Clarity

January 23, 2017

Today is the 6 month anniversary of Brendan’s death.  I’ve had a lot to reflect on lately.  How quickly the time has seemed to go.  How slowly the time has passed.  There have been many emotions, both sweet and bitter.

As we continue to move forward, I’ve once again turned to writing to process the many emotions and memories that continue to flood my mind.  Last month I reflected on the moment I found out that Brendan did not have long to live.  Here is what I wrote:

On May 5, 2016, after receiving the results of Brendan’s bone biopsy that showed esthesioneuroblastoma cells in his bones, I wrote the words, “Maybe in a later post I will have the words to describe how the world crashing down around you sounds and feels.  But I don't have those words today.”

Honestly, I never planned to write that post, or ever describe what that feels like. There are no words to describe what that feels like.  But today I felt like I would revisit that moment and write about what I learned from that experience. 

On May 5, when the doctors came to Brendan’s hospital room — and it was both Dr. Fluchel and Dr. Meznarich — I knew something was up.  When they asked if they could talk to me privately, I knew it was serious and not good.  Otherwise, they would have happily discussed it with Brendan too.  They wanted to talk with Shaun, too, and I had to explain that he, Sarah and Rachel had just flown to West Virginia and were driving to Virginia for Loren’s law school graduation.  We tried to call Shaun, but he was out of service in the hills of West Virginia.

I was tense as we left Brendan and the safe haven of his hospital room and started down the hallway.  I remember taking a deep breath and trying to relax my shoulders (that were perched somewhere up around my ears.) The doctors were looking for somewhere private we could talk.  There are not many quiet places in the ICS unit.  I was grateful they took me to the treatment room and not the tiny conference room where we had had some serious conversations before.  I felt I would have suffocated in the closet-sized room designated for such discussions.  In contrast, the treatment room (where memories resurfaced of Brendan’s emergency lumbar puncture just hours before his first chemo treatment) was spacious and light.  We spread out in the room — me on the couch, Dr. Meznarich on the end, and Dr. Fluchel sitting across from us on a makeshift stool.  The doctors looked at each other to see who was going to give me the news.  Somehow, Dr. Meznarich got to say the words, “Brendan’s pathology shows esthesioneuroblastoma cells in his bones.”  

I remember the comment they both made about how surprised everyone was by the results.  Dr. Fluchel then said something, but I don’t remember what he said.  I just knew he was speaking.  Everything immediately closed in on me, just like it does in the movies.  Everything began spinning.  I thought I could hear my heart beating.  Then my mind made a brief, momentary grasp at hope — searching for a solution, wanting to ask what else we could do — but, just as quickly, I knew that I knew what the outcome was going to be. We had already discussed this possibility. Unbelief, crushing pain, and fear passed over me like a tsunami.  I remember the feeling of future hopes and dreams shattering in my head, and showering down on me like broken glass. The future pictures in my head went dark.  We were going into the unknown again.

In looking back, what sticks out even more strongly in my mind about that moment was the clarity.  The clear, pure, calm moment when everything made perfect sense. I not only “saw” the clarity, I “felt” the clarity.  Metastasized bone cancer completely explained all the troublesome, painful symptoms Brendan had been experiencing for months.  It also explained those confusing spots on Brendan’s bone scans that had troubled my mind for so long.

Contrast that moment of clarity on May 5th to April 19th when the endocrinologist and the nephrologist (kidney specialist) came to consult with us about the spots on Brendan’s bone scans and MRI’s. Brendan had been happily declared, “cancer free” just the day before.  The doctors checked him over.  They read his charts.  They asked questions.  Then they began to talk. I distinctly remember listening to them talk to me but it was as if nothing they said made sense.  I thought to myself, “If you just concentrate harder on what the doctor is saying, then you will be able to understand.”  I watched their lips move.  I tried to concentrate harder.  But it was still as if what they were saying was spoken in a different language.  I remember trying to explain to Shaun later what they had said, but I couldn’t explain it and I couldn’t understand it myself.  It was darkness to my mind.

Those two poignant moments reminded me once again how Heavenly Father lets us know exactly what is right and what is wrong.  The scripture in Doctrine and Covenants 8:2 says, “Behold, I will tell you in your mind and in your heart, by the Holy Ghost, which shall come upon you and which shall dwell in your heart.”

Looking back, I’m so grateful for those two contrasted moments that testified to me that Heavenly Father was still with us, guiding us, and holding Brendan gently in his arms.  As hard as it was to acknowledge that Brendan’s life would be short, I knew that it was true, and I also knew with perfect clarity that God was letting me know it was right.