Being Adopted

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It felt strange to drive back into the hospital parking lot this morning. Nate’s radiation oncology doctor had invited me back for a brief get-together, and I was eagerly looking forward to our talk. After I arrived, we walked through a labyrinth of hospital corridors to a wall of polished stainless steel, inside of which was another world. It was a club of sorts, just for doctors, where they could go to shake off the woes of practicing medicine with its unrelenting pressure and enjoy a gourmet meal in a luxurious setting.

“Oh my,” I said, looking around the room, hoping he would let me pay the bill.

“They would never let you pay here,” he said with a chuckle. “It can only be me.”

We sat at a window table covered in white linen, a creatively folded starched napkin standing up next to beautiful polished silverware. As the ginger-pumpkin creamed soup arrived in a china cup set on a white doily, we began our hour-long conversation.

The doctor started. “I remember back to that first meeting when you learned of Nate’s cancer diagnosis. It was a lot to take in, and watching you and Nate, I could see you weren’t absorbing what you were being told. I knew you were about to enter a terrible time with the pancreatic cancer and felt drawn to help you even before you got started, even before you accepted what was happening.

“I haven’t told this to anyone else, but I decided that day I would adopt you both and do whatever I could to cushion the blow as it came.”

I was stunned by his empathy and kindness. My mind traveled back to that agonizing meeting during which our lives changed so dramatically. Nate and I had both loved this doctor immediately, probably sensing his compassion for our situation and for us. Even that first day, on the way back to Michigan, we agreed we were in capable hands. Today he told me he sensed a bond between the three of us almost immediately.

After visiting the lavish buffet and filling our plates, the doctor continued. “You and Nate were shoved out of an airplane without any parachutes.” I nodded, appreciating the accurately descriptive word picture. “I wanted to be there to help you when you landed.”

Once again I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this unusual, caring doctor who had always given us copious amounts of his precious time without seeming rushed. And today he did it again. I asked quite a few questions, some about pancreatic cancer in general and others about Nate’s specific case. It did me a world of good to talk about the days of Nate’s illness with the one who knew every detail even better than I did, the one who had carefully plotted a wise strategy for Nate’s treatment. I told him I often thought back to those days, going over every minute in my mind, and he agreed this was normal, very common for spouses of patients who careen toward their deaths without so much as a day to catch their breath.

We talked about how Nate was slow to internalize his “fate” but that when he did, he’d done it with great grace. “I could tell Nate was very cerebral,” he said, “and that’s how thinking people respond.”

His comments revealed respect for Nate, which was a balm for me. I asked him how he got so talented at figuring out what his patients and their spouses needed next and what they didn’t need at all.

“My wife.” he said. “She taught me to listen at two levels when someone answered one of my questions. I was good at hearing their words but had to learn how to hear their hearts, too, the feelings behind the words.”

He has practiced medicine for over thirty years. “Pancreatic cancer is my thing,” he said. That’s probably because it’s always a miserable, hopeless disease. Most doctors would not want to specialize in that. But because he is the reigning expert at this massive teaching hospital, we were blessed indeed when we were put into his care. As the old saying goes, “When God guides, he provides.”

Time ran out before our conversation did, and the doctor invited me to come back for “part 2” later in the winter. I wouldn’t miss it. As life balances out at a new normal all around me, it will be gratifying to meet with him again, because he is a strong link with Nate and some of our last poignant experiences together, but besides that, he has adopted me!

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.” (Galatians 5:22-23)

Eat it up!

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It was a day of overeating, to be sure. Breakfast at Walker Brothers Pancake House. A lavish lunch in a good friend’s home. Afternoon coffee and treats at Starbucks. A dinner party with women friends. And after it was all over, three Tums tablets.

Cheese platter 2

I spent the day in the Chicago area and was so glad to be back that I scheduled one event after another. It was satisfying to reconnect with many friends. What I hadn’t figured on was the monstrous amount of eating that would go along with being with girlfriends.

I already know how to eat big. The challenge is to choose moderation, which translates to eating much less and is especially difficult during the holidays. All of us make our special dishes hoping everyone at the get-togethers will enjoy them by eating them up. We rationalize larger portions and second helpings because, after all, it’s the holidays. Besides, it’s only right to taste a little bit of everything.Shrimp platter 2

The wall of antacid choices at Walgreens testifies to the existence of a massive industry counting on us experiencing indigestion. And even when we succeed in getting that under control, in January we have to pay the piper anyway. At the end of today, I wished I could have started over. I would have felt much better, and trying to fall asleep on a full stomach wouldn’t have been a midnight chore.Veggie platter 2

“When you sit to dine with a ruler, note well what is before you, and put a knife to your throat if you are given to gluttony. Do not crave his delicacies, for that food is deceptive.” (Proverbs 23:1-3)

Upbeat or beat-down?

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Driving in to Chicago today for three days of back-to-back commitments, I took the “radiation route” Nate and I had driven 14 times. Although Jack was sitting in the passenger seat, I was alone with my thoughts. Today it doesn’t seem possible that Nate is permanently gone. I just wondered how it could be.

I drove past the Drake Hotel where we spent our entire honeymoon in 1969, then past Oak Street Beach where we “broke in” a wedding gift, the high-tech super 8 movie camera. I still have the silly movies we took of each other running along the beach in our winter coats at the end of November on a freezing cold day. Could all that have been 40 years ago? It didn’t seem possible.

Overwhelmed with a desire to reminisce about those happy days, I was frustrated Nate wasn’t in the car to banter back and forth about them. No one else was on our honeymoon but us, so nobody would “get it” when I might say, “Remember that dachshund in our honeymoon suite? And how ‘bout that throne in the bathroom? And wasn’t it incredible what room service delivered?”

It isn’t enjoyable if I have to explain the whole thing to someone else first. Those were secrets and inside jokes only Nate and I shared, and a secret isn’t fun if only half of us is still keeping it.

I drove on, past the park where we ditched church to kiss and hug in the car and finally to Moody Church where we were married. Memories, memories. I was swamped with them, and without my partner to share them, I felt sad.Moody Church chandalier

I’d come to Moody to meet five of our kids and my sister and husband to enjoy a fabulous Christmas concert in a packed auditorium in which all 4000 seats were full. Remembering our wedding, I wondered how I’d feel. But as we walked in, it was like coming home.

My memories of Moody Church go much farther back than our wedding. My grandfather was chairman of the building committee that built this magnificent church building in 1925, and my parents met and married there. Mom was one of the organists, and I was raised in the Sunday school where I learned all the major Bible stories. I was baptized in that baptistery, and just before we were married, Nate was baptized there, too. We dedicated our children on that platform and made sure they were in Sunday school to hear the same Bible stories. Nate and I enjoyed friendships with four consecutive senior pastors. Memories, memories. But these seemed to cover me like a warm blanket.

Looking back is sometimes a beat-down and sometimes upbeat. The trouble with mourning is never knowing which is coming next. It’s hard to be ready. Tonight, though, the positive memories of Moody Church, including walking down the aisle to marry Nate, won out over the negative of not having him next to me to share the reminiscing.

I know there’s magnificent music in heaven where Nate is, so in one sense, we were sharing the evening because the music we heard (his in paradise and mine at Moody Church) was all about praising and extolling Jesus. That, to me, can only be upbeat, and I can’t wait to hear that heavenly choir. I bet it’s out of this world!Moody Church choir

”Our Lord… has saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works, but according to His own purpose and grace which was granted us in Christ Jesus from all eternity, but now has been revealed by the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel.” (2 Timothy 1:9-10)