thinking about my pregnancy. When I stop and give it my full attention, I’m excited, but there’s been so much happening with my dad that my thoughts have been concentrated on my parents. But as I watched the kids play, I was struck by the simple thought that one of those children is my daughter. And when Katy talks about her pregnancy, I can participate firsthand because I’m pregnant too. Me. The girl with a major hormone imbalance and just one fallopian tube, which is supposedly blocked.

My dad is struggling and it’s difficult for us all. But the God who gave Adam and me two “impossible” pregnancies is the same God who holds my dad in his arms this very moment. Sometimes His miracles are tangible – answers to prayer that we get to hold and hug. And sometimes His miracles are so deep in a person’s soul that only God is truly aware of their extent. But they are no less miraculous than physical blessings. God is at work in the heart of each individual in my family, and He alone knows what is most important for each of us.