Good Night

It’s been a year since my stem cell transplant. My previous post was an update. This one is a reflection. Some readers appreciate “reflection posts” because while our journeys are different, we all share one thing in common- difficulty and trouble. Sooner or later, “tribulation” as Jesus promised, shows up in our life. “Christianity without tears” (the way the character Mond puts it in the classic book,  Brave New World) is a myth. That isn’t Christianity at all. Down deep we know this. 

My state of remission is qualified by the word, “temporary.” Temporary, for me, sometimes seems inconsequential. Other times this word weighs heavy on me. “Temporary” means I’m still terminal.

Jenny and I went to the beach for a few days last month. Not so much to celebrate my one-year anniversary, not so much to pause and reflect. We mainly just wanted to get away.

We arrived at dusk and decided to take a walk on the beach. We watched the sunset. It was calm but overcast with a slight breeze. Not exactly a postcard kind of sunset. I was with the one I love and that’s what mattered. The one who was and continues to be by my side day after day, night after night.

I wasn’t feeling the best. Tired, maybe from the drive, who knows. Stomach issues too. Thoughts about my terminal condition entered my mind. Were these symptoms left over effects from the chemo, transplant, or damaged organs? I began to obsess a little, “Are these signs that I’m leaving my state of remission? I remind myself that I was told going into the procedure that the remission would be temporary. I was buying some time. But, is my time up?” I didn’t move on to the next question, second guessing myself with, “Was what I went through worth it?”  I don’t follow this with an internal argument about “quality of life verses quantity of life.” I didn’t jump ahead to, “Would I put myself through what I went through again to buy some more time?” (I could- I have enough stem cells frozen somewhere that I could access, but would I? I don’t know.)

Day is giving way to night. I remind myself that I’m in remission and life is good. And it is good. But not that good. These symptoms are reminding me of the “temporariness” of my condition.

Psalm 39:4-6

“O LORD, ^bmake me know my end

and what is the measure of my days;

let me know how fleeting I am!

Behold, you have made my days a few handbreadths,

and ^cmy lifetime is as nothing before you.

Surely ^dall mankind stands as a mere breath! 

Surely a man ^egoes about as a shadow!

Surely for nothing¹ they are in turmoil;

David acknowledges there is an end coming, coming all too quickly. I don’t like the words here-

How fleeting I am      

a few handbreadths    

a mere breath 

a shadow

These are words, though, that I need to hear. As much as I don’t like them, as much as I want to push them out of my mind, they’re necessary words.

Jenny and I headed back to the inn where we were staying accompanied by the newest addition to our family- a yellow lab, Fortune. She is as chill and loyal as you can imagine, not of this world really. An older career change dog, she’s been a perfect fit for our family and a daily comfort to me.

After dinner out, we headed back to our unit. I’m still not feeling the best.

It’s nightfall. After some light conversation, some channel surfing, I brought up a post I read earlier in the day. I couldn’t shake it. My timing sometimes lacks. Some conversations shouldn’t be started just before bedtime.    

A gifted blogger, Cindy Koch of The Jagged Word, writes:

But day is over, and night sometimes comes too quickly. Colors fade, memories fade, vitalities fade. Caught in between the dark and the light, both worlds fight for my attention. Bright memories, uncertain futures. Exposed and burnt, shelter in the shadows. Nothing is clear here in the dusky evening, and fears grow out of the approaching darkness.

Why is this a difficult time? Because she fears the following:

The sweet good night may not be answered back. That the voice I’ve trusted will fall quiet. I know there will always be something left unfinished. Rather I fear the sweet goodnight that may not be answered back. That the night will take over the life that keeps me breathing. That the voice I’ve trusted will fall quiet. Wondering if I am now left alone to find the morning. Wondering if this dark quiet is the new normal that I must eternally endure.

I’m thinking about what she has written, probably reading my own circumstances into it a little. What if tonight I’m saying my “last goodnight” tonight to Jenny, and I don’t know it? Or, she to me?

A few days later give or take, I read the following.

Psalm 39:7:

And now, O Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in you.

Psalm 31:14-15

But I trust in you, O LORD; I say, “You are my God.”

My times are in your hand; rescue me from the hand of my enemies and from my persecutors!

The hardships we face in this life ultimately point us back to Jesus. The Psalms, the prayer book of the church, continually does this.

The “last good night”- no one knows when that will be, and I don’t want to camp there. We have this present moment, this moment to be truly with the ones we love and with whom God has placed in our midst. They’re right before us.

I’m making that my aim, but I need daily reminders. The book of Psalms does that for me. So many things to enjoy, right now, at this time.

Tomorrow? Who knows?

I’ve got today and want to enjoy today.  

Thanks for reading,

Curt