Words To Live By » Cancer

A Letter To My Mom

James McAlister — Mon, 04 May 2009 06:00:00 +0000

Following is the talk given by my son Barrett at his mother’s funeral. I post it again for Mother’s Day as a reminder of just how quickly our time with our mothers, wives and daughters can slip away from us. There are other Mother’s Day posts under the Holidays category on the right-hand side.

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As many of you know, my mother had a great love for literature, especially children’s literature. And there was one book that she got years ago that’s entitled Love You Forever. It’s a story about a mother who sang to her baby son, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” She continued this throughout his life.

Eventually, however, their roles reversed. The mother got sick, and her son took care of her. Then he went home to his son, held him in his arms and sang, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” Mom and I read that book countless times–and always cried.

This book was much on my mind as I wrote this letter to my mom after seeing her in the emergency room. I was badly shaken, and there were so many things I wanted to tell her. I read this letter to her the following evening in the hospital.
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Dear Mom,

I have so many things I’d like to say to you, but I’m not sure if I can get the words out of my head onto the paper. So this might ramble a little bit.

When Brandi and I walked into the ER, we were taken aback. You and Dad hadn’t exactly told us how sick you really were. Seeing you made me realize how short life is and how so many memories come to mind at such times. Memories likeâ€¦..

“Mommy, rock me in the red rocker.” This is probably my first real memory.

Caffeine-free Diet Coke. I didn’t know there was anything else to drink.

Putting war paint on Wesley and me and sneaking in crosses so we would be Christian Indians.

Lunch at Pizza Inn. We played games, and you attempted to make me do some homework.

Shaving my head before BMA camp. What a haircut!

Scrapbooks for every year of my life. I still love to look at them, and I’m sure that your grandson Jackson will as well.

The detailed journals you kept. Do you remember that when we were having fights you would pull out the journals and read them to me? Hearing how much love you had for me always seemed to shape me up.

You always took me to soccer and baseball practices and to baseball and Tae Kwon Do as well.

Countless costumes for dress up.

Playing dodge ball in the hall. Playing Pente, Aggravation, Sorry, dominoes, and 42. Trying to teach me to play the piano.

Tricking me into believing that Grandpa was giving me a hoe for Christmas–and it was really a microscope.

Encouraging me to go and do without being afraid of the world.

Standing by the convictions God had given you and Dad without caring whether others agreed.

Producing amazing productions for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Presidents’ Day–and anything else than could be used for a learning opportunity.

Crazy birthday parades and banners that found their way into the newspaper.

Never showing different amounts of love to Jenny and me. You loved us both the same.

Giving up a career to stay home and teach me even though you had never even heard of such a thing.

Summer reading programs. Reading to Dad, Jenny and me. Instilling in me a love for literature.

Mom, I regret that I have wasted so many years in not loving and appreciating you and Dad in the way that the two of you deserve. But I want you to know that the things that you tried to instill in me were not wasted. I look forward to instilling them in Jackson. Your legacy will live on. I also want you to know that you and Dad are my heroes. I hope that Brandi and I can be the parents that you have been.

I love you, Mom, and I treasure the time that we have left together. And whether that be one more day or twenty years, I want you to remember one thing: I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.
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Barrett was able to spend eight more days with his mom. You can listen to his talk at www.james-mc.com.

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New Tricks For An Old Dog

James McAlister — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 19:46:00 +0000

My wife’s death a year ago immediately plunged me into many new behaviors, almost all exceedingly difficult to embrace. But the extreme distress and displacement I once felt is virtually gone, and I’m now developing a workable routine–of sorts. And in the process I’ve had to learn (or at least have been working on learning) some “new tricks” for this old dog. Let me share some of them with you so you’ll know where I am.

In July I rejoined the fitness center and try to go every day except Sunday. The exercise has been therapeutic, and my overall health has certainly improved. But upon wise counsel from friend Rod Gilbreath, I engaged the services of a personal trainer to help me with a program for strengthening my injured knee. Plus, the trainer has developed a well-rounded exercise plan that I can follow from week to week.

Those who have suffered the death of a loved one know how distressing holidays can be. I was part of a couple, with my wife being the energetic and lively half. I, on the other hand, was the token “stick in the mud” who got to enjoy the good times she helped engender.

But when confronted with facing my first Thanksgiving without her, I determined to do more than just show up to gatherings. So with Connie Bolton’s recipe in hand, I determined to make some chocolate pies.

Those first two were more like pudding than pie, but I’ve since learned what “stir until stiff” means. Though I’m not exactly known as the Pie Man, I have made quite a few since and have been told that they are tasty. My trainer, of course, would frown on my sampling them personally.

Before Mary commenced cancer treatments in March 2006, we had begun a video course in Spanish. We had to set all that aside, however, and never got back to it. But in January I started anew. Furthermore, I’ve purchased an audio course and installed it on a tiny mp3 player I bought just for that purpose.

So whenever I’m in the car or at the fitness center, “yo practico.” I wear earphones at the fitness center, of course, and am certain that those who see my mouth twitching mutter epithets like this: “Would you look at that old man talking to himself!”

And just to stretch myself a bit, I occasionally listen to FM 99.3, a Spanish-speaking station, just to see if I can pick out any words or phrases that I’ve been working on. Sometimes I can! I’ve renewed my passport and may even go to Costa Rica this summer on a mission project.

For those who might be interested in what material I’m using, there’s a Spanish link near the top of my internet homepage (www.james-mc.com).

While my ability to write and concentrate hasn’t exactly returned, I see now that it will. When coupled with the grace of God, time has effected changes I’d never have thought possible a year ago.

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Taking Time To Heal

James McAlister — Fri, 22 Jun 2007 19:05:00 +0000

“I walk on an isolated, lonely beach, and her absence is a vast and angry sea that breaks over me repeatedly–one black and terrible surge after another. Each batters me relentlessly, and I am powerless to resist, stand, endure. And I go down under their weight and intensity.” Thus reads my journal a scant six weeks after the death of Mary, my wife.

A question plagues me: how does one ever heal after being wracked to the bone by devastating loss? Recovery has been excruciatingly slow and painful, and many days produce setbacks instead of advances.

There’s no way around it; the healing of the soul takes time… different kinds of time.

TIME TO REMEMBER

When the burdens of caring for a retarded child overwhelmed us, friends reached out to love us and our little Jenny. Three–Harold and Dot Walden and Linda Hammett– repeatedly march across the pages of Mary’s journal for 1976, our lives intertwined in great intimacy.

Still too painful for me to do alone, these three have granted me time to remember by reading some of Mary’s notations to me. Together we’ve laughed, cried, marveled at God’s goodness–and my soul has been calmed.

Though Jenny’s physical and mental infirmities struck us down like an unexpected thunderbolt, the hard times are barely visible in these remembrances. More apparent is the grand and good scheme of God in difficult circumstances. Likewise, peace in my current situation, dark as it may seem today, will eventually prevail.

TIME TO FORGET

Cumulatively, I have shoveled hours of words into the ears of patient listeners in my attempts to offload hurts. Remarkably, they’ve never reminded me that I keep recycling the issues of shock, despair, apathy, loneliness, bewilderment, escape. Instead, they assure me that all will be well… in time.

And though I know that I’ll never actually “forget” 40 years of companionship, current relationships and friendships slowly seep into the void death has created. And as the emptiness gradually disappears, I can mentally set it aside–and forget.

TIME TO CONSIDER

To consider is to bring the disputes of head and heart into agreement. So on both our 40th anniversary and on Father’s Day, I took time–sitting in the cemetery where Mary and Jenny are buried– to consider. Where I am? Where I’m going? What do I do next?

Sometimes my head quotes the Scripture, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.” But then my heart instantly responds with a strong rejoinder, “But I sure do miss her.” So the wrangling goes until peace and healing come. Another baby step forward.

Though the Apostle James admonishes, “Consider it all joy my brothers, when you encounter various trials,” I still await the joy. More time.

TIME TO REGRET

Do I have regrets? Hundreds. Things I wish I’d said or done but didn’t. Things I wish I hadn’t said or done but did. They whirl about in my mind, taunting me until I can lay hold of one and wrestle it to the ground. Then comes the hard reckoning.

Does it really matter to her now that she never made that leisurely drive through Maine or write the children’s picture book? The loveliness of heaven majestically overshadows any beauty or pleasure of this earth. She is now well satisfied; I’m the one with regrets, but time will bring each one into resolution.

My head embraces this fact: time to heal, like the healing itself, is a gift of God. But anticipating a glad reunion, my heart leaps rapidly forward with these words: “Farewell is not goodbye; my heart no longer cries. I’ll see you in a minute over there!”

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Remembrances & Regrets

James McAlister — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 15:45:15 +0000

Remembrances and regrets one month after Maryâ€™s death.
Copyright 2007 James McAlisterÂ Â Â Â Listen here

The Day The Tears Came

James McAlister — Fri, 23 Feb 2007 20:05:00 +0000

I was strong during her rapid physical decline. I was strong during her painful suffering and death. I was strong at her funeral and at the graveside. But today the tears came.

They came in simple, trivial ways. Shutting off her cell phone. Cancelling reservations in Branson. Closing a department store account. Returning books received but never opened. And each required a brief explanation… and tears.

As we were just beginning this cancer journey, she made a request. “If I die before you do, I’d like for you to do my funeral.” I agreed, not realizing how little time remained. And from the agony she endured during her last month emerged the three words of encouragement I shared at her funeral. Perhaps they’ll endue you–as they have me–with strength to carry on despite prevailing circumstances.

DO NOT LOSE HEART

Despite the pain, she never gave up, never quit, never complained. Though the body was failing O so rapidly, the person on the inside waxed stronger day by day. She’d often quote the Bible verse, “Let the weak say I am strong.” And the last recognizable sound I heard from her lips was a faint but distinguishable “strong.”

With great difficulty I managed to transport her from the hospital to our home for a week of hospice care. On the way she asked, “Is this how people go home to die?” “No,” I answered, “we’re going home to pray for deliverance.” She thanked me.

DO NOT LOSE HOPE

On our first night back home she awoke at 3:00 a.m. wanting to be repositioned. As I rubbed her back and our son Barrett assured her that all was well, she remarked, “This is good. We’re all here, and we love each other.” It was true.

A couple of nights later before weakness prevented her from sitting upright, I enfolded my arms around her. “Mother, if this is too hard for you, and you catch a glimpse of the other side where Jenny is, I release you to go there. You have been strong in faith and are the bravest person I know. What an example of endurance you are.”

“No, I’m not ready yet,” she whispered. “Good,” I replied. “We’ll keep praying.” Soon, however, she confided to her sister Betty, “I’m ready now.” Betty released her, as did Barrett. Instead of abandoning hope, she chose the path that seemed best to her.

DO NOT LOSE HEAVEN

While the Christians do not forfeit their places in heaven, they can miss its manifestations as they live out their lives. In her waning days heaven rained upon us.

There were, of course, outpourings of food, housekeeping, errands, chores. And my mind swims with countless striking images. Luke Stanton by the bedside holding her hand. A friend on her knees seeking forgiveness. Patty Wolf and Adrianne Redding reliving literary favorites. The McNair and Baker families’ renditions of uplifting hymns. Katie and Kacie Blankenship’s bedroom harp and vocal recitals. The Thompson family holding hands around her bed and praying. Amid my own tears, I often remarked, “Surely heaven must be like this.”

On that final morning I attempted to comfort her as she labored for breath. “All is well, Mother. You are strong in the Lord, and I’m here.” Bending to wipe a tear from her left eye, I laid a hand upon her head and prayed for her deliverance one last time. Then with just moments to gather the family around, peace gently erased the furrows and wrinkles pain had viciously carved upon her bright countenance.

And in that single glorious instant, our daughter Jenny, blind and retarded here on earth, saw her mom face to face for the first time.

In the Bible Jesus spoke of times like this. “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in Me shall live even if he dies, and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?”

So to you, Mary Winborn McAlister, my faithful companion and partner of almost 40 years, I do not bid you farewell. Rather, I assure you of this: I’ll meet you on the other side where there are no more tears. And may much fruit spring up from the good seed you planted throughout your life and watered with your pain. All is well.

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Drinking From The Bitter Waters

James McAlister — Sun, 23 Apr 2006 00:20:00 +0000

By many miracles, God delivered Israel out of Egypt and across the Red Sea. Immediately thereafter, they were three days in the wilderness without water. When they did find at Marah the water they had desperately sought, it was bitter (Exodus 15:22-25). How would they respond to this disappointment?

Not understanding this test from God, they grumbled at Moses, “What shall we drink?” As captives, cruel taskmasters had driven them for 400 years. Now they would have to learn to be led in order to survive. And the first place God took them was to bitter water in a barren wilderness. Moses cried out to God, who did yet another mighty work by making the bitter water sweet.

Israel eventually moved on to Elim, where there were 12 springs of water and 70 date palms. This was assuredly a pleasant place to camp, for the water must have been sweet and refreshing. But there is no record of any great work of God being done at Elim.

According to Charles Spurgeon, “The Lord gets His best soldiers out of the highlands of affliction.” Affliction is just another name for bitter water.

Puritan Samuel Rutherford’s thought is compelling: “If God had told me some time ago that He was about to make me as happy as I could be in this world, and then had told me that He should begin by crippling me in all my limbs, and removing me from all my usual sources of enjoyment, I should have thought it a very strange mode of accomplishing His purpose.

“And yet, how is His wisdom manifest even in this! For if you should see a man shut up in a close room, idolizing a set of lamps and rejoicing in their light, and you wished to make him truly happy, you would begin by blowing out all his lamps, and then throw open the shutters to let in the light of heaven.”

As I write this today, I reflect on the bitter waters of my own life. I recall first tasting them at the birth of our daughter, Jenny, the child expectant parents pray not to have. Blind and profoundly retarded, she set us on a course we would never have chosen. But at the bitter waters we found immense blessing God had poured out for us there. Then Jenny’s unexpected death 22 years later compelled us drink again–and for our good.

Today we’re poised beside the bitter waters once more, seeking treatment for a rare form of cancer at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. Another difficult path not of our choosing.

But the question arises: would we be used of God. Then we should expect Him to repeatedly lead us to bitter water. In such times will we grumble, or will we cry out for Him to make even that noxious water sweet? I’m ashamed to say that I have a secret desire to “camp at Elim” and (as Isaac Watts wrote) “be carried to the skies on flow’ry beds of ease, while others fought to win the prize and sailed through bloody seas.”

Assuredly, God will not throw open the shutters to flood us with the light of heaven until He first “blows out our lamps” by leading us to bitter water. I pray that He would be gentle.

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Learning Words Of A New Language

James McAlister — Thu, 23 Mar 2006 21:25:00 +0000

We began this year with expectant enthusiasm for learning Spanish as a second language. Imagine our surprise in being compelled to abandon our first enjoyable lessons and adapt to the convoluted lingo of a decidedly ominous tongue: cancer.

My wife's unexpected diagnosis of kidney cancer in January set us on a fast track. First came surgery to remove the diseased kidney. All went well and initial indications were that no further treatment would be needed.

But one troubling word–pathology–kept popping up to plague us. So we waited… two weeks, in fact, for an expert pathological opinion from Emory University that taught us another fearsome term: sarcoma.

Sarcoma is a cancer of the body's connective tissues. It's rare in kidneys, appearing there only about one percent of the time. Three other words from the pathologist describe Mary's variation of sarcoma more precisely: primitive, unclassified, high-grade. And like much nomenclature of this new language, we don't fully comprehend, but we do have dark suspicions.

Confusion is a word that's long familiar, but it's assumed gargantuan proportions as we've tried to decipher the data we have. CT scans for the past year, for example, have been tracking a peculiar mass in the chest that's tentatively been diagnosed as benign and suspected to be remnants of thymus tissue.

But a recent CT scan to analyze a newly-discovered mass attached to the rib cage showed neither the old chest mass nor the new rib cage mass. Instead, it pinpointed suspicious nodules in both lungs; the radiologist suspects they're related to the malignancy in the kidney.

The ribcage mass remained a mystery, however, until an ultrasound just this morning classified it (in my non-medical terminology) as funny-shaped cartilage between the ribs. So we shout another word: relief. Still, there's plenty of concern.

In the last two weeks the word hectic describes our dashings between doctors and tests as time is of the essence. For two full weeks I scurried hither and yon, attempting to corral stampeding medical records in hopes of securing Mary an appointment at the renowned M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. Just yesterday MDA confirmed that appointment.

Lest I paint a lopsided impression, cancer has also enriched our vocabulary with bright phrases that include hope, faith and encouragement.

Through an unusual set of circumstances which I may detail in a separate column, Mary has been reunited with friends she knew while in the eighth grade in Portland (Ark.). Two, Shelia Drake and Pat Pennington, even came for an afternoon's visit a few days ago. In addition to their gifts, they bore words of cheer and endearment–punctuated by laughs and squeals.

A reunion of eight "girls" from that class is scheduled in Conway this weekend. Cancer has a way of bringing focus (now that's a good word) to what should have been important all along.

Friends and family have risen to occasion, standing by us with words and deeds of assurance, confidence and love. Last Sunday night our church gathered around us and prayed for us. Calls and cards continue to pour in.

Hope seems to rise and fall with the latest words from doctors, test results, those who know someone with a similar condition. And our hopes have been no exception. Ultimately, however, our hope and faith rest upon God and His ultimate purpose and plan for us.

He has miraculously stricken the word fear from our lips, replacing it with another: cheer. After all, Jesus Himself commanded, "Be of good cheer, for I have overcome the world."

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Remembering Mr. Bill Foy

James McAlister — Thu, 16 Dec 2004 01:11:00 +0000

When we first met the Brown family in 1982, a problem immediately surfaced: what to call Mr. Brown. His wife, Judy, referred to him as "Bill," but their mailbox said "Foy." My wife soon resolved the dilemma by dubbing him "Mr. Bill Foy," a term of endearment that even his recent death hasn't erased.

Some knew Mr. Bill Foy as a devoted husband and father, a lover of animals, a connoisseur of classical music, a fierce competitor at games and an avid follower of the Razorbacks. So did I, but the Bill Foy I observed on Labor Day was the one I was privileged to describe at his funeral at Oak Cliff Baptist Church.

With the rest of the household departed to the mall, I had a few minutes alone with him. And in that quiet hour I posed a question we had often discussed. "Mr. Bill Foy, do you remember our trips to the Buffalo River?"

Momentarily, the torments of aggressive cancer vanished from his eyes, and he brightly replied. "Yes, I do. They were some of the highlights of my life." And for too brief a season we relived several expeditions, especially the splendid four-day float for four fathers and their teenage sons facilitated by John Sherman Gilliom. We savored again the fish, fries, hush puppies and apple fritters cooked and consumed on a gravel bar near Cow Creek.

As our reminiscences drew to a close, he shared a difficult conclusion with me. "Mr. James, I'm reconciled to the fact that I've floated the Buffalo for the last time. And I've been to see the Razorbacks play at Bud Walton Arena for the last time. That's hard for me, but I'm at peace with it."

There's a sober peculiarity about last times. All parents remember their children's first steps and first words, but who can recall the last tuck into bed, the last story book, the last ride on the merry-go-round? Last times don't declare themselves as such.

I returned home that evening with a question on my mind: had I seen Mr. Bill Foy for the last time? Circumstances did allow us one more trip to Fort Smith to see him just as his health began the downward spiral that would shortly terminate in death.

Why would such a quiet, unassuming man have to experience the sufferings and indignities that we all pray to avoid? He certainly wouldn't have chosen that path for himself. Regardless, he endured it all without a word of grumbling.

I've known skeptics who claim to doubt God because they see good people suffer in such slow, lingering declines. But I must be honest at this point: watching Mr. Bill Foy patiently endure suffering without complaint proves to me the reality of the God he professed to trust.

Were I able to communicate with him face to face today, I'd say, "Thank you, Mr. Bill Foy, for showing me how a real Christian suffers. Your outward demeanor demonstrated the unseen, inner reality of a God who is good and who will surely reward those who put their confidence in Him."

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My friend, Foy William Brown, Jr., departed this life on December 9, 2004, having attained the age of 70 years. I will miss him.

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