Sometimes, the greatest gifts are not even ones that the givers intended to give.
I have watched, over the course of the last eight months, a strong, intelligent man dwindle away until he resembles a concentration camp survivor. The diagnosis of cancer was just the final straw --; for several years now, Parkinson's disease has limited how he's interacted with the world, and failing eyesight robbed him of his favorite pastimes.
But, until very recently, nothing could rob him of his spirit, nothing stole his sense of humor, and, through some uncomfortable procedures and therapies, nothing has shaken his faith.
But, that's not the gift.
Through some of this, I've been privy to how his wife has cared for him, and loved him. She was, once upon a time, a nurse, so the caretaking gene runs strong in her; plus, having raised seven children, there wasn't much that could shake her.
But being in the room to hear the word "cancer," being part of the conversation about only taking minimal steps to treat the disease, being in the position of informing their children of how he's deteriorating ... these are places that nobody can prepare you for, no amount of experience can soften, and no words can comfort.
And, yet, she has remained in good spirits throughout. The way she has cared for him--;from keeping his coffee warm by his side, to reading to him when he couldn't, to keeping him up to date on developments in the major golf tournaments--;has been a living, breathing example of the sort of selfless love that we all dream of having one day. And, as things have progressed, from helping him walk, to helping him to his walker, to helping him into a wheelchair, she remains upbeat and sociable, more interested in the goings-on of the people who come to visit than in her own situation.
She says to me, "nobody plans for this --; this wasn't part of any plan of MINE, I can tell you." And, yet, I know that's not entirely true. I know that 54 years ago, when they said "In sickness and in health, in good times and bad, until death do you part," they actually meant it. And while there's no way to foresee every circumstance, they knew that there would be a very real possibility that one of them would be in the position of watching, helpless, as the other slowly lost their battle with life. And they accepted that, in all its glory.
And, really, it's sweet. It isn't martyrdom, and it's not duty: it is the final expression of love that began on an altar all those years ago. I know he hates that it's come to this, but I also suspect that he knows that, while he would joyfully do the same for her, he's not as well suited to it as she is. She is stronger than him, and he's the strongest man I've ever known.
The Catholics hold that human suffering is necessary because it reminds us of our dependence on God; I've watched this, and would say that suffering is important because it allows us the chance to experience the last fruits of real love. I feel sorry for people who have abandoned their loves to chase fleeting infatuations later in life, and I don't think it's coincidence that generations who divorce as easily as they trade in their cars are also the generations that are contemplating assisted suicide. And I don't say that to judge --; I won't know what that's like until I'm there some day, I can't speak for it.
What I can say is this: watching my mother care for my father, to walk with him into death as she walked beside him in life, and to allow him his last days in peace and dignity, has been beautiful and sacred. My catechism taught that God is Love; if that is true, then I have been in the presence of God for the last six months in a way that few ever experience.
That is the gift.
Robert Alcorn, my father, went home on Saturday at the age of 84. My mother was by his side.
from Lakewood Sentinel - Latest Stories http://lakewoodsentinel.comhttp://arvadapress.com/stories/Until-death-do-us-part,236032?branding=15
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