One day we set off for the northern mountains, following a route linking several of the wild and rocky places we had discovered during our first foreign holiday together many years before.
But the traffic had grown since then, and we got stuck behind coach after coach on the narrow twisting roads that day.
Eventually we stopped for lunch at a pretty beach beneath the highest mountains on the island, but the day had almost gone and I knew that within an hour we’d have to head straight back.
The atmosphere was tense over lunch. Tom, my brother-in-law, was annoyed. His usual jokes and smiles had uncharacteristically vanished beneath a furrowed and frustrated brow, as he contemplated another tiring drive ahead.
He’d be back at work soon, he told me, and this simply wasn’t the relaxation he needed. And why was Jenny so irritable all the time, he asked. I took him aside, out of Jenny’s earshot, and quietly explained that her worries were on a different level entirely. This may well be her last holiday, I said.
After a long spell of good weather, finally the weather broke. Clouds blew in from the mountains, storms brought waves across the bay, and it rained and howled solidly throughout our last few days.
Jenny was 32 on the wildest day of all. We bought a cake, and shared it on what seemed like a dark winter’s evening.
It was hard for any of us to celebrate Jenny’s birthday, since the awful truth was that it could be her last.
10 responses so far ↓
Author // April 24, 2008 at 6:27 pm
It must have been such a strain for you both. Trying to appear as if everything was normal and holding the anguish in. Jenny’s birthday must have ben very poignant too.
My own dear friend died in March - and that last Christmas was very hard to cope with. What do you write in a card to someone who is terminally ill? You want to buy a gift as always - but what gift is appropriate? Do you even bother to celebrate when such sad and serious things are happening? But then how can you not celebrate what might be the “last time”? You must have wondered all these things too.
Then, one cold and frosty night, just before Christmas, the door bell rang. All of our friends had got together and with a lantern on a stick, they were outside singing Christmas carols - it was moving and beautiful. Silent night, Holy night - I can hear it now…
They came inside after, frozen cold but uncomplaining and wine was supped until the early hours. No one spoke of death - it was forgotten for those brief magical moments.
sparkle333 // April 24, 2008 at 7:16 pm
Why was Jenny so irritable? It sounds a bit self-centered to me. He’s worried about a tiring, long drive on a vacation that’s nearly over, and Jenny is facing death. Amazing how the selfishness of people comes to the surface, when they are under stress. I recognize this in myself, as well.
A birthday near an approaching death day. So very sad, but important still to celebrate her life–each minute of it. I am sure that so much of your life, during and since, has been shaped by the experience of Jenny’s illness and death. How could it not be? Valuable, difficult lessons, but priceless ones. Lonnette
Roads // April 24, 2008 at 11:37 pm
Yes, Jan - you ask some great questions. What can you buy for someone who is terminally ill, except a gesture of love? Can you, and should you, celebrate at all? In fact, somehow you have no choice. It’s just much harder to find the way.
Your marvellous story sums up those dilemmas perfectly - many thanks.
Roads // April 25, 2008 at 12:09 am
Sparkle - Lonnette - I’m tempted to agree with you, and the story I tell here wasn’t the only example. At the time, I couldn’t interpret this tale in any other way from how you do now.
But over a long time since, I’ve realised that there was a deeper truth hidden behind this episode, and one that may well be almost universal.
By now, I could see where the story was going - it was all unconfirmed fear at this stage, but I could clearly glimpse the desperately dark and difficult valley where we were headed.
And yet, Jenny was resolutely optimistic, as best she could be, and I supported her in that approach. So outwardly we were projecting a very different story from what lay behind our wan smiles and stubborn stoicism.
Other people, even some of our close relatives, could not make that equation balance. As long as we were smiling, then Jenny was certainly going to be alright.
I think (no - actually I’m certain) that the sheer depth of concern and forboding which we experienced was never acknowledged or even remotely understood during those days. There was, quite simply, a huge gulf of disconnection separating our situation from the ordinary and untroubled lives around us.
Were Tom and Sal in denial? Most probably, yes.
But they did not live with this cloud hanging over them on every single day as we did. It’s enormously hard to explain what those months were like or how hard it really was to live through them.
All I can say is that in making the same initial reaction to this story as I did then, you are really beginning to identify a little with how it felt.
I guess we would have wanted much more appreciation and understanding at that time. And yet, of course, Jenny always wanted to carry on exactly as normal, and she made a pretty good job of doing exactly that.
I’ve concluded that there are a lot of contradictions in the way that we all behave in times like these. My account can never form a complete roadmap to this territory, but perhaps I can still point out a few very common and very tricky obstacles along the journey.
Many thanks again.
sparkle333 // April 25, 2008 at 11:01 am
Roads: I experienced something similar, and yet different. But I think it is worth mentioning. My husband and I are Charismatic (Spirit-Filled)
Non-Denominational Christians. In our belief system, faith is everything, and even speaking in faith is part of it. When my stepfather (since I was 7 years old) got so sick after triple bypass complications, you could literally see death on him. He was not conscious. He was on a respirator.
But day by day, it was as if he was already gone. One night my mom and I literally ran from the room, because you could see the spirit of death all over him, and that particular night it was just too much. Day after day we would visit, and watch him gasp for breath. There was no communication, and we were wearing those darn gloves (because of the staph infection.) We couldn’t really hug him, or do much touching.
Since we have been taught to believe for healing, and to speak in faith, I felt very isolated in my grief, especially from my husband, who was trusting that Sam would be healed. Then one day, it seemed that God spoke to me (in my heart), and I knew that Sam was going to die. I felt it was God’s way of preparing me for it. As sad as it was to truly believe it, it was also a relief, in a way. To begin to let go, ahead of the actual event, (if that is even possible.) But in small ways, I think it is. It is a beginning of the grief process, and I believe a neccessary one. But it left me so isolated. I could not talk to my mom, as I didn’t want to upset her. And my husband (a wonderful man) saw it (to some degree) as a failure to have faith that he would be healed, in spite of the odds. I DID have faith for him to be healed intially, but then as time went on, I somehow knew that he would not survive all that his body had been through. And then they speculated that he might also have cancer. But he was too sick to have the proper tests, as he was fighting daily for his life. And we were left thinking… and just what do we do with THAT information? Cancer… on top of the heart surgery, a horrible pnuemonia, staph, and something called serratia? It was too much to bear. Also, his mind had never seemed the same since his surgery. (I have heard that this sometimes happens with bypass patients, due to a lack of oxygen to the brain during the procedure. He rarely intiated a conversation, before he had to go on the respirator. He would answer, but often a delayed answer. Of, course then he went on the respirator. Somehow, (hearing about the possible cancer, and also knowing how different he seemed mentally), I felt that God may have been sparing him from a worse fate (had he lived.) There are worse things than dying. But at any rate, it was a lonely place to be. But it did start my grieving process. I explained to my husband that if I kept insisting to myself that Sam wasn’t going to die, I felt that I would have an even more difficult time accepting it, when it did happen. (If that’s possible. We’re never ready to lose someone we love.) So I began to try to accept it. In fact, the nurse told me by phone that she didn’t expect my dad to make it through the day on his last day. This was a total shock to me that morning, and I had to find a way to make sure my poor mom made it up there quickly, without coming out and saying that he was likely going to die that day.. We did visit, and I cried as I stood by his bed, knowing this was probably the last time I would see him alive (even though he didn’t seem alive even then.) I left the hospital and went to by a black suit jacket for the funeral, and that is where I actually was, when I got a call from my brother, saying that his machines had gone crazy, and the nurse said his organs were shutting down. I rushed to the hospital, and on the way, got a second call that he had died. I had to pull off the road because I was crying so hard.
Well, this was long, but I was just trying to say, that there is an isolation when you come to accept (even the possibility of) what others are not ready to accept. It’s not a lack of faith, but rather an understanding of the inevitable. I spoke in faith that he wouldn’t die, and I wrote in faith in my newsletter to family members about his illness, but in my heart I knew we were going to lose him, and at some point I needed to face that reality…
Roads // April 25, 2008 at 1:29 pm
Thank you, Sparkle, for sharing your story.
It’s not a lack of faith, but rather an understanding of the inevitable.
That’s well put, indeed. I wanted people to wake up and look at what was happening, but they just couldn’t see it or else they didn’t want to. That wasn’t the result of their strong faith, though - it was because they didn’t have to live with the situation every day like a carer does. Their perception - she may get better, or then again she may not get better - was that much more distant and removed than mine.
And to me, that outcome was as dear as life itself.
shadowlands1501 // April 25, 2008 at 11:40 pm
Roads
Thanks for writing about this part of the journey. There are moments when others find that my husband is a bit crabby or doesn’t say things the way that he should…
This isolation.. daily seeing the decline,( not the big things), but the subtle things that tell me that he is not going to survive this disease…is a large part of being the caregiver. Hopefully, others will be there when I need their help with the daily physical caring for his needs. Should they choose to remain distant, that will be alright too…I know that cancer has been a great teacher in many ways. The most important lesson is that even if no one comes, I am honored to be the one to see the love of my life out of this world and into the next….I can’t think of anywhere I would rather be than right here…company nor their understanding is required..
Roads // April 26, 2008 at 6:36 pm
All strength to you, Shadowlands. And courage, too.
nichole3 // April 29, 2008 at 4:04 pm
I think it is almost impossible for our friends and loved ones to know what is going on in our lives during a terminal illness. As you said, you and Jenny lived with it each day. Tom and Jenny’s sister didn’t have to deal with the constant anguish of it.
Even though at present I’m not a terminal cancer patient–I don’t have the energy that I had. I think the pill I take has much to do with how I’m feeling. Friends will ask me to do things but there are days–I just can’t push myself to socialize. They don’t understand. One friend thinks that I’m cured. Cancer is never cured only managed. That is hard to get across to my friends.
We have to not condemn those who don’t understand. I’m sure that day with Tom was extremely sad for you. Likewise, knowing that it was Jenny’s final birthday celebration. You handled it well.
Nichole
Roads // April 29, 2008 at 8:19 pm
Nichole
Thank you for your comment and your understanding. You’re exactly right that people just don’t comprehend the situation, even if they think they do.
The most effective way to learn ? To live through times like these yourself. But learning like this isn’t something you could ever wish on anyone.
Thanks again - I really appreciate your insights.
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