Returning

I wrote these thoughts on August 20, 2015.

I’ve been afraid to write. Reluctant. I still am. In part, it feels like I’m eulogizing my my husband which is scary. I want us to “grow old together on one pillow” as the little note from the hotel staff on our honeymoon said. I don’t want my husband to die. Bottom line. And I’ve been living these five years in the shadow of that possibility. Mostly, I’ve tried to ignore the shadow and live as if the sun is blazing all around us. The shadow moves when other people encroach upon my protected view—like former President Jimmy Carter today. All smiles, he stands strong at 90 years old and announces to the world that he’s fighting cancer.

Survival rates are low for stage IV cancers—something like 5-10% to live for 5 years after diagnosis. I think of Duwayne. He turned 35 yesterday. Not even his current oncologist—in a full circle of fate (if you believe that stuff) was also the first oncologist Duwayne had who prayed with us in the hospital room in 2010—not even he thought Duwayne would be alive today. Yet, here we are. Living and moving (back to L.A.) and having babies (just one so far but hopefully more to come).

I have wanted to forget all that we’ve been through because so much good has been added to us. Day before yesterday (the day before his birthday) my husband wrote on his family WhatsApp, “I am living the dream: happily marrried, dad to a beautiful little girl, provider, and career I enjoy. So happy. Welcome age 35.” What a testimony. What a blessing. And yet, present is the shadow I try to ignore even as the doorbell rang for me to receive his chemo drugs that day.

In part, I blame Duwayne. He has been such a trooper. A strong man who has made the best of his body’s betrayal—so much so that I’ve been able to live under that protection. Constipation - normal. Heartburn - normal. Neuropathy - normal. Chemo - normal. Insomnia - normal. This is his everyday and I have the best seat in the house: a seat that’s up close and personal, a seat so comfortable (because Duwayne shields me from so much) that I forget I’m in a darkened room, like a theater. I forget and then when called I’m too afraid to get on stage with him. This is my dilemma today: suddenly, we’re married seven years. Suddenly he’s 35 and beaten the odds so far. Suddenly, I’ve begun to take account of the kind of wife I’ve been. Suddenly, today, I have to be present in the spotlight with him, facing the dark audience—all who wait and hope for our lives to be triumphant, over cancer.

Today, I read my words with compassion for myself. I think of Duwayne with love and pride. There’s pain. A lot. But I’m not hiding from it anymore. There’s so much I’ve learned and have yet to learn about this life of faith, about lament, about joy and how it all weaves together in a complex and beautiful tapestry.

Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying seeds to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them. Psalm 126:5-6