Bad Theology: Thinking Loss Means Nothing

In the few months since Vicki died, both Sarah and Bethany have privately and jointly said something like this to me: “I’m okay with sick Mom not suffering anymore, but I’m not okay with well Mom not being here.” I share their sentiments completely – though if sick Vicki could be sick without great pain, I’d happily take care of her every step of the way.

It’s amazing how our minds start noticing things. You never have an idea about how many blue cars of your make and model exist until you buy a blue car – and then they are everywhere. Once the doctor used the phrase “pancreatic cancer” to describe Vicki, it seemed like that phrase was everywhere all at once. After Vicki’s diagnosis, Alex Trebek, Congressman John Lewis, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg were all in the news as dealing with the effects of pancreatic cancer. It seemed like every commercial on television had something to do with pancreatic cancer. Other people we know from a distance had experienced pancreatic cancer, either themselves or with family or friends. One person even said to me, “You know, that’s what so-and-so died from.”

Trebek, Lewis, and Ginsburg all died before Vicki did, though only Ginsburg was diagnosed before her. I know they were famous people and that the news folks needed to tell us the stories about them, but honestly I thought that if I heard one more time what Trebek’s last days were like, or how Lewis struggled at the end, I’d blow up the television. Then there are the late-night television advertisements from the world of lawyers who are willing to sue anyone about nearly anything. They all mention pancreatic cancer, it seems.

Pancreatic cancer came in and swept away much of what was so important to me – and my family – in this present world. It is as though a vacuum was created, and its pressure is so strong that the void and silence it creates is impenetrable. When people ask me, “How’s it going?” or some similar question, I’m prone to simply say, “Weird.” That’s the word that not only seems to pop into consciousness when I hear that question, but that seems ever present, looking for a moment to show itself.

Weird.

It’s weird that a lifetime of routines Vicki and I both valued are no more. From early morning coffee to an occasional late-night bowl of popcorn or ice cream – all of that and more is now weird. From pushing back on each other about what to watch on TV to knowing that my clothes and socks match when I walk out of the house headed to work, everything is now weird. It’s so weird to realize when I hear of some important prayer request that I don’t need to remember to tell Vicki, whose prayer life put mine to shame regularly!

For as long as I can remember, I have had a habit of leaning over to kiss Vicki on the forehead when I wake up in the morning. Talk about weird – it is weird when I instinctively do that now, only to realize that I can’t. A few days ago, I was on the way to a doctor’s appointment for myself. The office is just a little north of Piedmont Fayette Hospital, where most of Vicki’s oncology, chemotherapy, and radiation visits occurred. I instinctively found myself in the left lane with the turn signals on, getting ready to make the U-turn for the entrance to the oncologist’s office. It was weird that I needed to keep going and not turn.

One of my go-to-answers when our family is planning to do something – from where we are going to eat to what condo to rent at the beach – has been, “Fine with me if it works for Mom.” It is weird to realize that that is no longer a good answer. 

I’ve always liked having fresh flowers in the house. During these two years and seven months Vicki valiantly battled pancreatic cancer, I don’t think more than a week or two passed by that there weren’t fresh flowers in her line of vision. Sometimes friends brought flowers, sometimes I brought in flowers I was growing, and lots of times, they came from the grocery store flower stand. After picking up a prescription at Publix earlier this week, I was walking by the flower stand and found myself stopping to see which bouquet to bring home. How weird. I can’t bring her flowers anymore.

I hope none of this sounds like I’m in some sort of mental crisis – I don’t think I am, and I have friends and daughters who would tell me if they thought I were. I can talk about this fairly reliably, except with Sarah and Bethany, where some things make me want to cry. I hope it doesn’t sound like I’ve lost faith somehow and must think God is weird. I don’t. In fact, despite a few unanswered questions I hope get answered one day, I’d say my faith may be stronger than ever. But I will say that my next post about this may be titled, “Crappy Theology Is Not Comforting.” 

It’s also weird which people and friends you hear from and which ones you don’t. I’m not keeping a score card, but it has been weird how concerned some folks have been and how absent others have been. That has reminded me of just how important the whole issue of pastoral care in the church is. I was married to the Queen of Sending Cards and Checking on People. I’m not bad about that myself. But I know with certainty now that as long as I am around and able, I want to be the kind of person who writes a note, sends a card, or makes a quick call. Who knows, maybe even the radical thing of an in-person conversation!

In a recent New York Times piece about the release of the late Rachel Held Evans’ final book, her widower, Daniel Jonce Evans, said, “I used to think that ‘til death do us part’ meant that everything ended when one person died. And what I’m learning is that there are some things that exist until both people are in the grave.” I wish I had been the one to say that, but I am happy to borrow that line from him.

That may sound weird. So be it. It’s a kind of weird that I hope never goes away.