Dana's Valley

by Janette Oke

  “I’m glad you came.”

  I smiled in response. I wasn’t glad to be there.

  Mom pulled up three chairs, and we took seats around the bed.

  “We were working on a scrapbook. Would you like to help?”

  “Maybe later.” I was glad Brett bowed out of the activ~ity on behalf of us all. I had no interest in an album just then. But Brett cleared his throat like Dad did before beginning a family conference and said, “I’d like to talk to Dana. And Erin.”

  What was this? I couldn’t believe I had heard him say the words.

  Before I could react, Mom smiled and took Corey’s hand to direct him out of the room. She pulled on the oversized door and let it swing itself shut behind her.

  I turned to Brett, wondering what on earth he planned to say.

  He began with resolve. “Dana, I asked Mom if I could talk to you. I think she told you that I asked to have some time with you and Erin.”

  Dana nodded a response.

  “I wanted Erin to be here too, because I wanted her to hear what I came to say.”

  Dana smiled at him silently.

  “I want—no, I need to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted since you’ve been sick. And I’m sorry it made you feel unloved.”

  I wanted to bolt from the room. It was far too much. To be in Dana’s hospital, in Dana’s room, and to be hearing Brett coming clean for years of anger, of self-centeredness. I couldn’t imagine why he had wanted me to be present.

  Tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Here he was, my grown-up brother, crying. Repenting. “I know it’s not your fault that you got sick. I knew all along it wasn’t right to blame you, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I hope …” His voice cracked, but he went on. “I hope you can forgive me. And I want you to know how much I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Dana could not speak aloud, but she mouthed the words to Brett.

  He scooted his chair a little closer to Dana and glanced over at me, as if to include me in what he was saying. I could barely see through my own tears. “I keep wishing we could go back. I hate growing older. We’ve got so many good memories together as kids. Do you remember the times we spent with Mom and Corey by the creek? Or catching fireflies under the trees at our old house? And the costume party at Carli’s?”

  Dana pointed up at her collage of pictures. We were all there together—the old lady, the teddy bear, and the butterfly.

  “I remember it all—that’s how I keep going.” She swallowed again. “I just think about all the good times.”

  Brett managed a crooked smile, and then choked a little. “You always made me feel better than anybody else could. It hurt so much to see you suffer and not to be able to stop it. I couldn’t seem to do anything but walk away. I wish I could go back. I wish I could do it all over again—differently.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I understand.”

  Brett grabbed for a tissue from Dana’s bedside table and blew his nose hard. Then he handed one to me. Dana’s eyes were teary too. She turned them on me.

  “I love you too, Erin.”

  I pushed my face into the tissue and pretended I too needed to blow. The truth was I just couldn’t face Dana’s eyes.

  “Erin.” Brett spoke my name with the same resoluteness he had used to address Dana. “I want to apologize to you too. I’ve already had a long talk with Mom and Dad, and I talked with Corey last night. I waited to talk to you here because I wanted it to be the three of us again.”

  I couldn’t speak yet, so I blew my nose.

  “I’ve missed a lot of your life too. And I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  He stood to hug me and I reached up to hug him back. If only the clock could be turned back. I’d give every material possession I’d ever held dear. We embraced for several moments, and then he reached carefully for Dana’s hand.

  Brett spoke again. “I’m going to go get Mom. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she answered. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  He left us alone, and I turned my face to the floor, trying to gather my composure.

  “Erin.”

  I looked up again. Her gaze was impossible to ignore.

  “You’re still angry.”

  My lip began to quiver.

  “You’ll get past it too. I know you.”

  A breathy gasp escaped me. “Oh, Dana. You have no idea.”

  “Yes. I do.” Our eyes met again. “Graham came to see me—he told me you were in such pain. That you thought you’d given up on God. But you know what, Erin, He hasn’t given up on you. I’ve been praying for you.”

  There it was again. I couldn’t believe my ears. My sister—my dying sister—had been burdened by a request to pray for me. I needed to get out of there. I needed to walk.

  “There might not … be much time.” I could tell the words were coming more slowly. She was laboring to speak. “I wanted … you to have a chance … while I’m still here.”

  That was enough. I could take no more. I rose quickly, slipped out the door, and nearly ran down the hallway. It was difficult to find a place to be alone. I stepped into the stairwell and shoved the heavy door closed behind me. I was sobbing and shaking. I couldn’t see my way to go farther, so I sank down on the top stair.

  Mom found me and took a seat beside me. I had not yet regained control of my emotions, but I decided to talk to her anyway. “I can’t do this. I just can’t do it.”

  “Erin, what are we asking you to do?”

  “Dana wants me to stop being angry. She says she wants me to do it while she’s still alive. Alive! I have to hurry and deal with this while my sister’s still alive?” My voice cracked.

  Mom sat for a moment before speaking. “It’s not for her sake, you know. It’s for yours.”

  “But how can I, Mom? How can I just turn off my feelings so I can clean up all this mess in the time we have left? I don’t know how. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Well, Erin, we need to pray—”

  I didn’t let her finish. “I can’t. I won’t do it. How can you even ask? ”

  “I don’t … I don’t know what you mean.” Mom seemed to be caught entirely off guard by my outburst.

  “We’ve been praying. We’ve all been praying. It hasn’t worked. How can you even suggest that we pray anymore?”

  Mom rose stiffly, and I saw the fire in her eyes. “What do you mean, it hasn’t worked?” Her voice had risen, and it echoed through the open staircase.

  “Dana. She’s in there. She’s dying. God didn’t do anything for us,” I cried.

  “Is that what you see? Is that as much as you’ve understood? Why, Erin, how can you be so blind?” Her passion had not been what I’d expected. “I watched my daughter fall ill to a devastating disease and I prayed like I’ve never prayed before that I would have the courage and strength to help her. Only God could have carried me through in the way that I needed in order to minister to Dana. I could never have managed it on my own. Never.”

  “But, we asked God to—”

  “Let me finish. And your dad, watching the finances as closely as he has. He says over and over again that there’s only one answer for the fact that we’ve been able to stay afloat. God did it, Erin. God made it work. Everything timed perfectly so we could make ends meet. Save a home. Meet expenses. Only God could have helped us manage things that well.

  “And all the other timing worked out too—can’t you see the timing? I had all those special years at home with you—loving you and nurturing you. Even with Corey. If God hadn’t held off Dana’s illness until Corey was in school, I don’t know how I could have managed.”

  I dropped my eyes in silence.

  “And, then, think about the fact that we had Grandma just when we needed her. Not selfishly keeping her, but just at the times when we had so few options. Can’t you see it, Erin? It was God.” Her voice was pleading with me now. “And Dana’s remission. It was
a gift. It was the breath of strength that carried us through the painful times that followed. How much more could God have done for us? I’ve seen His hands holding us up every step of the way.”

  “But, Mom, she’s still dying.”

  Mom pushed back my hair and cupped my face in her hands, drawing close to me so that her eyes looked directly into mine. “We’re all dying, Erin. Life is not what we’re trying to hold on to for Dana. It was never about keeping her, even though it hurts so to lose her. We’re praying to release her … whenever it’s God’s will that she go. And we pray the same for you … and for Brett … and for Corey. We don’t waste our prayers on salvaging life here—we’re asking that God call you to the life that’s eternal. And that’s what God has given to Dana. Life that won’t end. She’s almost made it through all the pain and arrived at the beginning. God has answered every prayer.”

  I leaned against Mom and cried.

  Mom and Dad spoke with the doctors later that afternoon. More test results had come in. The medical team was ready to admit there was nothing more that could be done for Dana. More treatments would only make her more ill. And so there was not much left to discuss. In keeping with her request, Dana was coming home.

  I’ve no idea why I hadn’t realized the inevitable—but I hadn’t. Surely in my heart I knew, but my head refused to accept it. Or maybe my head knew, but my heart denied it. I don’t know. Anyway, all this time I was thinking that Dana was battling an illness and would eventually win.

  I’d been angry with God for not acting. For not shortening the days to a speedy recovery. I guess I was still expecting Him to intervene in spite of all my raging against Him. It didn’t seem fair that Dana should have to be sick and weak for such a long, long time just so God could prove to all of us that He was in control. But maybe I had a different idea of how He controls things. …

  Even my talk with Mom didn’t jar me to the realization that this was a losing battle. Even when I myself had said the words, Dana’s dying. I guess I hoped if I said them right out someone would step in to deny them. No one did.

  It was an e-mail that did it. I walked into our room after an exhausting basketball game. I was feeling up … yet I was down. I had played a good game. Coach had been most complimentary … but we’d still lost. By one measly point. It might as well have been a hundred. A loss was a loss. It really stung.

  I thought at first that Dana was asleep, but she stirred. I hoped I hadn’t disturbed her. I heard a little sigh. Then she spoke softly. “Katie’s gone. Her mom sent a note.”

  “Who’s Katie?” Even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. I wished I hadn’t asked.

  “From the cancer center. She was a real sweet kid.”

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I began to gather my things to prepare for bed and headed for the hall bathroom.

  “It won’t be long until we’ll all be there. All in our special little Going Home Club.”

  Dana’s words brought me up short. She spoke with such finality. Such acceptance. I wanted to lash out at her. Deny what she was saying. I swung to face her.

  “You’re not gonna …” Suddenly I couldn’t say the word.

  But she understood. She looked directly at me, her eyes not wavering. “I am, Erin. I am going to die. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow … but soon.”

  She was silent for a moment and then continued, softly. “Remember way back when I said I was afraid I was going to die? Well, I’m not afraid anymore, Erin. Jesus has promised He’ll be there waiting for me. Some days I can hardly wait.”

  I wanted to deny her words. She had said them with a wistfulness. With longing. And suddenly it hit me like a blow. It was true. My sister was going to die. Die. A teenager. And there was nothing that I could do to stop it. Nothing anyone could do.

  I rushed from the room and down the hall to the bathroom. I was sure I was going to be sick. My stomach knotted until I felt nauseated. My legs felt as if they could no longer support me.

  How could this happen? To us? What had we done? Why? Why? We had prayed. We had fought. We had even sacrificed—so much—and Dana was still going to die. Die! My sister. My sister.

  I felt myself going down and didn’t even try to stop it. My body slumped forward. It was much later, after all my tears of anger and pain were spent, that I found myself squeezed into the small space between the tub and the toilet, my face buried in the soft plush of the pink seat cover.

  Why haven’t I known all along? I chided myself when rational thoughts returned. Everyone else did. Why have I refused to believe it? Dana. My sister, Dana, is going to die.

  I suppose it was partly because this all had gone on for such a long, long time. We had learned to take one day at a time. Just living and making it through seemed to take all our energy and attention. It had begun to seem that this was life. This day-to-day caring for an ill family member. Now I was forced to realize that there would be an end. An end I didn’t want, but couldn’t prevent.

  A fresh burst of tears bent my head again. I hardly noticed the dampness of the pink plush from my former tears. The pain was almost too intense to bear.

  But for some reason I didn’t lash out at God again. Maybe I had at last lost all hope that He really did exist.

  I had never felt so all alone in my entire life.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A siren woke me in the middle of the night. It had become a familiar-enough sound that at first I just rolled over to go back to sleep. Then full consciousness jerked me upright. The siren was pulling into our driveway again. That meant Dana was in trouble.

  I heard hurried movements and hushed, worried voices. I didn’t hesitate longer but fumbled in the dark for my robe. I had retired on the family room couch so Mom could have my bed. Even before I had thrown the robe about my shoulders, I was through the arched doorway.

  I was just in time to see Dad’s back as he ran toward the front door. “What is it?” I called out after him, my voice husky with fear.

  He half turned, but only for a minute, and called back over his shoulder, “Dana’s stopped breathing.”

  A chill passed through my body. I didn’t know whether to follow Dad, hurry to where Dana was, or run back to the couch. Then I heard myself saying, “Oh, God. Please … help us.”

  The words came very naturally from the anguish of my heart. They should have surprised me after what I had been feeling … and saying. But they didn’t. And in that brief moment, I knew I meant the words. That I believed God could help us. And perhaps, even more importantly, I believed that He would. He’d been my mother’s strength through all this pain. He could do something for me. For all of us.

  Already two paramedics, equipment in hand, were dashing up our front walk. They knew the way to the room where Dana lay. They’d been there before.

  I wanted to follow. And I wanted to flee. I did neither. I just stood rooted to the spot and continued to pray. Tears ran down my cheeks, and they were not all for Dana. My sorrow and my joy were all so intermingled. Even as my spirit felt the stirrings of renewed life, Dana might be fighting for her last breath. I knew that. But for the first time since her illness I was actually ready to let her go. “Lord … your will,” I managed to pray. At the same time, I hoped with all of my heart that God would still give us some time together. “I know you can heal her,” I whispered. “But if you don’t, I know you love her a lot more even than we do. …”

  By the time the stretcher was pushed rapidly out the doorway toward the waiting ambulance, Dana was breathing again. Raspy, catchy little breaths—but she was breathing. I stood and cried some more as I watched her go. Then I followed outside into the chill of the night, my robe inadequate against the sharp wind. Just before they pushed the stretcher inside, I managed to slip up beside Dana. I didn’t know if she could hear me, but I took her cold hand. “Dana,” I said. “Dana … come back. Come home again … okay? And I’m praying for you. …”

  And then I was being nudged aside by pa
ramedics in a hurry to get her to emergency.

  Mom and Dad were already climbing into the car to follow. I watched until the blinking red light turned the corner at the end of the block, and then I returned to the house. But I didn’t go right to sleep. I couldn’t. I had a lot more praying to do. I fell on my knees by Dana’s now-empty bed and confessed to God all the anger and bitterness. I asked Him to forgive me and to cleanse my heart of all its selfishness and sin. By the time I was ready to try to reclaim sleep, I was feeling clean and free from the bondages of bitterness and anger. I was at peace.

  Dana did come home again. After three days in the hospital, she begged to be allowed to return to her own room. I was waiting for her. Mom and I tucked her in and made her as comfortable as we could. She managed a weak smile. “It’s good to be home,” she said. She looked at me. “I heard what you said before they put me in the ambulance,” she said. “Thank you, Erin. I’m so glad.”

  I could only squeeze her hand in response.

  “Would you like me to read to you?” I eventually offered. Dana had been asking for her Bible to be read to her because she no longer had the strength to hold it and turn the pages.

  “Later. Right now I just want to rest.”

  I saw Mom bite her lip as she started to leave the room. Dana called to her, and Mom turned back, coming over to sit on Dana’s bed.

  “Momma. One of these times the paramedics aren’t going to be able to help me.” It was a forthright statement made with no emotion. Mom just nodded.

  “Please, Momma … let me go. I’m ready to go Home. I’m really … really tired of all this fighting for life … all the pain. Please … next time, don’t call them.”

  I couldn’t tell if the intensity in Dana’s eyes was stronger than the sorrow in Mom’s. I saw her lip tremble. She reached out and took Dana’s hand. “Oh, honey,” she said, and she was crying now. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

  But Dana was persistent. “Momma … you know it’s going to happen. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. The oxygen … the medicines … they just prolong the pain. I … I’d much rather just go to see Jesus.”