The Day that Hope Shifted

 The Day that Hope Shifted

      A few short days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt said that the attack would be a day that lived in infamy.  Days of infamy are days that are burned into our minds.  Days that we will never forget during our earthly journey.  Those days aren't just historical, but they are personal too.  Some days mark you forever, almost like a brand.  The very thought of those days can cause such a turbulent mix of emotions.  For me, one year ago, this was one of those days of infamy.  Not infamy not just because of what happened, but because God carried me through.

      For days doctors and nurses had been discussing Tiff's condition.  Heart doctors, lung doctors, floor doctors, etc all flooded her rooms.  The consensus was the same.  They were all being honest, none of them were dispensing much hope.  They were simply waiting for a final confirmation from the oncologist, aka, cancer doctor.  For days I attempted to contact her cancer doctor, but no one returned my phone calls.  So, one year ago today I woke up early and I went to his office.  I wasn't very friendly, I wasn't my bubbly self.  I went determined, hard headed, but also in such pain.  I told a receptionist that I was there to see the doctor.  She said 'you don't have an appointment.'  My reply was cold, calculated.  I replied 'my wife is dying, I don't think I need an appointment.  Tell him that I'm not leaving here until I talk to him.'  The reply was that he was pretty busy.  My answer back came from frustration, I answered 'I've got nothing better to do with my time and I can Uber break, lunch, and dinner.  I will leave under two conditions.  I see him or you take me out of here in handcuffs.'  That got a quick response because I was ushered into his office.  He opened Tiff's latest CT scan and I didn't need anyone to tell me what I saw.  I had been looking at scans for the past ten months.  I knew what I was seeing.  Her lungs were encompassed about with cancer.  There was basically nowhere for the oxygen to be saturated into her lungs.  He said with great sadness that the medicines had done everything they could do.  Her conditionw as beyond treatment.  It was time to say goodbye.  No longer was healing on earth an option.  It felt like the air left the room, like the ground dropped out from under me, liek the future I prayed for suddenly faded....like hope shifted.

      I exited the office for the last time.  That office held so many memories.  The first time that we visited in February Tiff was in a wheelchair.  We were scared.  That seemed like a lifetime ago.  I sat with her through almost every infusion, each infusing lasting hours.  She would send on errands.  I can't tell you how many trips to Target that I made.  I would pick up some food for her and we would have the sweetest dates at the chemo center.  I remember packing her pink chemo bag.  That bag was filled with snacks, puzzles, books, throat lozenges, gloves, socks, blankets, thank you cards, pens, a notebook, gum, mints, tissues, love notes from me, and more.  To this day I miss packing her chemo bag.  That office held so many good memories.  We shared Christ with so many nurses and staff.  For months the chemo made her better, stronger, and gave us a little more hope.  But hope was over, at least on earth.  I remember feeling stunned, I was numb, my heart was hemorrhaging.  Again, I wasn't surprised.  Her lungs were rapidly deteriorating, becoming more and more dependent on higher flow oxygen.  A simple trip to the potty chair dropped her oxygen to 59%, spiking her heart rate into the 160s.  It had been such a quick turn around.  The cancer was spreading at such an alarming rate.  It was incredibly painful to watch my wife literally fade away those last few days.  That hardest part was that I needed to be the one to tell her that she was dying, that we were bankrupt for earthly hope, that the fight had come to an end.  I came into her room trying to be brave.  She had a cream and green hospital gown on.  There sitting in the chair was my wife, my lover, my world.  I sat on her bed and started to cry.  I wept.  I told her exactly what the doctor said and we cried together.  At first tears was the only way we could communicate.  But soon she looked at me with her big, brown, warm eyes and said "I'm going to miss you Fred (my nickname from her)."  O' the pain that ravaged my soul over those five words.  She thanked me for loving her, fighting for her, and being faithful.  We talked about heaven and for the first time heaven felt real.  We knew that our life was going to end together.  She kept saying "it's not fair to you Fred."  My thoughts weren't on myself, it was on my wife who modeled a Job like faith to suffering. 

      She wanted a few hours to process what she heard, so I headed hope briefly.  I came home to shower, my first shower in over a week.  I entered the bathroom and locked the door.  Why I locked the door I'll never know, no one was home.  I ugly cried.  The bathroom had become my sanctuary of sadness, a place where I cried onto the shower mat so hard that it was wet.  Boxes of tissues had been exhausted during those months.  I had spent hours in that bathroom during the year.  I would sit on the flood, convulsing in pain, shaking in panic attacks  That day I sat in the shower yelling, screaming, my soul hurting so deeply.  It was like reading a book that you already knew the end but you have no other option then to keep reading.  I dried off and said 'what do I do now?'

      I started to pick a few things up in our bedroom.  This was helpful to keep my mind busy.  Tiffanie would often say that I frantically cleaned when I was emotionally exhausted.  She called it "prancing around like a reindeer."  During my cleaning I found one of my socks under her side of the bed.  I couldn't find it's mate.  I ugly cried.  It's stupid, but I felt just like that sock.  My life was an impending one without a mate, a life forever displaced from the love of my life.  Then I noticed our bed and for the first time it dawned on me, I will never sleep beside my wife again.  I laid on her side of the bed just so I could smell her scent from her pillow.  I wept until I had no tears left to give.

      I came back to the hosptial and a dark cloud hung over our room.  For the first time we talked about funeral arrangements,  legacy, things I would need to do for the kids.  I pray that you never have to sit with your spouse and ask questions like, what songs do you want played, what verses do you want us to read, what color casket do you want, what do you want on your casket, etc.  Or direct comments from my lips like "I'm not ready for you to go' or " I love you and I always will."  It was such a heavy day.

      But in that room she squeezed my hand with this calm, gentle faith that humbled me.  She had always trusted Jesus so deeply, but that day her faith became a kind of anchor for both of us.  Scripture that we had read countless times came rushing back to us with such life, wrapping around us almost like a warm blanket in a cold room.  I read Psalm 23:4 to her, "Even though I was through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no eveil for you are with me."  We weren't walking around the valley.  We weren't walking above it.  We were walking through it, we were in the heart of the beast, yet He was with us.

      At that moment 2nd Corinthians 12:9 came back to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."  His grace didn't remove the pain, but it steadied us for the storm that was about ready to blow against us.  The Lord let us know soon we would say goodbye, that it was going to hurt, but that He would hold the line between each other in heaven and earth.  His power didn't erase the sorrow, but it assured us that we wouldn't be crushed by it.  Those were holy moments, heartbreaking, but so sacred.

      We prayed for a miracle a miracle, but God is faithful...faithful on the days when the miracle comes, and on the days when it doesn't come.  His presence is the miracle that never fails.  He met us there in that hospital room when the rug of life was pulled out from under our feet.  He planted His feet in the depths of our sorrow and refused to be moved.  He held us, wept with us, and carried my life one day closer to glory.