by K Carothers
Erin smiled painfully. “Sounds like the perfect happy ending, doesn’t it? I certainly got a lot of congratulations for what I’d done, let me tell you. And if ever there was a case that I thought validated all the years I’d spent studying and practicing medicine, it was that one.” She slowly shook her head. “Until the child came back nine months later. Once again, I was there. And once again, her mother brought her in. But this time there were obvious signs of child abuse, and this time the mother had waited too long. The CT scans showed another brain bleed, and the same neurosurgeon did another craniotomy. But the child died on the OR table during the procedure. Afterward, the neurosurgeon told me it was the first time his team had ever given a child her first haircut, and her last one.”
Erin unfolded the tissue in her trembling hand and wiped her nose. “Big surprise, there were no congratulations that day. And for the first time in my career I wondered if medicine was really even worth it. Why bother? Sure, when the child was brought in the first time no one else had suspected she was being abused either. There hadn’t been any history of it, and the mother had given a good story. But the fact is, I helped save a child’s life, all so she could be subject to God only knows what kind of abuse for nine more months until she was finally, brutally, beaten to death. It turns out the mother’s boyfriend had been doing it. And now he’s in prison for murder. Just like my own father had been. And it kills me that however unwittingly, I contributed to the pain and suffering that little girl had to endure, even though I’d give my life to protect any child from harm like that. Now there’s real irony for you.”
Jenna didn’t respond, looking thoroughly shaken as tears slid silently down her cheeks.
Erin winced when she saw her expression. “These are the kinds of stories I don’t tell you about, Jen,” she said, impatiently wiping away her own tears. “It’s easy to talk about the funny cases, or the ones that really do have a happy ending. But there are a lot more stories like these. Pages of them. So is it any wonder that I would question the existence of God when I see this stuff happen all the time? I keep hearing how God works in mysterious ways, that everything happens for a reason, and that it’s all part of God’s greater plan. Well, do you know what I think? The plan sucks.” She turned her face up toward the sky, brushing away more tears, and yelled, “Do you hear me? Your plan sucks! It really, really sucks!” And with an exasperated sigh she wrapped her arms around her legs again and stared broodingly out at the pond, which had turned a fiery red in the light of the blazing sunset.
After a moment Jenna quietly said, “I think I understand now why you really do need to take a break from medicine.”
“Because I’m carrying on like a raving lunatic, crying for my dead mother and yelling at God?” Erin’s lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to get me talking about Him after all.”
“Oh, Erin…” Jenna said with deep sadness in her voice.
Erin let out another sigh. “Don’t worry, I do believe in God, and I won’t change my mind about that now. But when we were at church the other day it occurred to me that the fire and brimstone Hell my grandmother used to preach about probably doesn’t exist. I think Hell is actually a very cold place—and it’s probably all here on Earth. But what I don’t get is how God can possibly be this kind and loving, divine entity, and yet it doesn’t feel like His presence is very strong here. Tell me, Jenna, why is God so weak?”
“God isn’t weak, but people are,” Jenna responded. “And God, like the Devil, can only work through people. I think God is too often blamed for the inherent weakness of human beings.”
Erin sniffed back her tears and smiled wryly. “You always have a good answer for everything. It’s very irritating sometimes, you know.”
Jenna chuckled. “As I’ve told you before, I really don’t know much—just enough to make life bearable. But I have done a lot of thinking since I found out I had cancer, especially about the meaning of life. I think the most important thing all of us need to do in this lifetime is to understand what makes us who we are, to learn our strengths and weaknesses in the face of our own trials and those of others, so that we can become the best, most loving version of ourselves that we’re capable of being. And the farther along we get in achieving that in this life, the less work we’ll have to do in the next one. Progress to achieve perfection—I believe that’s what God’s goal is for everyone and everything. And isn’t that the goal of every science on Earth? It just might turn out that God has been a scientist himself all along—the master scientist of the universe, one with knowledge of scientific principles and laws that are far beyond our comprehension. As it is, there is a theory in physics, supported by data, that would suggest there are alternate worlds, and that they interact with ours. I’m certain Heaven is one of them. And Hell is probably another.”
“So are you saying God is some kind of mad scientist who creates things in our world like cancer that serve as obstacles for people to overcome in order to make it to Heaven—or to go down in flames if they don’t get it?”
“No, Erin, just the opposite. I don’t think God would intentionally create obstacles for us—He wants to eliminate them. A lot of those obstacles are created by our own lack of self-awareness, our own weaknesses, or the weaknesses of others. And those are the things we can fix, or at least work on improving. We’ll never be perfect in this lifetime after all. But things like cancer, they’re just another part of our imperfect world—imperfect science, imperfect biology. And they’re things that neither God or the Devil can magically create or make disappear. They’re not punishment. They’re not put here on purpose. They’re not anything. They just happen. Like a calf with two heads.”
“What?” Erin asked with a bemused smile.
Jenna laughed softly. “No, it’s not the morphine talking this time. I actually saw a picture of a calf with two heads not long ago, and that’s when it really hit home for me. There’s imperfection everywhere in nature—in humans, in animals, in plants, in the weather. There’s no intention in it. God certainly isn’t going to punish a calf by giving it two heads. And I don’t see any other purpose for it either. I doubt having two brains is going to help a cow any more than having one. I’ve seen how dumb those animals can be.”
A bubble of laughter escaped Erin. “Okay, now that has got to be the morphine talking.”
“No, it’s only me justifying why I should be able to eat a hamburger.”
Erin laughed helplessly, and then shook her head in amazement. “Twenty minutes ago I thought I would never laugh again, and now I can’t stop. I don’t know how you do it.”
Jenna affectionately patted Erin’s leg. “Here’s another quote from Mark Twain: ‘Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.’”
“Especially not a cow,” Erin said, laughing again. “But tell me, how do you really know if cows are that dumb? I’ve never seen you get anywhere near one—probably because you’d scream bloody murder if you stepped in cow manure.”
“That is true,” Jenna responded with a sheepish smile. “Just to be fair to cows, though, if one considers how little anybody—even the smartest person on Earth—actually knows about the universe, none of us is really that much smarter than a cow. But I wrote a poem about cows that will answer your question. Let me think if I can remember it.”
“Uh oh, another poem,” Erin teased.
“It’s called ‘Seeking Shelter,’ and it’s really about how people can be as clueless as a cow. Just keep in mind, it isn’t Walt Whitman or Robert Frost type of material.”
“That’s okay, because I wouldn’t know their poetry anyway.” Erin chuckled. “And I didn’t mean for that to rhyme.”
“Most people don’t anymore. It’s not en vogue to rhyme in poetry these days. But as for me, I feel like the English language sounds too cacophonous without rhyme, so I do it anyway. It’s not like I’m trying to make a li
ving at it or anything.” Jenna grinned. “It’s just for my own enjoyment, and now for yours. So here’s how ‘Seeking Shelter’ goes:
‘A shelter was built on top of a hill
Where cows were kept in a farmer’s field.
It was put up there for them to come
To seek shelter from the rain, snow, and sun.
But a storm came through the field one day,
And the whole thing was utterly blown away.’”
Erin snorted a laugh over the last line, and Jenna paused to laugh too. “Now you’ve thrown me off,” she said. “Where was I? Oh, yes:
‘Yet every day those cows still came
To huddle on the hill as if nothing had changed,
And I would drive by and shake my head
At their simple, bovine intelligence.
Until one day it occurred to me
That we, Mother Nature’s prodigies,
Do the same thing all the time:
Seek shelter in things where shelter exists
Exclusively in our minds.’”
“So we’re Mother Nature’s prodigies, are we?” Erin said dryly. “I’m not so sure Mother Nature would agree with that.” Then she looked out at the pond and her smile faded. “You probably had me in mind when you wrote that poem.”
“No, Erin. It applies to everyone in some way. So many of the things we believe, and the ways we behave, are based on illusions—shelters that exist only in our minds. And more often than not, we’re just as clueless about it as those cows were.”
“Me more than most…I don’t know, Jen. I wonder if I’m too messed up to ever find real happiness. Yesterday I was so sure it was possible. But today I wonder if it will always be out of my reach.”
“It’s only out of your reach because you choose to keep it there. You need to let yourself be happy.”
“That’s a whole lot easier said than done.”
“For someone who’s accomplished so much in her life, you sure do say that a lot, my friend,” Jenna gently chided. “And nothing in life is easier done than said.”
“But that’s just it: Nothing is easy. Life feels like a never-ending battle, and I don’t know if I have enough strength to fight.” Erin grimaced. “I mean, look at me. I’m in worse shape today than I was when I got here. And I was a wreck then.”
Jenna shook her head. “You’re wrong, Erin. I think you’ve made more progress today than you have in the last twenty-six years. You just don’t realize it yet. And you will fight. You have to fight, because you care so much. It’s not just medicine that needs you: The world needs you. As Dr. Seuss would say, ‘Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.’”
Erin smiled ruefully. “It figures you’re quoting me a line from a children’s book right now.”
“Everyone should read Dr. Seuss books. And the people who think they’re too old for them are probably the ones who need to read them the most.”
Erin grabbed hold of Jenna’s hands. “The world needs you, too. I need you. Come back to Boston with me and let’s fight for you. Please.”
“Oh, Erin. You know I can’t.”
“Please, Jenna. I need you to fight this cancer. Fight it for me.”
“If you were in my shoes, is that what you would do? Tell me honestly, Erin. Would you fight this, knowing what you know?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Erin responded, “It’s different with you.”
“No, it’s not,” Jenna said. “And the reason I’m not fighting isn’t that I’ve given up. I’ve chosen not to fight because I’ve accepted something I can’t change. And you need to accept it too. But I want you to fight. I need you to fight, because you can have a happy ending here. I want you to do that for both of us.”
Tears welled up in Erin’s eyes again. “I wish I could trade places with you, Jen. I’m the one who should be dying, not you.”
“Please don’t say that, Erin. And I’m glad it’s me and not you. I would do anything for you.”
“I would do anything for you, too,” Erin whispered brokenly.
“Then accept what can’t be changed and live for me.”
“I don’t know if I can. This shouldn’t be how it ends for us.”
“This won’t be the end for us. It will just be a new beginning. I promise you.” Jenna motioned toward the setting sun, which had now almost completely disappeared in a fiery glow on the horizon. “The sunset will tell you that too. Doesn’t it look exactly like the sunrise this morning? You wouldn’t know the difference except we’re facing west instead of east. It’s just a matter of perspective. Everything is a matter of perspective. And in every sunset there is a sunrise. Don’t ever forget that.” She took Erin by the shoulders. “Promise me that you’re going to fight for every sunrise; that you’ll live every day with hope and gratitude, no matter what—and I’ll know if you’re lying when you answer, because you’re a terrible liar.”
Erin looked at her in shock. “I have never lied to you.”
“Oh yes you have. All those times over the years when you said you were fine and you weren’t, I knew you were lying. That makes about a thousand times you lied.” Jenna reached up and gently brushed the tears from Erin’s cheeks. “And do you remember when I got that neon pink dress with the poofy skirt in tenth grade, and you said it looked good? You definitely lied about that.”
Tenderness filled Erin’s eyes, chasing away some of the heartbreak, and she pulled Jenna into her arms. “Okay…Okay, I promise. I’ll fight every day for the rest of my life. For you.”
“And promise to love, even when you’d rather hate,” Jenna said as they clung to each other. “And laugh, even when you’d rather cry. Or just laugh at yourself for crying, because you still need a good cry every once in a while.”
Erin did laugh then, even as she cried. “Yes, I promise.”
“And if you feel overwhelmed, pray. Pray anyway, every day. And don’t forget that I’ll always be there for you. So talk to me, too. And think of me every time you watch the sunrise or the sunset.”
“I will,” Erin whispered.
Jenna drew back and looked into her eyes. “Yes, I think you’re telling the truth.”
Erin wiped away more tears. “I wasn’t lying about the dress, you know. I did think it looked good.” A crooked smile crossed her face. “In a way.”
Jenna chuckled. “See, you are a bad liar. Which is why I could never tell you I’m the one who let Billy Rodgers’ mouse escape when we were in sixth grade.”
It took Erin a moment to register what she was talking about, and then her mouth fell open. “You did that? Miss Ankey spent the whole year trying to figure out who it was.” She let out a laugh. “I’ll never forget when the mouse ran across the room and she jumped up onto her desk screaming, and split her pants wide open. She hated our whole class after that.”
Jenna bit her lip. “I did feel bad about her pants, and how she treated everyone the rest of the year. And I guess I should bring that up in confession next time. But if I’d told you it was me who let the mouse escape, I thought Cranky Ankey would probably have figured out right away that you knew. So I never said anything.”
“Why did you let the mouse out in the first place?”
“Billy said he was going to feed it to his cat. He might have been teasing, but I wasn’t going to take any chances, so I set it free.”
“Oh, Jen.” Erin shook her head with a smile. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
Jenna grinned impishly. “No. At least nothing I can think of at the moment.”
“Well, I hope not.”
They sat there and did think of a lot of things they hadn’t talked about before, though. Dusk eventually faded into darkness, and Erin smiled sadly at Jenna. “I wish I’d come here years ago and we’d been ab
le to talk like this. We’ve never really known each other, not completely, until now. And it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry about that, Jen.”
“No, Erin. We’re both at fault there. And it’s mostly because we’ve tried to spare each other from grief. But sometimes the things we do to protect those we love end up being the things that hurt them the most. Remember that someday when you have children.” Jenna gave Erin’s arm an affectionate squeeze, then looked up at the sky. “The stars are out. Why don’t we set our problems aside for the moment—let God do the worrying, as Martin Luther would say—and look for some constellations?” She eased back into the sand and continued to gaze up at the stars with a distant smile on her face. “Remember how we used to come out here and do that all the time when we were kids?”
Erin lay down next to her and regarded the sky. “You were always a lot better at it than me—like almost everything else.”
Jenna laughed softly. “That’s utter nonsense, Erin, and you know it. I wouldn’t have done half as well in school if it wasn’t for your help all the time. But hopefully I can at least find a few constellations for you now.” She gazed back upward and pointed to an area in the northern sky. “There’s the Big Dipper. It got that name because it looks like a bowl with a handle on it. The bowl is made up of those four stars there, shaped in a rectangle—or more like a trapezoid. And then if you look farther up to the left, three more stars form the handle. Can you see it?”
“Yes, I can,” Erin said, and turned to look at Jenna in amazement. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever really seen a constellation.”
Jenna grinned. “I think this is the first time you’ve ever really paid attention when I’ve tried to show you one.”
Erin grinned back. “Aren’t you going to give me some quote about that? I know there’s one you’ve told me before that would apply here—something about a student finding a teacher.”
“Yes, it’s an ancient proverb: ‘When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.’”
