Teaching Them to Mourn

“You will look back on this moment of your life as a sweet time of grieving. You'll see that you were in mourning and your heart was broken, but your life was changing...” ― Elizabeth Gilbert

Amos lay prostrate on the floor of the vet office, his legs splayed out from underneath his body in all directions, looking uncomfortable and cumbersome. His breathing was labored and his head rested on his right paw, his deep brown eyes like wet circles staring up at me. His face told the story of why we were here. As I looked into his eyes I could see a faraway pain and a weariness that I had never observed in him before. His eyes were what had always drawn me to Amos. His pupils were incredibly dark, and always wide like saucers, the edges of which were tinged in a hazelnut brown that glistened in the sunlight. If he looked at you sideways, small white triangles appeared at the edge of his eyeball and gave his face a humanistic characteristic that always made me laugh. His expressions were cartoonish and he always seemed like he was smiling, always happy to see you. That was not the case now. His face was thin, his eyes somewhat sunken and dimmed, his ears laying forward as he cowered on the blanket not making a sound even though I knew his pain must be excruciating.

For nearly a week Amos had been having trouble walking, stumbling on his evening walks around Devola and having difficulty managing stairs. He had been eating less and spending more time lying in his bed listlessly during the day. It was only over the past 48 hours that he had become unable to stand up under his own power. I found him lying on the hard floor of his heated dog building, alert and seemingly eager to see me, but unable to perform his typical “greeting pounce” that I had grown accustomed to. Amos’ quick deterioration had prompted us to take him in for a checkup to see if we could get him some medication for what seemed to be hip and joint pain. Unfortunately upon examination by the vet, Amos’ condition was found to be much more than simply getting old.

Hot tears streamed down my face as the vet explained the grim news of her exam. Amos had lost considerable muscle mass in his hips, shoulders, and back, while his stomach region seemed to stay the same size. On the scale he was only a few pounds heavier than when he was neutered seven years prior, a time when he was much younger and much smaller in stature. From all initial signs, Amos was fighting something internally, something that caused rapid, drastic physical changes that at this point were probably irreversible, and maybe impossible to combat.

I stared blankly into the distance as the vet’s voice sounded hollow and tinny in my ears. She suggested a blood test and I complied, barely noticing as she took the blood and walked out of the room to prepare the instruments for the test procedure. This scenario felt all-too familiar and a little too “real”, taking me back to that fateful day in April during Hazel’s diagnosis. I had sat in a cold hospital room staring blankly at a wall awaiting her test results as well, her limp exhausted body cuddled tightly in her mother’s arms as they tried to nap and await the news that would change our life forever.

I stroked Amos’ head and he looked up at me, his beautiful brown eyes eager, but tired, hurting. He nuzzled my hand and leaned heavily into my petting, focused on showing his humans love and compassion even as he lay dying in front of me. I reminisced about the first day I had found him, a young pup wandering in the woods alone, destined to be coyote food if I had left him. He was always long and gangly, with paws that seemed too big for his body and a long, galloping stride that reminded me more of a horse than a dog. I looked at him now, skinny, shaking with each breath, suffering. The pieces of my heart left after 10 months of fighting Hazel’s cancer continued to crumble as I realized I and he were going to lose this battle.

The vet came back in with a sullen look, shaking her head and nearly in tears. She knew us, knew our dogs, knew Hazel, and was so very compassionate for the gravity of the situation.

“I am so sorry. You guys don’t deserve this,” she said quietly. “The results are not good. His kidneys and liver are failing. He is likely fighting some type of blood disease or massive infection that stems from within his body.”

She took a breath and watched as I dropped my head, pausing before she continued, “The treatment we would need to give him is a high dose steroid…”

I chuckled through tears, “Ha, yeah. That likely requires high liver and kidney functions to process the level of chemicals in his system, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “With his current level of damage, the medicines we would give him would likely kill him in the process.”

And so there it was. The reality of what was happening came full circle and nearly smothered me in its heavy consequences. My youngest daughter had just spent 10 months fighting for her life against a blood disease that dismantled her immune system. It was treated with heavy doses of steroids that constantly assaulted her kidneys and liver with high concentrations of chemicals. We had just celebrated her transition to maintenance phase one day prior and had been able to breathe a tentative sigh of relief knowing that she would now suffer fewer surgeries, have fewer side effects, and less pain. Hazel was improving and by all accounts seemed healthy again. I thought things were getting better. I thought 2018 was going to be a better year. But now I was catapulted back into the same vicious cycle I had just left. One of my friends lay on the floor in front of me, part of my family for nearly a decade, and I was unable to help him, unable to save him from the monster that coursed through his veins. Momentarily I was overcome and unable to speak for fear of completely falling apart in front of the vet. She let me grieve as best I could before I spoke again.

“I know my options here,” I said, “I don’t want him to suffer.” I looked at Amos as he turned his head toward my voice. I imagined what the treatment process would look like, the medications, the getting worse before he could get better, the sadness, the heartache.

“I’m just not sure I can do it again,” I whispered, almost to myself more than anyone else.

The vet, understanding my turmoil said I could take some time if I needed. But I didn’t. My decision was made and now was the time. I needed to end his pain. I called Elizabeth and told her. She and the kids showed up at the vet office within minutes. Each of my precious children had spent their entire lives knowing Amos as the gentle giant, their constant protector, and now were ill-prepared to say goodbye to him. My entire family filed into the small exam room and huddled around Amos like a wall of love, the entirety of his life’s work surrounding him as he lay motionless on the floor, save for his incessantly wagging tail and his expectant eyes looking up at us.

We were a mess, not a dry eye among us and with little dignity to be had as we each wept over our family pet. My kids each dealt with it in their own way, Gideon and Aurora sobbing loudly and uncontrollably, Paul only allowing single alligator tears to escape from the corners of his eyes as he petted Amos’ head one last time. Hazel, Amos’ newest friend and daily charge knelt down in front of his nose and stared deeply and earnestly into his face, their eyes locked for a moment of communication that only they could understand. Elizabeth and each of the kids said their goodbyes to Amos and then allowed their tears to spill anew as they hugged me and walked back out the door. Amos was “my” dog; this was to be my time with him.

We moved to another room connected to the lobby that was more private and had a small couch in it. The vet and her assistant placed the IV in Amos’ front paw and gave him a small amount of sedative to help him relax, then left he and I alone for a few minutes. I stroked his head and smoothed his ears, speaking to him softly and gently, “You are a good boy Amos. You always were. I’ll miss you buddy, but we will be ok. I’ll take care of them and we will be fine, ok? You can let us go.” His brown eyes burned a hole in my face, and somehow I knew that he understood.

The vet and her assistant returned, delivering the final medication that would mercifully stop Amos’ heart and allow him to rid himself of the pain he had been in over the past months. I was with him to the end, stroking his fur, crying, and offering what solace I could so he would not be afraid to face what was coming. It was over in an instant, the end to a long friendship and sense of dependency built on trust, a life having been snuffed out by disease, but memorialized by the happiness of being together.

While only a dog, Amos was still a life and one that meant a great deal to my family. We spent 10 years of our life with him. We graduated college, landed and left jobs, bought a house, and had babies that grew into children. We spent “life” with Amos, having saved him from certain death as a puppy in the woods and we all spent his last moments on earth by his side comforting him as he slipped away. I can only hope that I have the same fate someday, slipping into the arms of my savior as my loving family surrounds me and assures me they will be alright without me.

Elizabeth and I struggled with Amos’ diagnosis, but we struggled more so with how to break the news to our children. My kids have had to deal with more than their share of harsh realities this past year, and we were not excited to have to deal yet another devastating blow to their emotions. We could have kept it from them until after Amos was gone, we could have told them and not taken them in to see him, or we could have tried to hide his passing from them completely. But we didn’t and I am glad.

We brought our kids to say goodbye to Amos to allow them the opportunity to grieve, to teach them how to mourn loss, and to help them understand how to recover from heartbreak. Was it tough? Heck yes it was. For as much as I thought my heart was broken when I knew Amos couldn’t be saved, it broke all the more to watch my children wallow in their own anguish at the same realization. But when I saw them faltering, I grabbed them and hugged them tight, drying their tears and standing strong when they couldn’t.

My children will grow to know that sometimes life is a tragic medley of sad and joyous occasions, woven together in a melodic symphony spun together by time. The harsh realities of this world will catch up to my kids whether I want them to or not. They will see and feel pain, they will witness injustice, their hearts will be broken. My only job, the only one that matters anyway, is to make sure they are prepared to take these evils head on, guided by God’s light and shielded by his protection. I want my kids to see me hurt, I want them to see me struggle, because I also want them to see me triumph. Life is finite and it is ended by death. But new life is precious and something to be cherished. 

Last week as one flame that had burned bright in our life for 10 years was extinguished, a new one was lit. Like an ember blown into a ball of dry tinder, a tiny flame of hope was kindled. On the very night that my family was mourning the death of our longtime furry friend, we received word that a new cousin is to join us in 2018. And while this news did not totally eclipse the sting of Amos’ passing for my kids, it did bookend the life lesson of the cycle of life and death. Like the strong little warriors that they are, my kids dried their tears, picked up their broken hearts, and rejoiced.

Our daily walk as Christians is not easy, it is not simple, and sometimes it nearly breaks us. But our God knows when and how to provide the silver linings that we all yearn to find. He knows our hearts and our convictions, no matter how little we are. Today I will teach my children to mourn, because tomorrow I must teach them to lead.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

The Two Visitors

I sat in stunned silence with my elbows on my knees, head resting heavily in my open hands. I breathed in deeply and held it, completely filling my lungs in an attempt to calm my nerves and re-center my thoughts. It didn’t work. I looked up and said in a hoarse, desperate whisper, “Are you sure?” The doctor knelt down in front of me and gently took my hand in hers, “The test coming back on Monday only tells us which type of Leukemia she has, but we are sure that she has a blood cancer. I am so sorry.” I looked away, tears streaming down my face, my shoulders heaving with each deep sob, my heart…broken.

Moments ago every muscle had ached with exhaustion and every fiber of my being was beset with fatigue, but that had melted away now, leaving a numb emptiness that swallowed me entirely. The utterance of a single disgusting word had just shattered my spirit and filled my world with a swirling darkness that shrouded everything around me. I was almost too exhausted to process the news.

It had been nearly 36 straight hours since we had entered the emergency room, and I had not yet slept. We had spent that time struggling to get Hazel stabilized. She had arrived with platelets so dangerously low that just holding her caused bruising and the doctors warned us that she could have spontaneous bleeding on the brain without a transfusion. Her veins were so fragile that every time an IV was placed, it would blow out within seconds, leaving her with bruised puncture marks in both hands, at both elbows, both wrists, and both ankles.

Mercifully, one of the IVs finally held and Hazel was given bag after bag of platelets and red blood cells. But the hours of screaming and crying and fighting had taken its toll. She and Elizabeth were totally exhausted and had fallen into a fitful sleep. They had each poured every ounce of emotion and strength into getting through the night and could do no more.

Tired though I was, I remained awake, sitting, standing, sometimes kneeling next to the hospital bed, watching my little girl fight for her life in the arms of her greatest protector. I prayed through tears for so many things during those early hours. I prayed that we were all wrong and Hazel was going to be fine. I prayed that tests would come back with good results. I prayed for Hazel’s pain to stop. But most of all, I prayed to God to save my little girl, to allow her to live, even if it would mean that I didn’t. “Please God, remove this burden from her. She is so young, has so much more of life to live. Why can’t it be me? Why not me!?”

The answers to my prayers were not what I expected, nor were they what I wanted, but I know they were what I needed. The doctors eventually left that day and Elizabeth and I began to grieve together, sometimes in unison, and sometimes on our own. We didn’t talk much; there just wasn’t much to be said. We cried for hours, silently sitting and staring into space in a near comatose state, as aware of the presence of other human beings as a tree is to a rock next to it. Darkness finally fell and the constant stream of visitors revolving through our room slowed.

Sometime in the middle of the night I heard our door creak open and a man’s head poked through the opening.

“I am sorry to bother you, but may I come in?” he said.

“Sure, but my wife and daughter are sleeping.”  

He whispered, “Oh that’s ok, it’s you I want to see anyway,” closing the door behind him.

I studied his figure in the dim light. Something about him seemed strange but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was tall and slender, his head nearly touching the doorframe as he slid into the room. His shoulders were wide but hunched forward, like he had been working at a desk for too many years. He was dressed in what appeared to be a dark blue suit and looked very professional, more like a banker than a hospital employee. His black leather shoes squeaked when he walked and his hair was slicked back against his head with a heavy smelling balm. His face was friendly enough, but seemed ashen and though his lips were formed into a smile, his expression made me uneasy.

He came further into the room and stood on the side of the bed opposite of me, placing his hands behind his back and pushing out his chest. His presence was icy, and it seemed as though the temperature in the room immediately dropped a few degrees.

“I was sorry to hear that Hazel had cancer,” he said, the words nearly dripping off of his lips.

“Thank you. We are still trying to process what this all means,” I said.

“I am sure you are. It is quite a blow to be dealt. No one wants this.”

I stared down at Hazel lying in the bed, her red locks curling around one of her tiny ears. “I certainly didn’t,” I sighed.

“Doesn’t it make you mad?”

I crinkled my brow and looked up into his face which was now formed into a quizzical, almost feigned sense of sympathy. “Mad?” I said, “Of course I am mad. I am so angry that I can barely see straight. I am furious that she is lying there and I am not. I am livid that as humans we are so vulnerable to so many diseases. I am mad at myself for not protecting her, mad at the evil that exists in this world, and downright irate that I cannot change anything about this situation.” I took a breath and realized my hands were clenched at my sides and I was leaning forward. Was I mad? What kind of question was that? Who was he to ask me that? “Are you with the hospital or insurance or what?” I said.

He had visibly enjoyed my reaction and, ignoring my question, pressed further, “And? Aren’t you mad at someone else too?”

I shook my head in a jerking motion, “I don’t know…”

“Yes you do, I can see it in your eyes. Who are you mad at?” he said, his voice rising slightly as he anticipated my answer.

In an instant I got it. “Wait, do you mean am I mad at God?” I said.

“I know you are, you have to be,” he said.

I looked away from his face, ashamed by the accusation. The truth was I was so angry I was shaking, but I didn’t know at who or at what. No one had caused Hazel to get cancer, nor had any single event brought it on. How could I be angry at a situation? Wasn’t that more frustration and helplessness than anything else?

“I can’t be mad at God. He didn’t cause this,” I said.

“Well how are you so sure? Don’t you believe he is all-powerful? That he has control over all of us and our lives here on earth?”

“Yes, I do, but I don’t believe he causes pain,” I stumbled.

“He most certainly does. Or at least he allows it. I mean look at Hazel. You believe that he could at any point heal her, right? Well then why would he let her be in pain like this? Why would he allow loved ones to die when it hurts so much?” he hissed. His movements continued to make me uneasy. He seemed to glide along like a snake, bobbing in toward my face, closer and closer. He was close enough now that I could see into his eyes. They seemed unnaturally dark and round, with a piercing stare that penetrated deep into my soul.

Defiantly I glared back at him. “I am confused, hurt, sad, angry, and hopeless. I am in so much anguish that I don’t know exactly what I feel right now, but I know one thing: My God is a God of love. He did not cause Hazel to be sick to punish her or me and he has a plan for us. Am I scared of what that plan holds at times? Yes, I most certainly am. But I never question that plan because he put the stars in the sky, the dirt under my feet, and breath in my lungs. His plan is my plan, and I accept that.”

The man’s demeanor immediately changed as I spat the words into his face. He no longer had a semblance of comfort, but instead lifted his body to its full height and screamed, “Ahhhh, how can you still cling to your silly faith!? Look at what your morals, honesty, and truth has gotten you. You are going to lose her, you know! Hazel, your little girl is going to die, and you can’t stop it and neither can He.” The room darkened in that instance and a great rush of wind filled my ears. The man began to contort into a black grotesque shadow, his thin fingers gnarling into talon-like appendages. His facial features began to melt away into a gray abyss that swallowed up what light was still left in the room, his black eyes staring down at me icily.

I was terrified of whoever this was, whatever this was. I felt frozen, my feet cemented in place by fear, leaving me totally exposed to whatever was to come next. I half-crouched and cowered with my hands over my head, barely glancing up into the face of this monster that had taken over our room.

Suddenly the howling wind stopped and light began to flood the space. I opened my eyes and realized our door had been opened and in the bright rectangular silhouette I could see the figure of a man. He was about my height and stocky, wearing a pair of dark blue pressed jeans and button down striped shirt.

“Is everything alright?” the man asked as he stepped further into the room. I slowly lowered my hands and looked around. The shadow man was nowhere to be seen and I was alone in the room with the new man and my tiny sleeping daughter. “I guess so,” I stumbled, still confused by what I had just witnessed.

I glanced over at blue jean man and saw he was about 50 years old with what can only be termed as a kind face. He was clean shaven, but with stubble as if he had not shaved in a day or so. His clothes were well kempt but not flashy and while he was not tall, his barrel chest and upright stature made his presence seem much greater than his overall height.

“She is beautiful,” he said as he stared lovingly down at Hazel. His voice was warm and strong-sounding, but not loud. Authoritative I suppose is the right word. “I love that red hair,” he beamed as he looked over at me. I looked into his face and something about his eyes caught me. His face was smiling, but his eyes had a look of weary despair in them, like a pool of water so deep that the light cannot penetrate all the way to the bottom. I wondered what his story was, what caused that despair I saw in his eyes. No one comes to Nationwide Children’s Hospital for the heck of it. He too must have a child here.

“Everyone loves that hair,” I say, “It’s just too bad she is going to lose it.”

“It will come back,” he says with such comfort and certainty in his voice that I immediately believe him. He reaches down and caresses Hazel’s head and she leans into his hand with a slight grin on her face, turning slightly as she sleeps.

“It’s an awful thing you know, cancer,” he whispered. “It causes so much heartache in this world. I am truly sorry that you and your family have to go through this.”

I could hear a distant pain in his voice and I thought I noticed him catch his breath at the word “family”.

“Thank you,” I said, “I don’t know how I am going to handle it. I am so…”

“I know,” he said as he looked me in the eyes and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You are afraid. Afraid to lose her. You are afraid you aren’t strong enough. You are afraid of the struggle.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and I felt my own eyes warming as they filled with tears of my own.

“You are afraid that this experience will tear you and your family apart,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I know all of that. I feel all of that too. I know your pain all too well.”

My kind visitor turned his head back to Hazel and wiped the tears from his creased cheeks, but his hand remained on my shoulder. We sat together on Hazel’s bed, grieving together in knowing silence. Our hearts were broken, torn apart by the pain we had and were still destined to witness.

I said, “I don’t know how I will do it, how to do it, really.” I dropped my head again, but a strong hand caught my chin and pulled my face up close to his own, this man that I had seemingly befriended in a mere five minute conversation.

“You are stronger than you could possibly know. Your family is strong, Hazel is strong. Your souls are tied as one and you will get through this, I promise you.”

“But how do you…” ,I stumbled.

He shook his head and cradled my face in his hands, drawing me close into an unexpected, but welcome embrace. “Because I have been here, I have seen this before, and because I am here now,” he whispered into my ear.

We stood up and I backed away from him with a quizzical look on my face.

“So do you have a child here?” I said.

“Yes I do. My children are here.”

“Children? I am so sorry, what rooms are they in?” I said.

The stranger smiled, backing toward the door now, intent on leaving when I still had so many questions.

“My son,” he laughed, “they are in every room.” And just like that, he was gone and I was left standing facing a partially closed door, my daughter sleeping soundly in her bed, my wife cuddled up next to her.

These events as I describe them may be fictional in nature, but are true in their message. I was visited by two beings that day, what forms I couldn’t tell you, but they were as real to me as any person I have ever met. These beings made their presence known not because I was at my strongest, but because I was the weakest I have ever been that day. On that day I was given a choice, to listen to the legions of evil that screamed at me to run, to give up hope, to allow my faith to be destroyed by situations on this earth. Or to listen to the One who is all knowing, all powerful, and everlasting. I sat poised on a razor’s edge decision, knowing full well it would shape the rest of my life. As we continue on in Hazel’s journey, I know that I made the right decision.

The forces of good and evil walk the wards of hospitals, wafting in and out of people’s lives like a mist that either breathes new life into you or steals your soul when you least expect it. Over the past year, my heart has become a trodden battleground, filled with the weariness and despair. The intermittent joy that is provided by Hazel’s smile, the little dimple in her cheek, a twinkle in her eye, or her infectious giggle has kept me sane. It has provided the strength I needed to know that she is in God’s hands. She has walked with Him, been held by Him, and protected by Him during this time of terrible tribulation.

As I sit in the lobby of NCH now, waiting for Hazel’s day to ring her bell, I know that my God, the one true and loving God, walks those halls daily. He checks on his children, comforting them, rejoicing with them, and mourning their suffering just as their parents do. This life is not simply a test of our faith, it is a testament, and I want my testament to be written in the scrolls of history of having been for Christ in all of my days, not just the good ones.

“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer” – Romans 12:12