What a privilege

I've finished reading my first book about heaven (more are probably in my future), written by a Baptist pastor from Texas, Don Piper (not that Piper) who died for 90 minutes.  It was reassuring and helped to cement Ian's experience before he died in my mind.  I was unexpectedly brought to tears though by a passage about Pastor Don Piper's mother as she was helping to care for him after his accident (he had a LONG, painful recovery after the accident in which he died).  This is what he wrote:

 "She took the bedpan into the bathroom, and then I heard one of the most remarkable sounds I have ever heard in my life.  After she entered the bathroom and flushed the commode, I could hear my mother singing.  In spite of the most lowly of tasks one human can perform for another, she sang as she washed out the bedpan.  It was as if her whole motherhood was wrapped up in that moment.  She was again doing something for her son that he could not do for himself, and she was happy and fulfilled.  I will cherish that memory, for it defines the devotion that only a mother could have."

I was transported back to the last moments I had with my son.  Ian was a proud young man and he wouldn't allow us to help him much.  Moms of teenage boys will know what I'm talking about....they get to a certain age and things become 'hands off', you can love them but from a slight distance.  During Ian's illness, he allowed us to help him but from a slight distance.  Even up to the end, when he was in so much pain, he continued to insist upon caring for himself.  That changed the moment he died.  I felt compelled to make sure he was clean and clothed, that his dignity would be intact before the mortuary staff came to take him away.   I was being 'mommy' again and I was cherishing the moment....I knew it would be the last time I could care for my son, the last time I would touch him, wipe his brow, hold his hand, kiss his forehead - these were my last moments with him and I spent them caring for him.  These people who were coming to take my son would know that he was loved and we had cared for him up until the very end.  So Eric & I privately washed him, put clean clothes on him then sat with him while we waited.

I never understood what drove me that day and I only told one person what we had done in case people would think I was being some kind of weirdo, demented mom.  But after I read the passage in Pastor Piper's book, I understood.  I was, once again, caring for Ian as I had when he was my little boy.....I got to be that woman who washed the scraped knees and kissed away the hurt again.  What a privilege and precious memory that has become, to be able to take care of my baby boy one last time.

One day....

I was walking around at work today and it hit me.....I'm feeling kinda (dare I say it?).....happy.  I haven't felt that way for such a long time, it was weird to realize that's what I was feeling.  I have many things to look forward to: Amy's wedding, Alex is returning to school on Sunday and hopefully will graduate in 3 months, the first fundraiser for Ian's Scholarship Fund is in the planning stages, our anniversary cruise next year and Eric got a really great performance review at work this week (they ranked him in the top 20% of employees) so it looks pretty good that he won't be laid off....that's a lot to be thankful for....and I felt happy.  It's a jolt when you realize it's been over 2 years since you've felt that particular emotion.  For a second, I felt guilty - how can I be happy, Ian is gone; I have no right to be happy.  Then I envision him, with his attitude, getting exasperated with me for berating myself for being happy....Ian would want this; he would hate the sadness he left behind.

Then the fear sets in; living with Ian, loving Ian, seems like a dream and the fear of that dream fading scares me.  I'm afraid that time will muddle my memories of him, I'll forget his smile, his laugh, his hugs, the way he would drive me crazy with his teenage, superior attitude; all the things that made him Ian.  Even though I'm surrounded by the things he left behind I'm afraid of losing the memories the most.

I hit another milestone - I've worn mascara all week with no 'incidents' (I don't count those moments right before I fall asleep; nobody sees me crying, my mascara's not running, so it doesn't count).  It's the small milestones I notice.

I also think I may have hit on something useful.  I have been walking through this 'valley of the shadow of death' (a verse has such a different meaning when you've lived it instead of just reading it) looking for a way out.  I've been struggling with trying to understand God's role in all this but maybe, all I need to do is search out God instead of search for understanding.  Honestly, I'm not at the place where I can praise Him for Ian's death, I'm not even able yet to praise Him for His sovereignty but I can acknowledge His sovereignty; I can acknowledge that this is His plan and I'm responsible for how I respond to it.  Maybe in searching for Him (through scripture, through worship) will lead me to praise.....one day.

Shifting hope

Apparently, my reputation for tenacity, especially as it relates to my children and their well-being, is well known.  A friend of mine was relating a conversation to me the other day where another person had referenced how we looked and fought for any treatment that might cure Ian's cancer.  Even in my current, slightly dysfunctional spiritual state, I recognize that all the miraculous things that happened while we were looking for a cure, came from God opening doors for us and making things happen that were, to say the least, unusual (i.e, a call from our insurance on a Sunday authorizing an experimental treatment - come on, how many times does that happen?, personally corresponding with the head doctor at the NIH who is researching treatment of Ian's particular kind of cancer, a friend who personally knows top people at pharmaceutical companies researching cures for Ian's type of cancer, the list goes on....).

I started to wonder, what were all those open doors for because none of them helped?  Were we being strung along, hoping for a cure that would never come?  Then it occurred to me - we were being given hope.  Hope is such a powerful thing, it can keep you going in spite of your circumstances, in spite of what may seem obvious to others around you, in spite of your own doubts....hope prevails. Hope gives you the strength to put one foot in front of the other, hope gives you the will to get out of bed in the morning and to keep fighting, hope allows you to close your eyes at night and wait for tomorrow.

All of those open doors that led to nowhere gave us something else; it left us with very few "what if's".  We know we pursued every avenue known to us to save Ian, and he saw us fighting, searching for that next drug to cure him. We fought as hard as we could, we didn't wait passively for death to take our son and he was a witness to how much we loved him.  At least we have that.  Ian ended his life knowing that we tried EVERYTHING to save him.

Now, our hope has shifted.  Our hope is in being reunited with Ian one day.  I'm reading a book called "90 minutes in heaven" by a pastor who was pronounced clinically dead for 90 minutes before being brought back to life.  He talks about being greeted at heaven's gate by friends and family and my hope is that is what awaited Ian.  That his great-grandparents were there to embrace him and welcome him 'home', that Joshua was there to greet him, that people who he may not have remembered but who knew him where there and he was surrounded by love.  My hope now is that Ian will be the first person greeting me.

"Few things sap the human spirit like lack of hope."  Don Piper