| |  I like to think that I got my faith from my mother—but I doubt I have my mother’s faith. That became very clear to me last week.
As you know, last week I was in Madison to help take care of my mother as she struggled with her recurrence of colon cancer. By the end of the week, the situation was pretty bad. Despite her medication, mom was in constant pain, dehydrated, and having trouble keeping food and water down. The situation was bad enough that my aunt and I decided it was time to take her back to the Cancer Clinic at the University Hospital, where, after a couple doses of morphine and a large I-V of saline, she began to show signs of improvement.
After about an hour, Dr. Hollum came to visit her. Dr. Hollum is mom’s primary oncologist and a very busy man at the Cancer Clinic. It was Dr. Hollum who had originally suggested that mom participate in an experimental chemotherapy trial, after her first course of chemotherapy failed. As he arrived in mom’s room, it was easy to see his sad frustration—his resignation and his sense of failure. It was in his eyes, as he looked over mom’s tired features and the thin wisps of her remaining hair. It was in his voice, as he asked her preliminary questions—and it was even in the tender hesitations as he poked and prodded her abdomen.
We all had known that the experimental chemo that mom was taking was a “second line” treatment. We all knew that there was no “third line,” and, I think, Dr. Hollum knew that better than any of us. Finally, he took his stethoscope out of his ears. He set aside his clipboard and pulled up a chair, sitting next to my mother’s bedside.
“Karen,” He said, “I can’t tell you how much time you have left. No one can. But I’d rather see you spend the time you have left in comfort, rather than being constantly miserable. And this new chemo is harming you more than it is helping you. I think it’s time to stop.”
For a moment I was shocked. I mean, I knew mom’s condition was bad, but it still felt like she had a fair bit of time. And yet Dr. Hollum was using the language that chaplains and doctors use at the end of life—talking about “time left” and “help” versus “harm.” I could see tears welling in my aunt’s eyes.
And then my mother did a remarkable thing. In retrospect, I can’t say I was surprised, and yet it remarkable, nonetheless. She reached out her hand, placed it tenderly on Dr. Hollum’s and gave it the barest squeeze.
“That’s alright,” She said, “we did our best, didn’t we?”
At the very heart of Christ’s teachings is the call to put the needs and well-being of others in front of your own. At the very heart of Christ’s ministry was hand that extended nothing less than pure love and pure compassion. And at the very heart of Christ’s crucifixion was the commitment that—no matter how dire the situation could be—sacrifice, love, and compassion are everything we are called to have in our hearts.
Here was a man who was offering my mother nothing but death. And here was her response—to answer him with love and compassion; to put his need for comfort and peace far ahead of her own; to care for him in a way that he could not care for himself. And then I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, because I realized for a moment just how deep my mother’s faith is.
I don’t know if every Christian can respond to death like this, but I do think that’s something we should all aspire to. Today, my mother’s not ready to die—but I tell you this, she’s certainly not afraid to. I hope, when I’m in that same place, I will have found the depth of my mother’s faith. |
| | Posted 7/6/2008 8:10 AM - 67 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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