Terminal

Dear Readers:

To my word, this blog is about cancer, widowhood, and faith. Today (Friday), I met with my oncologist—a tiny-framed Asian. He walked in the exam room, hugged me, and said, “I’m so sorry.” This kind of reaction to a CAT Scan does not bode well for the patient. The gentleman was clearly upset. It took him about ten minutes to clearly define that I had inoperable liver cancer with a life expectancy of a few days up to one month.  Mom and I did our best to console him but he remained clearly upset by this outcome.

Since my first visit to my GP on Tuesday, the CAT Scan on Thursday, and today, I have not been surprised by any of this. I felt sick three weeks ago—having problems eating, losing stamina, and gain water weight up to a pound a day. My liver felt knotted. I checked the film on the scan—no knots. I have a liver that is polka-dotted with cancer spots. I will have a biopsy this coming Tuesday to confirm everything for insurance purposes. We are trying Anastrozole to slow down the process and give me a little extra time.

Mom’s birthday is April 30^th. She would like me to cut the cake. How can I refuse such a sweet request?

I believe that Paul, my husband, misses me and has asked God to call me home. We were meant to go together but the funeral parlor refused to let me crawl into the cremation vault with my dear man. So 21^st Century. I’m now forced down this path to get to heaven. I do believe in heaven.

When you get there, look for me I will be sitting under an oak tree discussing “Letters from Earth” with Mark Twain. I promised my friend Sue I would plant a few flowers to spruce up the place before she arrives.  Cindy B said it would be nice if I hugged Devon her Sainted first born. I am already getting a to-do list before lifting off. Exciting don’t you think?

I ask for prayers for my family and for comfort—to cut down the pain.

I will write as often and as long as I can because that’s what writers do. God bless you everyday.

Seven Husbands

Last Sunday’s sermon reminded me of a conversation I had with Mom not long after Paul died. I've been married several times before and engaged a lot. Actually my marital track record was beginning to look like Elizabeth Taylor or Zsa Zsa Gabor’s BP—before Paul. The problem—I said yes when I meant no then ran when awful got worse.

 In reality, all my previous relationships added together did not total three years. Pathetic considering I met Paul at age thirty-one and stayed with him twenty-nine years.

The conversation with Mom went like this…

“Do you think Paul will be my husband in heaven?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mom said flatly. “The rest of them won’t be there any way.”

Okay that was funny. Not true but funny. I laughed then felt a bit guilty.

We had both forgotten Luke 20:27-38—the passage Pastor Murphy sermonized last Sunday. The story was about the widow who married her husband’s brother who dies, then marries the next brother who dies and so on for a total of seven husbands. The Sadducees wanted to know whose wife would she be in the afterlife? Jesus said, “Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage; but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage.” In heaven, we are made different. Human rules don’t apply. So this grief and longing will not last either.  

Till then I wake up, breathe, and move on.