Photo by Thomas Stockhausen - Getty Images
Candle
candle, candles, black background, death, grief, loss
Thanksgiving was a few days away. To most of us, a few days seems a short span of time, but for Jean a few days was all that remained of her lifetime.
Much earlier, a strange pain in her lower abdomen turned out to be ovarian cancer, which then spread throughout her body. She and the doctors fought back long and hard, but their adversary had a head start.
Before long, Jean realized she'd never win back the illusion so many of us entertain that death is a vanishing point on the horizon. She stopped trying to beat the Grim Reaper. It became enough to win smaller victories; a meal that stayed down, an unassisted trip to the bathroom, a lucid conversation with her 5-year-old granddaughter, a few hours of restful sleep.
It was a few weeks before Thanksgiving when Jean and I met. She was a patient in the hospital's oncology unit and I, a then novice psychotherapist, was assigned to provide emotional support to patients, their families and the nursing staff.
“I'm going to die,” she told me the first time we talked.
“So am I,” I replied, and she smiled.
“Yes, but I'm gonna beat you to it.”
Talking About Death
Our conversation had that quality, direct but not without humor. That's what made our talks so important to her. She could speak her truth.
“My family won't talk to me about death,” she confided. “They just smile until their faces almost break, and then they leave the room and cry.”
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“It's tough to look at you without smiling,” I responded.
“Where were you when I was looking for a husband?”
Jean and I had our laughs, but there was plenty of crying as well. The small space of her compressed existence had lots of sharp edges; fear, physical pain, sadness, what if's, mental confusion, long nights, waiting. Like many who feel betrayed by their bodies, Jean felt victimized.
“I used to think I was a lucky person, the kind that counts her blessings and feels empathy for the sick, the lonely and the dying. But now I'm sick, lonely and dying.”
“It's your turn for empathy,” I replied.
“I keep trying to be thankful for my blessings, my late husband, the kids, our home, the happy times. It's like those memories are supposed to make this easier.”
“Do they?” I asked.
“Not much. Last year on Thanksgiving I went to church and gave thanks to God for all that I'd been given. This year, I’ve got nothing to give,” she continued.
“You do have something to give to God,” I told her. “Your truth.”
Jean thought a lot about that, and when Thanksgiving Day dawned, she convinced a nurse to wheel her down to the hospital chapel and then leave her alone for a while. There, she unleashed her hurt and hostility on the divine.
While Jean railed at God, I sat around the dinner table with my loved ones listening as each of us spoke of our gratitude.
“Thank you for my health, and the health of those I love,” my sister said.
Her comment returned my thoughts to Jean.
“I couldn’t give thanks,” she later told me. “So, I gave God what I had, my anger and sorrow. That's all I've got to give.”
“Your anger won’t drive a wedge between you and your lord. Silence will,” I told her.
This Thanksgiving, while most count their blessings, many unfortunate people will feel the pain of loss, illness, tragedy and other misfortunes. Some will still find gratitude in their hearts, but others won’t. Like Jean, they will find only suffering and bitterness.
If you’re among them and have no thanks to give to whatever higher power you believe in, that’s OK It’s enough to give whatever you’ve got.
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