mama3girls-phnig

A reflection on dying.

I mean, I actually could be.

Probably not.

But I really need to get to the doctor first.

Today I dropped off my CT scans at my primary care physician’s office.

Lisa, the front desk lady, told me everybody was at lunch.

I said, “Okay, but can I just wait here until you hand these to either the doctor or her nurse? Because I don’t have any more copies of this.”

She said “absolutely!” Then she took the scans and the notes directly from my hands and went to hunt down my primary care doctor who was apparently on her lunch break. As she disappeared into the back she assured me she would hand everything to somebody who could quickly review it.

“Stay right here,” she said. “It could be a little bit.”

I said okay.

About ten minutes later she returned.

“Well,” she said, “Monday is the soonest we can get you in, but it won’t be with your primary care doctor. Would you be okay seeing a different physician if we have to wait and they don’t end up calling you today?”

Now, I was not panicking.

I was gathering data.

So I asked if there was a reason I needed to be seen Monday.

Because if there wasn’t a reason, I would prefer to see my actual doctor.

Then I said, “I can wait for Wednesday, as long as waiting until Wednesday isn’t going to put my life in acute danger.”

She said, “Let’s go ahead and make the Wednesday appointment.”

So we made the Wednesday appointment.

And then, after the Wednesday appointment was made, that’s when she said it.

“Don’t worry.”

Now.

That was unfortunate.

Because before she told me not to worry, I wasn’t worrying.

I had questions. Questions and worry are cousins. They are not the same person.

Questions say:

What is this?

Worry says:

I already know.

And up until that moment, I was firmly in the question category. Then I got in my car and called my best friend Dani. And Dani, whom I love dearly, essentially told me the same thing.

“Don’t worry.”

Which was also unfortunate. Because I still wasn’t worrying. I think we may have even had a 10 minute conversation on the feeling of concern and the bodily state of “worry”. But at that point, I was still asking questions–regarding my medical care. I had “concerns” but my heart rate was reflecting a normal beat per minute. But having to say all of this means that I was not feeling particularly understood.

Not because anyone was trying to be unkind. I wasn’t asking for reassurance or looking for certainty.

I wasn’t even looking for answers yet.

I wanted something much simpler. Presence. A hug. A nap with a dog or two.

In that order.

Now, to be fair, a good glass of wine can occasionally help a nervous system calm down. Unfortunately, it was ten-thirty in the morning. And I am currently on antibiotics.

At some point I also considered texting one of the many pastors floating around the edges of my life.

Not because I needed theology.

Not because I needed certainty.

Honestly, if you’ve ever met a pastor, certainty is not always what they’re bringing to the table anyway.

What I wanted was prayer.

Presence.

Somebody willing to sit in the question marks with me for a minute.

If you’re one of those pastors and you’re reading this, would you pray for me? I am apparently accepting applications from multiple spiritual traditions at the moment. Dean Koontz @deankoontzofficial (we need to talk. I need a publisher and I may also need a private jet.)

For those special pastors? I have only one request.

When you’re done, would you mind ending it in Jesus’ name? Just because He’s my personal Savior. Please and thank you. I could be dying, y’all. Come on.

By Friday evening, no one from the primary care office had called with urgent instructions. Nor had they instructed me to immediately return.

No one had informed me that I had six minutes left to live.

And honestly, that felt encouraging. If I only have six minutes left to live, I need to find someone who owns a private jet. That may get me close to Iceland.

But, I digress.

The fact remains that my entire family is leaving for the coast next week. No one has care of my dogs, I have a doctor’s appointment at 10:30 in the morning on the same day everyone is supposed to leave aaaannd everybody is putting real celebration into the Dog Pound group chat about going to the coast. Have I ever mentioned that I gave birth to three female spirit club members? Yeah. Think that kind of energy. It was very cute. And I’m typically down for it.

But by this point in a really shitty day, nobody had asked whether Mom had any follow-up medical appointments regarding her surgery or subsequent trip to the ER for morphine, CT scans and X-rays.

That started to hurt my feelings.

Meanwhile, in our personal family group chat, My Universe 😍, I had specifically said I was “concerned” and did not want to go to the doctor alone.

I even asked my nurse baby if she would come with me. (And what that means is that one of my babies is now a grown adult and also has the title of registered nurse. I made sure to tell the other two grown babies that she was not my favorite. Just my favorite for this appointed appointment because she has medical credentials. I did invite them along for the party. Maddie has decided to party too and my nurse baby replied right before bedtime that she wouldn’t miss it—But I’m getting ahead of myself—spoiler alert),

nobody had responded.

Now. To be fair. I had sent the text approximately seven minutes earlier. But facts have never stopped feelings before. And that brings me to Mason. A lot of my stories seem to bring Mason into the frame. Not sure why, but for today–here he is. Again.

Mason is currently living with me.

He claims he is not babysitting me.

This remains one of the less believable positions he has taken.

Earlier in the day he informed me that he would be upstairs working from 2:30 until 4:30 and would not be available because he would be on conference calls.

“But if you need something,” he said, “just scream.”

I told him I was totally fine.

At exactly 4:31, Mason walked into my bedroom downstairs and found me crying.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

Which felt fair.

He asked what was wrong. Mason remains unconvinced by the logic that I am “okay” and also “fine”. He seems to think I am “not fine”. Like, at all. Did I just accidentally quote Taylor Swift? @taylorswiftofficial #alltoowell

And now you see how Mason and I argue.

So I explained my side. The CT scans. The appointment. The beach trip. The dogs. The silence. The family group chat. The other family group chat. The fact that I had specifically stated I was scared and nobody had responded.

I was not melting down.

I was presenting evidence.

Mason listened. Then he said, “Do you remember that piece you wrote about me yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And you said what you’ve learned from me is to slow it down?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Can we do that?”

I hated that he was making sense. Then he asked to see my phone.

“You sent this text seven minutes ago.”

“Well.”

“That’s not very long.”

“No.”

“Have you ever taken longer than seven minutes to answer somebody you love?”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you know what your children are doing right now?”

“No.”

“Well, I know what one of them is doing. The pregnant one is taking a nap.”

And just like that, one-fouth of my argument evaporated.

Mason knows I am a fan of taking naps. Mason also knows I am a fan of all of my children, and all of my kind-of children, especially when they make time to take naps, even when they are technically “adults now”. And Mason probably knows, though I have not explicitly stated this, that I am really, really fine with pregnant children taking naps.

I think I may have said that out loud.

And Mason said,

“Exactly.”

That one landed a little harder than I expected. But I sincerely get it. Sometimes teaching is tough. I think Mason isn’t getting paid enough to teach me. But he is getting free rent for a month, so…

Because somewhere between unanswered text messages and impending medical appointments, I had apparently decided that nobody was paying attention. Yet Mason had just demonstrated a remarkable working knowledge of my opinions regarding naps.

Then he said, “You also said you’re down here alone.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not alone. I’m upstairs. I literally told you to text me.”

Again.

Annoyingly accurate. Well, I thought he said to “scream”, but I didn’t want to mince words. He usually remembers the details more accurately than I do. Because Mason listens well. Like as a spiritual gift.

Then Mason said something that I have not stopped thinking about.

“I think we need to give everybody time to gather data.”

Time to gather data.

That is not a sentence most people would put on a coffee mug, but it might be one of the wisest things anybody said to me all day.

Because he wasn’t solving the problem. He wasn’t reassuring me. He wasn’t telling me everything would “be okay”.

He was simply refusing to let me write the ending before the story was over. Then he added, “If I see your children or your husband start texting in Dog Pound, don’t worry. I got it.” And for the first time today, smoke said “Don’t worry” and it didn’t piss me off.

I said, “Mason, I do not want you to fix this. Go to Austin. Have fun. Stop babysitting me because I don’t think you’re being honest.

He remains committed to the fiction that he is not, in fact, “babysitting me”.

I remain unconvinced. But anyway, a few hours later, I got off the phone with my husband. I asked, “Do you remember when you asked the doctor if it was fatal?”

He said, “That never happened.”

I said, “Okay. Do you remember when the doctor said it was serious?”

He said, “That never happened either.”

I sat there for a second.

Then I said, “So I just made that up?”

He said, “I think so.” I mean, I was on morphine.

But here’s why I don’t think so.

Because I don’t remember a conclusion.

I remember a scene.

I remember where he was standing.

I remember where the doctor was standing.

I remember hearing that high-pitched ringing in my ears.

I remember looking at the nurse.

I remember her face.

I remember her saying, “It’s probably not fatal, but it is serious.”

And now my husband is sitting three hours away from me at a fishing trip trying to convince me that no medical professional expressed concern whatsoever. (This is the same husband who tried to convince me not to go to the hospital and that inhaling pledgets was not a real problem.)

Important to point out (or maybe not?) when I got to the emergency room and told them I had inhaled pledgets, the next thing I knew I was being wheeled into X-rays. When they couldn’t find them on X-rays…I was being wheeled into CT scans.

Those doctors absolutely thought it was a problem.

Actually, I believe they called it a medical emergency but I can’t swear to it because I was on morphine at that point. And my mom doesn’t like me to swear by anything. But seriously y’all, on morphine everything was fine with the world. (At least for about 6 hours.)

So, yes.

It would be easier to believe that no medical professional expressed concern if my primary care physician’s office hadn’t tried to fit me in after quickly reading the report.

And it would be easier to believe my husband’s version of medical concern if I didn’t already have data suggesting that his emergency scale and the emergency room’s emergency scale may not be operating from the same laminated chart.

But then I remembered Mason.

Gather more data. Maybe my memory is wrong. Maybe his memory is wrong. Maybe the doctor didn’t say it. Maybe the nurse did. Maybe the sequence was different. Maybe the words were different.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that human beings are remarkably talented at concluding stories before they’re over.

Including me.

Which is probably why I keep coming back to Abram. God takes Abram outside and tells him to look up.

Not around.

Up.

Around, Abram has no son. Around, Abram has no descendants. Around, Abram has no evidence whatsoever that the promise makes sense. Around, Abram has a beautiful wife who is not in typical child bearing years. If you haven’t read the story, you should.

But above him?

Stars.

The promise exists before the evidence.

Which is deeply inconvenient for people like me because I would prefer a CT scan, a spreadsheet, and possibly a pie chart before God proceeds.

Apparently that is not how any of this works.

Abram gets stars.

And a promise.

Then he spends a whole lot of time waiting.

Jacob gets something different.

Abram gets stars.

Jacob gets a wrestling match.

He limps away blessed, renamed, and still carrying questions.

Israel.

The one who wrestles with God.

The one who keeps holding on.

The one who refuses to leave the story.

And maybe that is where hope becomes real.

Not in certainty.

Not in clean explanations.

Not in someone saying, “Don’t worry.”

Hope becomes real somewhere between Abram looking up and Jacob holding on. Somewhere between stars and wrestling. Somewhere between promise and limp.

Hope lives in the gap.

Between promise and fulfillment.

Between diagnosis and appointment.

Between text message and response.

Between Friday and Wednesday.

And maybe that’s why I love Numbers 11 right now.

Because Numbers 11 is what happens when people stop looking up and start looking around.

The Israelites are hungry. They are tired. They are afraid. And somehow they start reminiscing about Egypt.

Which is wild when you think about it.

Egypt was slavery. Egypt was oppression. Egypt was bondage.

But Egypt was known.

And sometimes human beings prefer a known misery over an unknown promise. The people look around and decide the story is over.

We are hungry.

We are forgotten.

The promise is not coming.

God brought us here to die. (If you’re a mother, you should really, really, go read Numbers 11–maybe even right now if you’re a mother of teenagers.)

And honestly?

By about 4:31 that afternoon, I understood them perfectly.

Nobody has responded. Nobody is thinking about me. Everyone is excited about the coast.

I am alone.

The story is over.

Then Mason walked downstairs and committed the theological act of ruining my certainty.

Not by solving anything, dismissing my concern ot telling me not to worry.

He simply refused to let me conclude the story from seven minutes of evidence.

Slow down.

Gather more data.

Look up.

Hold on.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I called my mother.

She said she could not be there Wednesday because she was watching my sister’s child.

Now, I love my sister’s son. Genuinely.

And frankly, if I am dying, I would love for him to be there because maybe then I would not completely lose my shit.

But also, I am sorry.

If your daughter may be receiving very bad medical news, is this really the moment to make her figure out seven-year-old logistics? Even seven year olds who make her incredibly happy?

I do not want to solve the childcare flowchart while simultaneously determining whether I am actively dying.

So I may have said something like, “I could be dying, and I really do not want to have to figure out how you figure out my sister’s child situation.”

Again.

Bring him. Put him in the waiting room. Give him snacks.

I am very pro him.

But I am not currently accepting applications for the position of family logistics coordinator. Eventually the conversation turned to my dad. Because, if I receive bad news, what I actually want is my father.

Not because he can fix anything.

Because he is funny.

Actually, that’s not accurate.

Because he is freaking hilarious.

If I told him I might be dying, I can absolutely imagine him saying, “Well kiddo, that’s unfortunate. You can go prepare a place for me.”

Which is a beautiful Bible verse.

But that is not the point.

The point is that my dad would somehow manage to use it in a slightly irreverent way that would make me laugh at exactly the moment I needed to laugh. (I mean, he’s kinda a pastor’s kid. I think this is maybe what happens if you’re a pastor and you have a son.)

But my father is my favorite kind of pastor on a day when I might be dying.

Eventually my thoughts drifted toward Heaven.

Not because I want to die.

Because sometimes I get tired. And when people get tired, Heaven starts sounding less like an escape and more like a homecoming. I imagine closing my eyes here and opening them there. I imagine Jesus standing in front of me. Not with answers. Not with explanations. Not with a lecture.

Just presence.

Like Lisa, the receptionist who stayed. Dani who stayed. Mason who stayed. My mother who stayed on the phone.

My father may yet show up.

But Jesus always stays.

Maybe that has been the story all along.

Not answers or certainty or conclusions.

Presence.

And after the hug, I think He would tell me to look up.

And I would see a man standing there.

A man who looked strangely familiar.

And I would say, “He looks like family. Who is he?”

And Jesus would smile and say, “That’s your grandfather.”

Then I would look to the right and see my actual grandfather, a physician and a good one, wink at me and smile.

And I would say, “Jesus, that’s my grandfather.”

And Jesus would say, “Oh. Okay. Yes. That’s your lived-world grandfather. This is your original grandfather.”

And then He would introduce Abram.

Well.

Abraham.

Because apparently even in Heaven I’m going to need clarification regarding biblical name changes.

And eventually I would realize that somewhere between Abram and Abraham, somewhere between Jacob and Israel, somewhere between the stars and the wrestling, somewhere between looking around and looking up, somewhere between wilderness and home, I had arrived among my people.

The people of promise.

The people of questions.

The people who keep walking before they have all the evidence.

The people who keep wrestling before they have all the answers.

The people who keep hoping before they know the ending.

And then, because I am still me, after all the theology and mystery and glory and revelation, after all the answers to all the questions…

I would point at Abraham and say,

“Oh my gosh.”

“He has my nose.”

And Jesus would wink and say,

“You know, I’ve always loved a cute pug nose.”

The End.