The comedian

Posted on October 24, 2009 by Margaret

Nate, the serious lawyer, is morphing into a comedian these days. Unfortunately, his “jokes” are unintentional. Yesterday he asked if there were any male-female couples in our immediate family that he hadn’t yet met. I quizzed him again and again to be sure I’d understood him correctly, but I had. Finally I said, “You’ve met each of them: Nelson, Lars, Linnea, Adam, Klaus, Hans, Katy, Louisa and Birgitta.”

He responded with satisfaction and a nod, “Good. I just wanted to be sure.”

I had to laugh, but at the same time it wasn’t laughable. His comments in the last few days are a bit off, not always, but often. I try not to think about the possibility of his cancer being responsible, but my mind goes back to a conversation I had privately with his doctor two weeks ago. I’d asked him if the cancer could go to Nate’s brain. Instead of giving me a “yes” or “no”, the doctor had said, “It’s in his pancreas, liver, lungs, bones and blood. What do you think?”

We haven’t changed his meds in two weeks. Although I’d like to blame the drugs for his new off-kilter comments, most likely they’re not responsible. We’ve watched Nate lose weight and strength, lose his appetite and energy, and lose the ability to write and read. But watching him lose common sense and prior knowledge is the worst of all.

Nate has always been a walking, talking encyclopedia. We didn’t need Britannica or World Book with him sitting at our dinner table. He’s been exceptional at remembering history’s dates and places, names and faces. Where has all that gone? Is his mental slate gradually being erased?

Yesterday we were expecting a visit from one of the Hospice nurses, and he asked me seven times who was coming and at what time. This is a man who never forgot an appointment and kept his whole life straight with a few Post-it notes and a very sharp brain. It’s not easy to see him become forgetful and confused.

Sometimes he recognizes he’s said something off-the-wall. When that happens, he’ll shake his head, as if to disperse the fog, and say, “I don’t know what I’m talking about.” Hospice tells us he’ll soon cross over a mental line after which he won’t realize when he gets his facts mixed up. This, they say, will be a relief to us and a gift to him. Who knows. He may come up with all kinds of interesting knowledge and counsel we never knew was in him. On the other hand, he could end up saying whatever is on his mind without any social filter, possibly causing offense or embarrassment. These adventures lie ahead of us in the not-to-distant future.

I’ve asked two doctors and several nurses how we should handle this. All have said we ought to “get into the fantasy” with him. Attempting to bring him back to reality will only agitate him further.

Proverbs 12:25 says, “Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs it down, but a good word makes it glad.”

Maybe our “good words” will be those that go along with Nate’s confusion. Such a tactic might decrease his anxiety and even our own about what is causing him to lose mental ground. As always, it does no good to dwell on the losses. Instead we’ll continue to appreciate the Nate we are privileged to have today.

Lately, it’s become difficult for him to work his cell phone, but this afternoon he managed to pull up a voice mail left by a friend. “I should call him back,” he said. “Can you get him on the line for me?”

I dialed the number and put the phone to his ear. He listened quietly, eyes locked with mine in an expression of deep thought. All of a sudden he said, “I just really want to get this over with.”

I was shocked. Was he referencing his battle with cancer? Inviting him to talk further, I said, “Get what over with?”

Screwing up his face like a little boy who’d just sucked on a lemon, he said, “This phone call.” I laughed and took the phone from him, snapping it shut.

“Done,” I said.

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting
away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light
and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that
far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen,
but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is
unseen is eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:16-18)

End-of-life issues

Posted on October 20, 2009 by Margaret

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 14^th 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.

Take heart.

Posted on October 18, 2009 by Margaret

As we readied for a short church service in our living room circle this morning, I thought of the thousands of families readying for church all over the country. We’ve not been to a “real” church since we got the shocking news of Nate’s pancreatic cancer less than a month ago. He’s not been up to going, and we all want to stay with him. I wondered how long it would be before we… or I… went back.

As we cleared our cluttered kitchen counter to set out eggs and toast, we found another Scripture rock tucked next to the microwave: Psalm 27:5. We get to eat in our church, so we gobbled down breakfast while our daughter-in-law Katy opened the worship service by reading the rock-verse. ^“For in the day of trouble, He will conceal me in His tabernacle. In the secret place of His tent He will hide me. He will lift me up on a rock.” These days are an earthquake of trouble, to be sure. How good to know God can and will lift us onto solid ground. After praying, we listened to one of Pastor Colin Smith’s sermon CDs. The subject was love.

Later in the afternoon, I needed some time alone, a rare commodity for any of us in our crowded cottage. I’ve not wanted to leave Nate’s side since the diagnosis, especially lately when he’s kept careful track of whether or not I’m in the room. But while he dozed comfortably in his chair, I found a leash and walked Jack to the beach.

As we paced along the shoreline, a tremendous sadness settled over me like one of those lead aprons the dentist lays on people before taking an x-ray. It felt too heavy to get out from under. Although I’m resigned to Nate’s cancer and the devastation it’s causing in his body, today the whole dilemma seemed extra sad. I wasn’t mad at God. He’s been loving and gentle with us every single day. But the thought of losing our favorite husband, father and grandpa overwhelmed me.

I hadn’t planned on picking up stones today, yet as Jack and I shuffled along, the strangest thing occurred. My eye, following the line of rocks along the edge of the waves, fell on a rock that was shaped like a heart, first one and then another… and another. I put each one into my coat pocket, commenting to Jack at how unusual such finds were.

The more hearts I found, the more my spirit lifted. We walked half a mile or so until my pockets were bulging, dictating it was time to turn for home. Spreading out the bounty, I was astounded to find a heart-rock for each member of the family, including our three unborn babies, and especially including Nate. It was as if God was telling me, “I’m not going to let you ‘lose’ Nate. You’ll always know exactly where he is: with Me. In the mean time, remember how much I love you and yours… times 16!”

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