Hard Stories, Wonderful People

 My heart has hurt a lot this week -- it seems to be very tender lately, and easily touched.  News of a cousin's impending divorce and my brother-in-law's recent cancer diagnosis have felt particularly painful.  This week I was also included in a discussion group for Mom's of Kids with Cancer.  It has been great to be part of this "community" and share a common bond.  But it has also reminded me of what a sweet lady I met in the radiation waiting room once said to me when I told her how grateful I was to meet people like her.  She softly replied, "Yes, but it is hard to hear everyone's stories."

Brendan attempts to eat one ramen noodle.

 I've reflected often on her comment, wondering if what she said had any merit.  She had been battling a brain tumor off and on for almost 20 years.  Recently, she had had brain surgery when her doctor determined that surgery couldn't be any more risky than the way the tumor was growing anyway.  We marveled together at how doctors could perform brain surgery these days.  She was weak and soft spoken and I always saw her in her wheelchair.  Rhonda was a tender soul and I loved to see her in the waiting room.  (She had the same team of radiation therapists as Brendan and their appointments were often back to back.)  While Rhonda wasn't sure what the future held for her (she had already outlived many doctor's predictions), she smiled and was optimistic. I began to watch for her each day and I loved to see her kind, patient husband wheel her into radiation each day and tenderly help her to the waiting room.  Rhonda gave me great hope, and also the realization that it hurt to see how others suffered.  She knew about suffering and felt others pain keenly.

He was a more optimistic about ukulele practice than lunch.  But then, he could play and "eat" at the same time.

Another wonderful lady I met in the waiting room while Brendan had his treatments told me about moving to Utah recently to be by her daughter while she underwent her cancer treatments.  She told me she was the only person on her street that wasn't a member of the Mormon church.  She had moved from southern California and I asked how she was enjoying the snow?  "Oh, fine!" she said. She liked the snow and had grown up with it.  

What has stayed with me was what she said next.  "The snow is fine.  I have a neighbor who comes over every time it snows and shovels my driveway and spreads salt on my slippery steps so I can get to my treatments every day.  If he can't get to it his teenage son does it.  I tried to pay them, but they won't accept any money."  

I hope that neighbor father and son someday know what kind of impact they made not only on their neighbor, but on a complete stranger in a radiation therapy waiting room who vowed to be a better neighbor and friend to everyone (and teach her kids the same thing.)

Brendan was going stir crazy all day so his dad took him to run errands with him today.  He didn't have a problem wearing his mask as long as he could get out of the house.

 On the eve of Thanksgiving I sat in the waiting room with yet another lady who was anxious to get her radiation treatment finished so she could start her chemo treatment (a 5 hour ordeal) so she could get on the road to Wyoming before the predicted storm arrived. "Besides," she told me, "I still have 3 salads to make before dinner tomorrow!"
"Will you be ok driving right after your chemo treatment?" I asked.  "Sure!" she said.  "I've been just fine before."
"But what about the snowstorm moving in and that long drive in the dark to Wyoming?" I pressed.

What followed was story after story of her driving a big rig across Wyoming in good weather and bad.  My favorite was the one where she hit a patch of black ice around Little America and her back trailer came up and almost passed her.  But all was well when she hit a dry patch and everything righted itself.
I was glad to hear she wasn't at all worried about driving herself home to Wyoming in a snowstorm after radiation and chemo treatments in time to make dinner for her family.  But I did say a prayer for her that night as dark descended and I watched out my home window as the big, fluffy flakes began falling fast and furious.  And I almost ran up and gave her a hug when I saw her safe and sound at the Huntsman the next week.

You'd think we could get some serious scripture study in. . .

 I know there have always been hard stories and lives touched by tragedy.  But I have never seen them so up close and personal before.  Now, I feel their pain.  In some small way I can relate to their struggles.  And I'm touched by their courage and faith and strength.  Yes, it is hard to hear everyone's stories.  But I can say that I'm a better person today for hearing them -- and feeling them too.  And I understand a little bit better why Christ, even knowing that he could make everything better, still wept.

But there seems to be nothing serious about scripture study at our house!