I have been thinking, dwelling actually on mortality this week as I've helped put together various aspects of a funeral for an infant in my ward. I came across this that passage that I had every intention of finishing but somehow the tears get in the way of the words even six years later. I thought I'd put it out there and maybe, just maybe I'll find the strength to complete it.
It’s amazing how one little word formed of two harmless syllables can turn you life upside down. It was a day just like any other in Southern California. The weatherman could have prerecorded his forecast for all the changes that take place in this coastal town. 75 degrees and sunny. The parks were filled with smiling mothers pushing their toddlers in swings, secretly wondering if bedtime would ever come. Overly anxious fathers lined the bleachers of the ball field, eager to live their boyhood fantasies through their children. Dogs barked, content to be able to hear the sound of their own voice over the distant traffic. To the casual observer it was as close to Utopia as one could find. But at the outskirts of this town lay a stone building a place where dreams are born and destinies realized a place where futures were determined -- Pleasant Valley Hospital.
I sat in the waiting room doing just that -- waiting. I knew the instant the doors opened my life could completely change. My mother, Kass, lay on a table through those doors. Doctors, whose years of medical training taught them nothing of tact, worked methodically to see into the abdomen of my mom. For some time now, they’d done batteries of tests, each meant to rule out one condition or another. Each test came back inconclusive. Because of the quick onset of my mother’s symptoms we never fully understood the possible cause of her intense pain. We spent months on a roller coaster ride, each up swing us to a doctor who would ultimately lead us to the next low. Our need to discover once and for all the cause of this vibrant woman’s deterioration.
The last time my mom and I had been in a hospital together had been to welcome the youngest of my children into the world. The smile on her face was no less stunning than the first two times we welcomed a child together. Kass lived her life for her grandchildren. Having wanted twelve children but having been blessed instead with two of Heavens finest, she soaked in every opportunity to wrap her gentle hands around one of mine. To her the very smell of her children was a testament to the fact that God lived. It was for this reason she hesitated before being wheeled into the O.R. She feared she’d miss the baseball game her seven year old grandson was to play. What she didn’t realize was that across town that same little boy was explaining his reason for missing the game, “Baseball’s just not fun without Grandma,” he’d said. Grandma hadn’t missed a game yet. “Team Miller” as we referred to ourselves wore matching tee-shirts with our star’s picture emblazoned across the front. Together she and I would pace behind the other parents, coaching from the sidelines screaming excitedly as our seven year old wonder would make a spectacular play.
The page of the intercom jolted me back to reality. I watched anxiously for the door to swing open. The expected hour surgery had turned into two and I found myself silently praying -- pleading -- with my Father in Heaven. I found comfort in praying and relying on his strength to get me through the hours of uncertainty.
The specialist, tall, lean and a specimen of health emerged from the sterile room, his brown furrowed with anticipation as he made his way across the room toward me. He sat across from me, obviously trying to maintain his professional distance. Hands held steady by years of surgeries reached into the manila envelope that held the clues to our future.
This, “ he said, “ is your mom’s pancreas. The green mucus colored masses- those are cancerous growths.” When we opened her we found that everything - her liver, her spleen, her pancreas- they’re all covered in cancer and there is nothing we can do.” My mind was racing, question blurring together: how could this woman who could outrun my two year old be sick? How could me vegetable eating mom have cancer? What do you mean there is nothing you can do -- “what kind of doctor are you? You went through twelve years of schooling only to stand before me and say there is nothing you can do?” I screamed silently. I was amazed at the anger that engulfed me. This was not the answer I was waiting for - it wasn’t an answer at all it was an unjust verdict rendered and a life sentence passed before its time. The doctor left, his job was done he had no need to stay because as he said, there was nothing he could do.
I stumbled toward an exit, my heart pounding so fiercely I feared it might burst through my blouse without notice.
