Faith enough

By TAD BARTIMUS

It came first through the grapevine.

"Have you heard? The pain finally drove him to the emergency room. The next thing anybody knew they were on a plane. Left food in the refrigerator, dirty clothes in the hamper. Didn't even have time to pack a suitcase. It's bad, real bad."

This man fighting a death sentence wasn't going to waste a single atom on me. His mind was inward; all his considerable powers were dueling with his own blood and bone.

This kind of news circles around like a scavenger in the night. You don't want to turn your back on it but you don't want to confront it, either. Time passes, you collect details. Finally, you have to do something: make a phone call, send a card, show up beside the bed. Dread builds like bile in the throat, but convention compels action.

Until that walk into the emergency room their lives, though hectic, had seemed idyllic. These were people on a fast track: successful, prominent, social, involved. In their prime professionally and personally, they were enjoying life and looking forward to a lot more of it. But we don't get to choose. That's what I thought as I stepped off the elevator onto Oncology 4 West. None of us gets to pick our time. I think, guiltily but with truth: THANK GOD! Today it is not my turn. I am truly sorry it is their turn but thank God it isn't mine. I put a smile on my face and awkwardly let my embrace speak for me.

He was weak, exhausted, but when I looked into his eyes I had the sudden, unlikely thought that maybe my assumption was wrong. I was a fleeting distraction. This man fighting a death sentence wasn't going to waste a single atom on me. His mind was inward; all his considerable powers were dueling with his own blood and bone.

His wife was changed, too. Protective, fierce, full of anger ("I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!") but focused like a laser on getting him through to the other side of the abyss. I stayed just a few minutes, sensing they couldn't afford my doubt. When I walked free into the clear, crisp twilight of a perfect evening I breathed deep, in and out, in and out.

Months passed. I sent books, audio tapes, cards, letters, love. I woke up in the night and awkwardly prayed, trying to imagine their life in a 10-by-10-foot space. He kept beating the odds. Dare we hope? I began to believe the hollow words I'd felt obliged to speak: "You're strong. You're young. You're brave. You'll make it."

Spring came and went. Summer bloomed. He survived chemo; radiation; the transplant; more chemo. He suffered but he stayed alive. She never left him. The doctors poked and probed: "OK, you can leave the hospital but don't go far." They escaped to an apartment. He rode in a car, ate Chinese, saw a movie. Sun warmed his face, wind ruffled his new hair. He grew strong enough to hold her, she let go enough to let him.

This week they flew home. He went to the office, she shopped at the grocery store. They picked up where they'd left off. Everything is the same. Nothing is. Only they know what they survived. The rest of us are left to marvel at the miracle and contemplate the Book of Matthew, Chapter 8, Verse 26:

"... Why are ye fearful, o ye of little faith?"

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