“What do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can with the situation I’ve been dealt,” I tell him, but something inside of me wrenches in discomfort, because I know that’s a lie.
“You know what I want. I want you to accept nothing less than living. I want you to summon all the guts needed and combine it with your stubbornness and intelligence and resilience and persistence and strength that makes you, you. I want you to gather whatever it is you need inside of yourself and in the medical community and fight as though your life depended on it, because it does. It’s time you act like this is the biggest fight of your life. I want you to accept nothing less than the best outcome because that’s what you deserve, because that’s what you want. I want you to show cancer who the hell is boss. But the kicker is, I want you to do it for you. Because that’s what you choose. That is the Remy I know. That is the Remy I-”
My mind is spinning and I cut him off in anger, “You have no idea what this is like. No idea how this feels. How hard I am fighting…just to get through each day right now.”
“No, you’re right, I don’t. But you know what? I know you. I know you better than anyone, and this woman,” he gestures to me as if I don’t know to whom he’s referring, “isn’t her.”
“You know, that’s funny. Because given how little time we’ve spent with each other over the past several months, how can you claim to even know me anymore at all? Again, I ask you who the hell you think you are?” A low blow and I know it, but I’m angry and will lash out with anything.
Having paced while delivering his lecture, his current stance away from the door enables me to move closer to exit. He moves toward me and I take steps backward until my back meets the door. He gets close to me, his face even with mine, “I know, and will always know you better than anyone. You use the nail on your index finger to pick at the side of your thumb when you’re stressed.” He looks down at my hand and sees I’m doing exactly that. I put my hand down at my side and he smirks. “You hate tomatoes, you love oranges, you make all kinds of lists – a habit you picked up from your mom. You love your cat Meatball, but always secretly have also wanted a dog, something you feel guilty about. You like lots of ice in cold beverages, but hate to hear others crunching it. You stash chocolate in your bedside stand in a canister, thinking no one will ever know your secret. But I do. I know you hate and will always hate frogs,” he smiles and I know he’s remembering my birthday years ago. “Your hair looks like golden silk in the sun and you always keep a safety pin in your bag in case of an emergency. And who am I? I’m the man that wants more time with you. All the fucking time I can get. I’m the man that refuses to allow you to give up without a fight and loves you enough to tell you when you’re being stupid. And make no mistake; you’re being stupid. As I said before, you’re assuming an outcome without any proof; a path that will be the same as your mother’s and I’m telling you that’s one hell of a stupid assumption.”
Feeling rattled by all the things he just said, I almost feel breathless as I respond, “You don’t know that.” And then my voice gets louder because my emotions are pushing so hard against my chest I feel like I’m going to explode, “You don’t fucking know that!”“Neither do you!” he bellows. “You’re spending all this time comparing yourself to your mom and her situation, but have you even asked yourself the biggest question of them all?”
“What question?” I ask exasperated.
“What would your mother think about this; about your choice? The woman that taught you to always have a reason to keep going, to not let assumptions and fear hold you back in life, to not hold you back from what matters – what would she say? What would she think of your willingness to throw in the towel? About how easy it seems for you to just give up?”
“She did!” I yell at him. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks. “For all the preaching she did about continuing to move forward, to not borrow trouble, to enjoy life – she gave up, Oliver. She may have received treatment, but she stopped living when she got that diagnosis. She changed after that diagnosis and was never the same. She forgot all about our lists and in time, she lost hope, she assumed and expected the worst…she… became a shell of the mother I knew.”
“Maybe so. Maybe eventually she did do all of those things, Remy, but you know what the difference is between you and her?” Shaking my head I brace myself, automatically feeling in my very soul that what he’s about to tell me is going to hurt. “She tried. It certainly wasn’t the end result she hoped for, the one she wished to have, but she tried whatever was available to her so she could spend more time with you. She didn’t give up, Remy - only her body gave in. And I only see the fighting, the persistence, the struggle she endured so she could be here as long as possible. She fought with every single thing she had.”
“And yet, she still lost.”
“She may have lost her life, but in the end she died knowing she gave it her all, her best. She couldn’t have done anything more, and likely not differently. She couldn’t have tried harder. She died teaching you that courage means making the decision to try.”
Trying to process everything he’s said, I’m quiet. I’m not sure how or if I want to respond. Everything within me hurts; my mind, my heart, my spirit. I feel a sob rising in my throat but I do everything I can to hold it in. Am I a coward? Is it easier to just give up than to make the choice to fight because fighting means I may fail? Choosing not to fight has merit as well. It enables me to plan for the end result. I won’t get my hopes up. I could potentially have more energy and not be sick and alone. I can’t be disappointed. I can take a predictable road. I’ve had a reasonably good life, even if shorter than I would have liked. How can that not be an acceptable choice? Isn’t choosing to not get treatment a brave act too? The fact is, I’ve not found a reason to choose differently. But, Oliver’s words have twisted me up because my mom fought, she fought with everything she had. She may have become frail, tired, weak and almost unrecognizable in her sadness and pain, but she had far more courage than I do right now.
“You know, Oliver… sometimes courage also means being brave enough to let go. To know one’s limits and establish boundaries.” Feeling as if the walls are closing in on me, I know what I need. “I’m getting out of here.”
Oliver nods, but doesn’t say another word. When our eyes meet there’s a fire in his, a desire to make me feel all the things he hopes for me, but not able to process that right now or frankly think that it’s his right to expect, I spin on my heel and walk out the door.
His words hit me hard and as I make my way out to the front of the resort to get a taxi I realize that even though he knew I wouldn’t likely react well, he loved me enough to be honest with me anyway.
My chest feels tight and my eyes burn as I make my way to the front of the resort intending to get a taxi. I knew eventually Oliver and I would talk about my diagnosis in some capacity, but knowing didn’t prepare me for the actual conversation. My emotions are all over the board. Part of me wanted to jump into his arms and hold onto him and tell him I never want to leave him. I want to do anything and everything it takes if it means I can spend more time with him. The other part of me sees flashes of my mother’s last days in my mind - pale, emaciated, broken – and that scares me right out of those thoughts. I don’t want to end up like her. Deep down, if I ask myself what I’m afraid of, what’s holding me back from doing everything I can to have as much time as possible – it’s fear. On that point Oliver was accurate. I’m scared to the very depths of my soul. I’m doing my best to put on a brave and confident front about the potential choice of not pursuing treatment. But I’m anything but courageous and I’m torn to shreds on the inside because I’m torn between two scary choices. Both have the potential for immeasurable negative consequences. And truly, it’s difficult to see any positive ones. I don’t know whether to laugh at myself or cry over the façade.
Once outside, I ask the bellhop to procure a taxi and explain what I saw and where I’d like to
go. He’s happy to help and the whole process is quick and painless. The driver is more into his music than talking to me and if I were in a better mood I’d giggle when he starts singing along to a Britney Spears song. I’m glad he’s into his music since I’m not up for small talk anyway.
Once we arrive, I fish cash out of my purse to pay him, exit the car, and then stand on the sidewalk staring at the unique building in front of me before walking up the twenty or so stairs to the front entrance.
I’m really not sure why I’m here. Well, I know why; I’m just not sure why right now. When we drove through town on our way to snorkel we went by several places and among them was a church. It’s crossed my mind a couple of times since and today I’m giving into the pull.
A plaque on the outside tells me that this church is St. Jude’s Cathedral and it has been here for one hundred years. You wouldn’t know it. A beauty on the outside, the towering church has a large prominent cross above the entrance, a bell tower so high up you’d think it might be touching heaven itself, and beautiful stained glass windows. Since it sits north and south, I can only imagine how beautiful the windows must look during sunrise and sunset. Looking deserted, I’m not sure it will be open, but I tentatively tug on the wrought iron handle and am surprised when it smoothly opens.
My mom and I attended church together frequently when I was young. As I got older and then certainly once she became really sick, we didn’t go as often unless it was a special holiday. She had a bible that she read occasionally and I know she prayed a lot – even taught me to say nightly prayers when I was a child, but ultimately she believed that people’s relationship with God is a personal one – a choice when and if they’re ready to accept Him into their lives. She told me I would develop my relationship in my own time and way and until then she would pray for me. I have no idea if her approach was the right way – or if there even is a “right” way. God and I have been A-Okay in my book, until now. My feelings on the subject have been on my mind a lot. I suppose the thought of imminent death can do that to a person. Not really sure there’s anything here that can remedy that, but here I stand, and I’m choosing to follow through on that internal voice that drove me here.
Barely inside the church, I can already see its beauty. The foyer is large and open – directly across the room on the other side of the front doors is another set of doors that must lead into the sanctuary. The ceiling is high with dark wooden rafters. Stained glass windows in the ceiling make prisms of bright colors appear on the floor and the walls throughout the space.
Beautiful art work depicting angels and who I’m guessing to be various saints hangs on the walls. Informational brochures are displayed on a large oak table against a far wall. The smell of smoke and lemon permeates the air. There’s not a person in sight.
Nervously, I tug on the handle of a door that leads into the sanctuary and find that it is also unlocked. Hesitating for a moment, I decide it’s now or never and walk fully inside. There are rows and rows of dark wooden pews for the congregation to sit. Each has a kneeling bench folded up at the feet and bibles and perhaps hymn books in the wooden pockets at each back. Along the sides of the sanctuary are what I instinctively know are confessional boxes and I can’t help but wonder what they’d say if they could talk. I can only imagine all the things they’ve heard.
Walking toward the front of the church, one of the walls along the side depicts a large paining of Christ’s crucifixion. Seeing that particular scene always makes me feel a combination of sadness and love that I don’t quite understand and have never really taken the time to evaluate. Choosing a pew, I slide in and take a seat, my eyes drawn to the flickering candles on either side of the aisles at the front of the church. Tiered shelves hold row after row of candles lit on behalf of someone’s prayer along with unlit candles that await their turn. Again I find myself wondering what prayers and secrets each hold. Every flame represents something to someone – it could be pain, regret, suffering, thankfulness, hope, happiness or fear. Only the flame wielder knows. The possibilities are endless, the sadness in the world vast. The thought gives me pause.
For a brief moment I feel like I have no right to be here. While my own individual pain matters to me, in the grand scheme of things do I have a right to suggest it’s more important than anything else God may be helping someone else deal with? I wonder if God would hear my plea and prayer and shake his head wondering why I’m wasting his time. But then I remember my mother telling me once that God cares about the worries of each of his children. I suppose I’ll have to take her word for it although I still wonder if that could really be true given how many people there are in the world that cry out to him on a daily basis.
At the end of the church, directly ahead, a breathtaking stained glass window is within sight – Jesus is standing with his arms open, the holes in his hands displayed as if he’s inviting me to come into his arms. As if he wants to take away my worries and fears. Suddenly I think that maybe he wouldn’t mind my prayers after all.
Head bowed, I close my eyes and think about what I’d like to say, but tears flood my eyes as my mind fills with all kinds of questions and doubts. Lifting my head, tears trail down my cheeks and I wipe them away.
“Hello, my dear,” a voice says next to me and I jump in surprise. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“It’s okay. Hello,” I smile tremulously at the priest that has approached me. Hands behind his back, he’s wearing a dark suit with the traditional clerical collar around his neck. If I had to guess I’d say he’s in his late sixties. His eyes are kind and show traces of concern. As he smiles kindly, the creases around his eyes deepen and I find myself giving him a small smile in return.
“I’m Father Michaels. I haven’t seen you here before – you must be visiting. Am I right?”
“Yes, you’re correct. My name is Remy. I hope it’s okay that I’ve come inside. I didn’t see a sign or anything telling me otherwise.”
“Of course it is, we keep the church open as much as possible daily in case anyone would like to come inside to pray, get information or speak to someone. I only approached you to see if I could be of any assistance. If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem somewhat troubled.”
“Thank you, but I’m okay.”
He nods, “Very well. I’ll leave you as you were. Feel free to stay as long as you need.”
When he turns to walk away, I find myself immediately calling out to him, “Wait,” before I really think it through.
He turns to me, “Yes?”
Now that I have his attention, I hesitate. He has a very kind countenance and waits patiently, as if he can tell that I’m working through some thoughts before speaking. “Would you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Of course not.”
“It’s about God.”
He smiles, “One could say that he is my specialty.”
I muster up a smile too but then blurt, “I just found out that I have cancer and I guess, given everything that could entail for me, I find that I’m thinking about God a lot lately.”
“That’s normal I think for someone being confronted with their own mortality. I’m assuming that’s what you are inferring.”
“Why do good people die? I mean, if he’s this all mighty powerful being, why doesn’t he heal cancer and keep children from dying and save the good people?” A couple tears escape my eyes with my question. “Why did he take my mom from me? Why do I have cancer like she did? Why is this happening?” I stifle a sob and try not to feel embarrassed for my outburst.
Without answering, he takes a box of Kleenex from the pew and hands them to me before sitting in the pew in front of me. He turns sideways and watches me wipe my eyes, his face full of kindness. “That’s a question I’ve heard often. Before I give you my thoughts, would you mind telling me more about your mother and you?”
Opening my mouth to answer I hesitate for a moment, I didn’t mean to initiate a big conversation about God and f
aith, but again, it’s certainly on my mind. Looking into his kind eyes once more, I take a deep breath and then find myself telling him everything. I share the pain in my heart due to the loss of my mother. I tell him about how awful it was to see her sick and to watch her die. How I still feel guilty because I was unable to do anything to help her. I tell him how losing her was like losing a part of myself. Then, with tears in my eyes, I tell him about my own diagnosis – how not only do I have breast cancer, a rather aggressive type and they believe it’s in my lymph nodes and if that’s the case, then realistically my time is numbered. I confess I’m struggling with the choice to seek treatment, or to simply let go and do nothing and why I feel that way. I hold nothing back and the whole time he listens well. He only comments when he needs clarification and looks in my eyes the whole time I speak. His silent way of letting me know I’ve got his undivided attention enables me to tell all.
“So, why? Why me? I feel selfish even asking that, but I’m not going to lie about how I feel. I don’t understand why these things happen.” I look at him, my face pleading with him for an answer.
“I’d love nothing more than to be able to give you a definitive answer, to give you a numbered list right now of all the reasons God has for making the decisions he does – such as this one. But, I can’t. The simple truth I can offer you is that God is the only one who knows why these things occur and I am persuaded that there’s a reason for them.”
“I wish you could too,” I wipe my eyes again and sniffle.
“What I can tell you is that I think these things are like setting up dominoes.”
“Dominoes?” I repeat in confusion.
Give Me A Reason Page 13
