When joy and grief collide at Christmas
T he weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, like a freight train on a mission, usually fly by, with a to-do list that just won’t quit.
This year, though, time stopped for us.
On Wednesday, Nov. 6, we sat with my husband’s mom and dad in the emergency room, his dad yellow as a minion with unexplained abdominal pain and elevated liver numbers. He read the report from the CT scan off his phone out loud: adenocarcinoma of the pancreas, lesions on the liver. Time froze. The air whooshed out of the room.
Statistics for survival rate of pancreatic cancer are abysmal, with only 1 percent of those diagnosed, after the disease has spread to other organs, living 5 years. Most succumb within twelve months. We all knew this, but we had no idea how little time we had left with him.
It seems so unfair. After his discharge, his daughter from Ft. Worth brought her family up for a week. Mr. Minion was able to interact for short bursts of time. They created a notebook of important business issues and passwords. My husband recorded a series of questions for posterity, with questions like, “What’s your biggest achievement?” and “Tell me about your childhood.”
At his first scheduled appointment with the oncologist, on day 20 after diagnosis, my father-in-law was told to consider home hospice.
On day 22 after diagnosis, he attended our Thanksgiving celebration at our home with many of his grandchildren. He lifted up the most beautiful blessing, thanking the Lord for His goodness to him even in circumstances we wouldn’t choose for ourselves, and expressing continued devotion to Him in the face of death. He sat with the family for two hours, yellow but cognizant and interactive.
He told his wife that he’s anxious to see the glory of the Lord. Unfortunately, but expectedly, Mr. Minion began to suffer agitation, confusion, and hallucinations along with the pain as his descent continued. On day 26, his wife and my husband transported him to Baptist once again for some help.
His last night on earth was beautiful. Somehow, in that hospital room, surrounded by his wife and children, his agitation relented, and he began saying sweet things. He told his wife that he had bought two tickets for them to her favorite place on earth. America’s Greatest Hotel. She was going to love it. He was sure of it.
He also rambled on and on about this cheesecake he had ordered for us. “I’m not having any, but I ordered some for the whole family, and I want you all to have some. It’s too sweet for me. I’ve had enough, but I want to make sure the whole family gets some cheesecake.”
He spent the evening in the hospital bed, rolled onto his side with his hand hanging off the edge of the bed so that he could hold her hand. When he began to tug at the IV tubing, my husband gently held his hand and said, “Dad. I’ve got it.” His face relaxed and his striving ceased when he made eye-contact with his son, resting in his help.
As his breathing became more difficult and he became non-responsive, many of his family and friends gathered in the hospital room to send him off to Heaven.
When he had taken his last breath, a blind friend in the room bellowed, “Is he gone? Is he gone?!” and the new widow quietly responded, “Yes.”
I found myself annoyed that the Blind One broke the reverent silence with her decidedly irreverent hollering, until she began to rejoice. “Oh, he’s with Jesus now! He’s dancing with Jesus! He’s with his Savior.” Her unbridled joy as he entered the place of no more sorrow or suffering still brings me to tears.
Yes! He’s dancing with Jesus! And his daughter! Reunited in joy and enveloped in the purist love.
About 20 minutes after Mr. Minion had passed, a minister from their large church in Cordova arrived.
As he entered, the new widow greeted him warmly and introduced him to the rest of us, “He knows better than anyone what I’m going through. He lost his wife last year.”
Then this man asked to lead us in prayer.
I’m not kidding you when I say this man put his hand on the corpse and prayed several times out loud for God to heal him.
When the minister uttered his Amen, everyone opened their eyes and looked at the new widow, eyes wide with anticipation. After a beat, she said, “Welp. I guess someone should have told you he’s dead.”
Oh my goodness, how we laugh at that story now. My mother-in-law didn’t even remember she had said that and told me she was embarrassed now, but I think it’s a hilarious way to punctuate the end of the life of her husband, who was charming and witty, and completely dedicated to serving the Lord. After hearing her retell the story in good humor almost every chance she has, I feel comfortable sharing it with the world in print as well.
The night he passed, my very good friend called me and told me she was coming over with treats. “I don’t know why, but I’ve just got this urgent feeling that your family needs some cheesecake tonight.”
I know why. My fatherin- law ordered it. He told us so the night before he died.
Our holiday season has been left with a hole in it. We enter this season of joy with grief tearing at our insides, but we keep our eyes and hearts focused on the birth of the One who brings joy in the hope of Heaven. I’m so thankful that for me, absolute grief can coexist with complete joy this Christmas because of the birth of our Savior.
Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion, Arkansas, with her husband Chris as they enjoy all of the adventures life with their seven children provides. Contact her at iam4life@msn.com.
Dorothy Wilson
The Marion Mom
