For Wilshire Baptist Church
I was going to title the book “Promise These Three.” It was going to be an emotional account of life, death and recovery from the war with cancer. But I’ve lost the desire to wade back through that. A decade will do that to you – along with the tender mercies of a loving, gracious God.
Today is the 10th anniversary of the day that Debra died. For those who are new to this forum, Debra was born and raised in Victoria, we met in journalism classes at Baylor, married and lived in Dallas. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in March 2007 and died 16 months later just 11 days short of her 49th birthday.
I conceived the book as a collection of essays based on three statements Debra made at random moments during her last year: “Don’t forget me. Don’t remember me like this. Don’t be sad.” It’s the type of book you feel compelled to write when grief is fresh and you believe you’re the only person who has ever endured what you’ve been through. But in time you realize there is nothing unique about your experience; the millions of people who “walk for the cure” every year are proof enough that you’re not alone. It’s also the type of book you want to write when you believe you’ll never be happy again, but then you discover that God has other plans. So it’s no longer a book I want or need to write, and I don’t believe it’s a book that anyone wants or needs to read. On this day of remembrance I will blog about it briefly and then shelve the book.
“Don’t forget me.” That’s been the easiest promise to keep. How can you forget someone you knew for almost 30 years? Every day I have reminders of a girl who was first a classmate and then a colleague, friend and wife. The memories come from songs, TV shows, restaurants, shops, driving through the neighborhood where we lived. Sometimes I find myself using a phrase I learned from her. There are even reminders all around our house in furniture and furnishings, but it’s a sweet irony that sometimes my memory fails me and LeAnn will be the one to tell me that I brought a bowl or vase into our marriage from my previous life.
I owe so much to LeAnn because she has graciously respected and encouraged my memories. That sounds like a no-brainer but I’m sure in some relationships it would be a deal breaker – “Let’s have this life together, but you’ll need to leave her in the past” – that sort of thing. But God knew who I needed even when I thought I didn’t want or need anyone again. My love and life with LeAnn is my biggest proof of God’s love, and I’ve tried to be a good steward of this new life. She’s made it easy because she loves me as I am and knows that some of who I am was created by my time with Debra. That takes a generosity that I sometimes can’t comprehend.
“Don’t remember me like this.” That’s been the hardest promise to keep. In fact, I’ve failed. At least once every week for 16 months we were at a medical facility for routine blood checks, major surgery, scheduled doctor visits and panicked trips to the emergency room. We bounced from the relief of false alarms to the heartbreak of fruitless procedures; from the fatigue of chemo to the numbing surrender to morphine. It was gritty and exhausting, hopeful and disheartening, and it was the sad, silent center of our existence. Debra kept pushing ahead with life through it all and I tried to keep a brave face as I watched that life being slowly emptied out. Anyone who has been a primary caregiver understands there are some things that are hard to forget. A college roommate who is a Ph.D. and does research on the brain and trauma tells me there probably is a form of post-traumatic stress disorder that caregivers can suffer with. I think he probably is right.
“Don’t be sad.” I’m still working on that promise because as I have moved forward into joy, it’s hard not to look back and be sad for a life that ended much too soon, experiences not shared and dreams never realized. And part of me still hurts for the suffering that Debra endured even though for her it was replaced with glorious, infinite peace. I believe sorrow must be one of the primary emotions that separate us from the angels.
Writing a book about all of this would have been a sad business, and my appetite for sad has faded. I’ve tried to honor Debra’s life in more positive and productive ways: a scholarship in her name, keeping her interests alive through donations, sharing little pieces of her life and personality through fiction, and mostly by living each day with a faith that was nurtured by her faith.
The three promises Debra asked me to keep are the very essence of that faith: she believed with blessed assurance that sadness is not necessary because love lives forever, and the broken are made whole in the end through the grace of God.