Scripture
has long waxed
poetic about man’s short time on earth. I've mentioned this before, but since age 9, I’ve had to deal with
serious health issues that have demonstrated to me just how fragile and short
our existence can be. Between ages 9 and 16 I had multiple surgeries for some odd muscular disease. During those years, going to Children’s
hospital in Los Angeles, I got to know other children, much sicker than I was.
Surprisingly, they seemed to deal with it much better than I’ve subsequently
seen adults deal with it. One particularly happy boy was in the hospital
permanently. I remember when I was 16 going in for a checkup. It was memorable
for me because I had just become a licensed driver and it was my first trip to
the hospital by myself. I went up to the ward and asked to see the boy. The
nurse bowed her head and started crying. He had died. This boy, who was on a specially
designed gurney with large, wheelchair-like front wheels so he could be mobile
(he had to be flat on his belly), had appointed himself a one-man greeting
committee. He would wheel into other children’s rooms who were frightened and
apprehensive and he would cheer them up. Now he was gone. I also started
crying. But more than that, in a private prayer to God, I told him that if I
lived just one day longer than that boy, I’d have nothing to complain about.
Since
then (around 5 decades), I’ve lost close friends who died in their late 30s and
early 40s. The latter, I had known since my late 20s when he was a teen. They
both died with dignity, always unselfishly thinking of others and not focusing
on themselves. In a conversation with my oncologist yesterday, I related the
above experiences and told him that I am nothing but grateful to Jehovah that I’ve
lived more than 6 decades. I’m actually blown away that I’ve lived this long. I
told him I do not fear death because I understand what scripture says about it –
that in God’s eyes, we are merely “sleeping” in death and to him it is no more
effort than to call out to us to wake up (in the resurrection). The imagery I
see here is a loving father walking into the bedroom of his dear child and
gently rousing him. (Yes, yes, I'm well aware of the commanding voice scriptures speak of.)
It has
been around a year since I’ve posted anything about my health. I felt an update
would be good. Based on the continuing issues with leukemia, bladder cancer and
bone marrow failure, the oncologist felt we are looking about another 12 months
before things start going drastically south. My latest bout with pneumonia this past week (which seemed to come out of nowhere) is just one more indication my immune
system is being challenged to keep this boat afloat. He wanted me to reiterate
my wishes now that we are getting closer. I confirmed that I’d rather have some
semblance of a useful life than to be repeatedly assaulted with intrusive
treatments that knock me off my feet for weeks at a time. (And mind you, “some
semblance of a useful life” is far from what is normal. It seems every day I wake
up and have to accept a new, lesser form of normal.) I declined any further
surgeries or chemo treatments. He agreed that at this point, attempting to
treat the situations would be harder on my body than just letting things take
their course. I told him that in my mind, there is a difference between
preserving life and extending death. He asked, “Besides what you don’t want, is
there anything you do want?” I asked only that I be made as comfortable as
possible. He suggested hospice. I told him that it really is way too soon to
make that decision.
