Thoughts of Heaven

I am hoping Susan's episodes of extreme fatigue and confusion are the result of Thursday's chemotherapy and will be temporary. The fact that a few hours of rest usually restores her until the next time is reassuring.

Even though we've had nearly two and a half years to get used to Susan being a brain tumor survivor, sometimes the absurdity of her illness rears up and I feel a strange sense of detachment, like I'm encountering her situation for the first time. It happened tonight in the bathroom when I guided Susan to the sink to wash her hands and she asked, "What do I do?" Since disorientation and word loss have become normal for her, we handle these lapses without commotion, frustration, or scolding and give a gentle word of instruction. "First you wet your hands. The soap is there on the left." As she responded, we breezed over the situation as usual.

If all I knew about Susan was that she's a 48-year-old woman who is unable to wash her hands on her own, I might conclude she's at about the lowest state a person can function. But she jokes around, sings songs she learned when she was 12, knows her friends, and remembers that she takes a Fosamax pill on Tuesday mornings and needs to wait 30 minutes before eating breakfast. She prays earnestly, can rightly solve a moral problem and will comfort someone who's hurting, but may not remember what happened 10 minutes ago. Brain tumors are weird things.

Perhaps my sense of detachment carried over when I looked at Susan before she went to bed and was gripped with intense love and compassion for her. I told her I love her so much, sometimes it drives me crazy. She giggled an "Ohh" like she would have five years ago. I said I'm so sorry she has to go through such an ordeal and I wish I could take it away from her. I assured her at least I want to do everything I can to help her and never want her to feel neglected or alone. She consoled me that none of it is my fault; and she knows I'm doing everything I can to help. As we shared a pillow in the dark room, my thoughts turned dark also – and admittedly selfish. I said I don't want her to die. Without hesitation, Susan said she is not going to die but will go to Heaven someday just like I will, and it will be better than anything we can imagine in this life. Her confidence in God means her faith has become a reflex that leaves no room for despair. I love that.

As we prayed together, I thanked the Lord that he gave us each other and that Jesus has conquered sin, death, and hell for us so we don't have to worry about them. I thanked him for providing a home for us with him, forever, that will far exceed our grandest experiences on earth and will make our hardest difficulties here seem meaningless. I told God Susan's healing is up to him, but asked him to give us Heaven's perspective on earth so we might draw others to him and avoid foolishness and disobedience. We were united in prayer.