Category Archives: God’s plans for us

Being nervous

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What would it feel like to have a doctor say, “There’s nothing more we can do for you. Go home and get your affairs in order.”

Nate wasn’t told those exact words, but getting things in order is what he’s been doing during this last month since he learned he had terminal cancer. Most of us have categories in our lives that we set aside for later, things like redoing an address list or cleaning out old files. We procrastinate at balancing our checkbooks and washing out our refrigerators. If I were to die tomorrow, I’d be mortified to have other people rummaging through my dresser drawers and seeing the disarray there. My things aren’t in order.

Nate has been trying to square off with each procrastinated category in his life. It has been overwhelming, yet he’s done valiantly. One of the most difficult parts about setting his affairs in order has been discovering he couldn’t accomplish it alone. He’s had to humble himself enough to accept the help he’s been offered by those who love him, no easy task. We’d all rather be the helpers than the helped.

As he has acquiesced to the efforts of others, I’ve seen a fresh calm come into his life. Maybe this is what Jesus meant when he said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) Maybe the rest Jesus meant was the relief that sets in when we let others help us.

Whatever the case, Nate has worked to set his affairs in order and to touch base with those who are important to him. Time is slipping away, and he is well aware of it. Today we drove two hours back to our old church so he could meet with Pastor Colin Smith. Linnea accompanied us, and although no one verbalized it, we all knew it would be Nate’s last visit there. His fatigue is escalating rapidly, and I’d prayed he would be alert and focused during the meeting, able to settle any lingering spiritual questions.

Linnea and I sat on a bench outside the room as they met, praying for clarity and the Holy Spirit’s power to move within both Nate and Pastor Colin. On the drive home, we tried to get him talking about what had gone on during the meeting, but Nate was exhausted and non-communicative. Later, however, during our bedtime conversation, some of his thoughts bubbled to the surface.

“Life has a precarious nature to it, but we don’t realize it on a daily basis. I’m realizing it now, because of the crisis I’m in.”

We talked a little more, and then I asked, “Are you afraid of anything?”

He thought for a minute, fingers-to-fingers as always, and said, “I’m not afraid, really. But I’m nervous.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Well, not about what’s going to happen after I die but before that.”

“You mean the cancer? You’re wondering what the cancer is going to do to you?”

“Yes.”

We talked about the Hospice ladies and their assurance he won’t have to suffer any great pain. He nodded in approval, but didn’t seem convinced. Then he said something that gave a clue to his meeting with Pastor Colin.

“I guess eventually God takes everything away except faith. That’s the one thing that can’t be taken away.”

We looked up the verses about God shaking everything that can be shaken to show us the things that can’t be shaken. (Hebrews 12:26-28) I sensed a type of little-boy nervousness in Nate, completely understandable under the circumstances, and thought it would be good to quote that wonderful promise in Romans 8:28 for unshakable reassurance. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.”

“That’s you,” I said. “This whole mess is going to work out for good… for you. You’re going to beat me to heaven, and heaven is about as good as it gets. You’re going to be freed of your constant back pain and every bit of this awful cancer while I struggle along probably into my 90’s, becoming a burden to everyone and wondering why I couldn’t get to heaven as fast as you did.”

He smiled and said, “Do you think you could squeeze into this little bed next to me?” (the hospital bed)

It was tantamount to a comedy routine, but it was worth the effort. He was asleep in a few quick moments. Moving my hand across his chest, I could feel the small tumors now erupting randomly on his skin like dime-sized boils. I’m nervous, just like Nate is, and my thought paralleled his: what is this cancer going to do to him before the end?

“I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, nor powers, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.” (….and not cancer, either) (Romans 8:38)

Hanging out at home

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Less than one month ago, we didn’t know a thing about pancreatic cancer, and we certainly didn’t know it would come crashing into our family like it has. But today as I walk through our cottage, I see a hospital bed and bedside table, a cane, a wheelchair, a shower seat with hand-held shower arm, a “lift” chair to help a person get up, a giant bag of pill bottles, rubber gloves, a urinal and, being delivered tomorrow, a triple-purpose commode seat. And most shocking of all, leaning against Nate’s chair, is a thick, navy notebook full of pages that says “Hospice Home Care.” Unbelievable.

Today we got acquainted with two new Hospice ladies, one a social worker and the other a nurse. The social worker began her process of getting to know our family by asking many questions. When she finished, she offered their massage service to Nate, who hesitated. His entire trunk from chin to legs is sensitive to the touch, coupled with his fear that if touched too hard, it will hurt. Every organ is affected by the cancer, and the thought of being pressed by a masseuse was about as appealing as climbing into a boxing ring.

Since Nate was too tired to explain, I described what was going on inside his body, stumbling for a succinct reason why he wouldn’t want a massage. Linnea interrupted and said, “Mom, just say ‘no’. You’re allowed.”

Her comment was a relief. I’m learning that Hospice is all about making our loved ones comfortable, not just Nate but the whole crowd of us. Before the social worker finished, she was offering me the massage service. I looked at Linnea who said, “Say yes!”

Today’s nurse gave Nate a physical exam, and his blood pressure was good, 122 over 85. He’s stopped losing weight, although I think it’s because he’s holding fluid in his abdomen. Having become bone-thin, he suddenly has a bulging stomach that feels like a giant water balloon. The rest of him is getting leaner and leaner.

One leg and foot are also filling with fluid and when asked, Nate acknowledged it did hurt. I told the nurse he never complained, and this was a perfect example. His sock gripped too tightly and made an indented circle of constriction where the elastic gripped. “Can we cut them?” the nurse asked, and I disappeared to find a scissors.

While Nate watched with a frown, I cut a 4” line down the front of his sock so it could slide on without being too tight. “Let’s cut the other one, too, so he’ll have a matched pair,” I said, trying to ease Nate’s fears.

The nurse also ordered a different mattress for the hospital bed, one that would “undulate” while he slept, to keep his skin happy. (I am jealous over that mattress.) The bed motor is purring, a fan is humming, tiny green lights are flashing and the whole place has all the conveniences of a hospital. But we are at home. The greatest blessing of today is recognizing that.

Our family hope is that we can keep Nate at home with all of us in these peaceful, familiar surroundings for the duration. To hear children laughing, to smell stew in the oven, to see the glory of colored leaves out the windows and to hold hands with the ones you love most are the delights of these days. But we’ve long since given up trying to control our uncontrollable circumstances. If God wants to pluck Nate from this cottage and put him in a hospital, he’ll do it for a good reason. And whatever God does, we are behind him.

“The Lord’s plans stand firm forever; his intentions can never be
 shaken.” (Psalm 33:11)

End-of-life issues

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Why is it so hard to talk about end-of-life issues? For people who believe in eternal security with God through Jesus Christ, discussions of death and dying ought not to be shunned. And yet, we do that.

After Nate’s 14th and final radiation treatment today, we met with his doctors and signed off. They’ve done everything they can for him, and our questions have all been answered, at least to this point. Saying goodbye was not sad, though, since it means we no longer have to drive from Michigan to Chicago and back, five days a week. Nate was thoroughly exhausted after today’s treatment but was pleased Lars had chauffeured us and shown interest in inspecting the massive radiation machine worth $3,000,000.

We made it back to our Michigan front door just as a Hospice Home Care nurse was arriving for our official sign-up. Pat and her team will help us navigate the next phase of our journey. She was efficient and experienced, plowing through a stack of paper work quickly. Although she addressed her presentation to Nate, he sat facing her with eyes half closed, worn out from the morning.

Toward the end of her explanation of services, she said, “Now we come to the hard part, the living will.” Pat waited patiently for the words “living will” to sink in. Then she said, “The question is, if you stop breathing, do you want us to resuscitate you by using a respirator?”

Nate didn’t have to think very long. Without saying a word, he shook his head “no”.

I rephrased the question and then said, “Are you sure?”

Again he didn’t say a word but with a somber expression nodded his head “yes” and reached for her clipboard and pen.

Sitting with us and listening to this question and their father’s answers were Lars, Linnea, Klaus, Louisa and Birgitta. “I’ll need two witnesses to sign as proof that Mr. Nyman’s signature is his wish,” she said. At least I think she said that. My ears were ringing and my vision was blurring.

Lars and Linnea stepped forward to sign under their dad’s curvy signature. As I became weak on the sidelines, both of them demonstrated great strength under enormous pressure. As for me, I was lost in the picture Pat had just described.

All of us cling to life. If things are going well, we eagerly want that to continue tomorrow. If things are going poorly, we hope tomorrow will be better. For us, the days are not getting better, and no one is telling us that they might. My new question is, when can we start talking about heaven? When will it not seem like I’m pushing Nate away to talk about his leaving us?

We moved through the remainder of our day with a busy dinner hour, the two grandbabies providing our entertainment, but I kept one eye on Nate. He’d lost all facial animation, all spark, even when little Skylar, just learning to talk, pointed to him and said, “Pa-paaaa!” with a lilt in her toddler voice.

Tonight, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed and holding his hand, I thought it might be time to crack open the door to eternity. As we do each evening, we quoted Scripture together. John 14 was on my mind, a message of comfort spoken by Jesus to his best friends:

“Let not your heart be troubled: you believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there you may be also.” (verses 1-3)

Nate closed his eyes, repeating only a word or two with me, but he made no objection and didn’t furrow his brow. I think the time has come to lift the ban on talking about his going away and shine a spotlight on his brightest hope. The truth is, he will go there soon, and there is no better place for him to be.