Category Archives: Remembering

Weekly Cards

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Some fathers are gifted to relate well to babies and young children. Others do better with school aged youngsters. Nate was his best with college kids and the years beyond. He grew into an adult relationship with each one of our kids effortlessly as they passed from late teens into twenty-somethings and older.

Every Sunday afternoon, Nate’s main activity was to write to each one of his children who lived away from home, whether that was in college, at camp, on a mission trip or adult kids living on their own. His “letters” were written on simple index cards, sometimes 3 x 5, sometimes 4 x 6, in his often illegible penmanship. Sometimes he wrote in bullet points, and the kids joked about how much information he could pack onto one card. All of them saved these cards.

notecards1

When he wrote to the kids, he often summarized our week at home but other times would challenge them at a deeper level or commiserate with their current problems. Sometimes he quoted a verse or two, and many times he’d make a point of telling them how much he loved them.

When Nate learned he had terminal cancer, one of the things he wanted to do before he died was write out one last card for each of the kids. His goal was to meet with them individually to give them the card and also give them each an opportunity to clear the air, in case there were any issues they wanted to discuss with him. He was ready for anything, including possible criticisms, and wanted to apologize if any of them had something bothering them from the past. He told me he wanted to express fatherly love for each one and then would deliver his last card.

His pancreatic cancer was, as one of my friends put it, a “damnable cancer.” It raced through his body like a million bolts of lightning, missing nothing in its assault. And the sad truth was, Nate ran out of time to do everything he wanted. Once he’d told me about his goal to meet with each of the seven kids and have a card ready for them, I encouraged him to do one card each day after we spent time talking about that particular son or daughter.

He had only six weeks total, although we didn’t know that then, and a couple of weeks slipped by as we were consumed with radiation, separate doctor appointments and endless tests. But not one day went by when he didn’t say, “I hope I can work on the cards today.” By the third week, he was worn out, and we could both see he might run out of time if he didn’t get it done soon. It was becoming difficult to write, and when he was exhausted, it was hard to concentrate.

At that point, he asked if he could dictate the cards to me while I typed on the computer. We tried to complete one each day in this way, climbing in the car and leaving the commotion at home if necessary, in order to get them done.

We did finish them, but by that time, Nate’s health had deteriorated so rapidly, we both feared the one-on-one meetings might not happen. There were many one-on-one conversations in bits and pieces, but the planned meetings to deliver the cards did not take place.

Tonight after dinner I passed out the completed cards. The author has been gone for 12 days. As I watched the kids quietly read them, I started to cry, wishing Nate had not died. We’d had an animated family day, and I just couldn’t believe he hadn’t been a part of it.

Reading Nate’s last pointed communication to them, some of the kids began to cry, too. It was a powerful few moments as the fire crackled and nobody spoke. I’ll probably never know the variety of emotions that rushed through each of their minds, but in a way, the most important part of the evening was that Nate was indeed very much present, through his words. As always, the cards were encouraging, complimenting, challenging and loving.

“But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.” (1 Corinthians 13-13)

Forgetting and remembering

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Yesterday at breakfast Linnea asked me, “Are you thinking about Papa?”

I answered, “Every minute.”

His face and influence fill my mind. Reminders of him are everywhere, and even though they are bittersweet, I’m thankful for them.

This afternoon when I was in the bathroom, I thought I heard Nate’s voice in the living room. For that split second, he was back. When I realized the voice belonged to Hans, I was yanked again to the nauseating reality of his permanent absence, and it hurt. I was glad for that instant when life was as it had been.

Nate was a man who enjoyed a regular routine. He would leave the office at the same moment every afternoon, climb on the same train and drive from the station to our house within a minute or two of the same time every evening.

He also delighted in the same bedtime routine each night, and part of his routine for himself was doing something for me. Knowing I liked to have water at my bedside, he’d fill a big glass and set it on my night stand. When I saw him walking toward the bedroom with that glass, I’d always say, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can get it.”

But he’d always respond, “I want to do it.”small glass of water

After we learned of his cancer, he continued the water glass ritual. Our bedroom at the cottage was upstairs, and that 14 step climb became more and more difficult for him. Even after he should have been holding tightly to the railing, he used that hand to carry up my water instead.

Nate began his bedtime routine earlier and earlier as the cancer wore him out. I would climb on the bed with him each evening to read emails, blog comments and greeting cards until he fell asleep. Then I’d go back downstairs to continue working. When I’d finally be ready for bed, I’d step quietly into our dark bedroom and head for my night stand, carefully feeling for the water glass. Without fail, it was always there.

I remember so well the night I came into the room well after midnight, hearing Nate’s deep breathing. I felt for my water glass, but it wasn’t there for the first time in literally years. That jolted me.

The next morning I made a point of thanking him for being so kind in always bringing the water to my bedside, explaining how I felt for it in the dark each night. When it was always there, I told him, my thought was, “He’s faithful.” I didn’t mention  the glass hadn’t been there the night before. It was the beginning of the end for that part of Nate’s routine. Increased pain and intense fatigue were responsible.

When he could no longer do it, I tried to remember to do it myself but never could. Just as I was climbing into bed I’d think, “Oh. The water,” and head back to the kitchen for a glass. Last night was the first time I remembered to get the water before actually going to the bedroom. When I’d been forgetting the water, it was a sweet reminder of Nate’s faithful care, because as I headed back to the kitchen to get it, I thought fondly of him. But remembering the water was a mini-forgetting of Nate, and sadness ran through me when I realized it.

And I guess this is how it will go. Remembering, forgetting, remembering, forgetting.

“[I] give thanks to God always for you, making mention of you in [my] prayers, constantly bearing in mind your work of faith and labor of love.” (1 Thessalonians 1:2-3)

”I will remember… in the night. I will meditate with my heart, and my spirit ponders.” (Psalm 77:6)

Skewed Priorities

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The little cottage where Nate and I moved last June is a home we’ve owned for nine years. Although it’s always been winterized, we used it mostly in the summer because of the large, relatively empty beach nearby. When finances became tight, we put our Chicago house on the market. But when it didn’t sell, we put the summer house up for sale as well, continuing to hope one or maybe even both would sell.

After four years, the house in Chicago finally sold, and we found ourselves moving to Michigan to live full time. We considered it an adventure for two sixty-somethings and figured we could return to the Chicago area if we missed it too much.

Nate continued to work in Chicago’s Loop, commuting around the bottom of Lake Michigan via the South Shore train line. He found the long ride pleasant and full of interesting characters. I admired the ease with which he made this major change after living in the Chicago area for 37 years. But in his own words, coming home each evening to our humble Michigan cottage was “coming home to paradise.”

Nate and I often talked about improving the Michigan house. It was needy in many categories, and we had some good ideas, but we were so busy with his work and my unpacking that not much was accomplished toward that end over the summer. “Let’s wait til fall,” I said. “I’ll get the kids to rip out the musty old living room carpeting we’ve hated for years, and I’ll swing a paint brush in several rooms.”

But when fall came, cancer came too. Thoughts of renovating went out the window, because once Nate became sick, none of that was important. Besides, we had all we could handle just keeping up with doctor appointments, radiation treatments, pharmacy visits and medicine doses.

Today at lunch time, several of the boys asked me what they could do to help. Before I could answer, 15 month old Skylar walked into the room with a flaming red rash on one cheek. She’d been frolicking with Jack the dog on the living room carpet but hadn’t cried out, so no one could figure out how her cheek had become injured.

carpet roll

Then Hans said, “That looks just like the rash Nicholas had a few days ago.”

After further investigating, we all agreed the carpeting was to blame. Jack had had a major bout with fleas recently, and we’d responded with a vet appointment and his recommended chemicals. Maybe it was just the fact that our carpeting was nearly 40 years old, but within the hour, the boys were cutting it into chunks and dragging it out of the house.

I’d been asking them to rip up the rumpled, stained carpet for several years, but there was always a reason why “it wasn’t a good day” to do it. Today it got done on the dime because of two rashy baby cheeks.

Life is all about setting priorities. We line them up and then obey the list. When Nate and I became aware of his cancer, existing priorities were tossed aside as new ones came into their places. Home improvements fell to the bottom of the list while Nate’s care rose to the top. Occasional family visits were no longer good enough. Instead, the family came together around the clock. Focused time as a married couple had been sprinkled here and there throughout our days but then switched to becoming constant. There’s nothing like a health crisis to rearrange skewed priorities.

Interestingly, by the hour of Nate’s death at 7:35 pm on November 3rd, every item on the revised to-do list had been checked off. Each task had been completed.

Why does it take a crisis to force the right priorities? All of us know what they are, even before a crisis hits. We just don’t line them up until then.

“We spend our years as a tale that is told. [Lord], teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” (Psalm 90:9b & 12)