Another Tomorrow

It is one of my most vivid memories of Alisa.

Mike and I were sitting in the back seat of her car. Being poor, car-less college students, she had picked us up so we could babysit her boys. We had been dating for all of three months, and Alisa used the 30-minute drive to probe into our relationship.

Alisa: So . . . summer break is coming up. [I had plans to go home to Colorado for the summer.]

Us: Mmm-hmm.

Alisa: What are your plans as far as your relationship goes? Are you going to date other people? Stay exclusive? What?

Mike [casting a nervous glance at me]: We haven't really talked about it.

Alisa: Well maybe now would be a good time.

That little exchange has stayed with me for eleven years, not only because it made Mike and me look at the seriousness of our relationship (but not at that moment with Alisa listening in!), but because it is Alisa in a nutshell: blunt, concerned, opinionated. (Looking back, I'm also almost certain that Sonja, who is 17 months older than Alisa and was far away in Ohio at the time, had probably put her up to it: "How serious is their relationship? You need to find out and report back to me.")

I think that initial intimidation I felt in the backseat of her car never quite left. At the time, I was so impressed by what a talented, capable person Alisa was, so far beyond what I was doing and accomplishing. Just 25 years old, she'd been married for almost four years and had two little boys. She and her husband had recently purchased their first home. She was a Registered Nurse and also had a successful photography business (she was the one who took our wedding photos). She had an eye for beauty, and it showed in the way she dressed and decorated and lived.

I'm not trying in any way to summarize Alisa's life, so I'll cut right to the point. In 2007, Alisa was diagnosed with melanoma. Eight years later, on May 19, 2015, at the mere age of 36, she passed away. It was the morning of her 15th wedding anniversary.

My heart is so sad.

As with everything else, Alisa put her all into fighting cancer. Sometimes it took my breath away--her energy and determination and strength. (For example, this, from her husband, Josh, when she was doing IL2: "Alisa never ceases to amaze. After her 7th dose (and about 20 pounds of water) she decided to do one more.  A last ditch effort to kill the cancer with this treatment.  The doctors gave her a chance to be done, but she just kept on going.") She suffered through some pretty horrendous treatments in search of a permanent cure. And because she had a gift with words, she took family, friends, and even complete strangers on that journey with her.

There are a lot of things that don't make sense to me in this life, and this--this is one of them. I'm sure many of you have known similar people who still had so much life left in them and who desperately wanted to continue to brighten the world but didn't get the chance.

Over the last few weeks, my mind has been careening in opposite directions. Sometimes it goes the way of, "Cancer is a mean disease. I hate it." It is, and I do. It leads you on by a flaxen cord, giving you little glimpses of hope while tightening its grasp. Each little disappointment is a jolt, an unwanted surprise, a small tragedy. We've been experiencing a type of grief for the last eight years. We measured life in six-month or three-month, or even two-week, chunks of time. If only we could have one more year . . . And I realized it would never have been enough. We would never have had our fill of Alisa.

with Clark last summer

But sometimes, but not as often as I'd like, my mind takes a more hopeful turn, and I think about all the little (and even big) miracles that came along the way and that I was privileged to be able to witness. They came with a price (like I said, Alisa was willing to endure just about anything if it meant more time), but they were miracles nonetheless.

I'll never forget Alisa's post from almost three years ago. It was the one that stopped all of us in our tracks: "What's worse than a brain tumor?  How about TWENTY FIVE brain tumors?!  I didn't even know that was an option.  It seems very extreme, and the Dr. says not common." It just goes to show how weak my faith is that my reaction was, This must be it. She probably only has three months left.

But then three months later, we were all floored again. The brain tumors were gone.

Over the years, she was there for her three boys' baptisms, birthdays, recitals, and sports games. She was there for the farewells and homecomings of siblings who went on missions. She was there for family reunions and parties. She was there for the weddings of all eight of her siblings (Kirsten, the youngest, was married just three weeks ago, and Alisa was not only able to attend but also help.)

Alisa with all of her siblings (except Kirsten) at Mark's wedding last May (Kirsten was on a mission)

So the miracles, I know they're there, and I know they're continuing to happen even now (the white peonies--they're blooming right on time . . . ), but sometimes they're hard to focus on when my heart feels so heavy for her husband, Josh, and their three boys.

Last Friday, Mike and I went to their home to say good-bye. Josh was incredibly kind and gracious to the whole family and seemed to be so sensitive to family members' needs for closure. I'll admit, I was nervous to go. By that time, Alisa was no longer talking and in a peaceful state of rest for most of the time. Her room was still and quiet and felt almost sacred. I had a few minutes alone with her, during which time I planned on telling her a few of my thoughts and why I was so grateful for her. But the words were hard to get out. Eleven years later, in a completely different situation, I still felt shy around Alisa.

Alisa's blog has always been an inspiration to me. She knew how to say things in such a raw, honest, and beautiful way. I love this analogy of hers about the phases of life,

"When you plan a garden, . . .  you create 'rooms' with a little teaser entrance into the next space.  An opening that intrigues and lures you to another place, with a different design and feeling.  So behind the door that is tomorrow is just another place that I get to enjoy after loving the space I left behind."

When she wrote the post, she was referring mainly to the space of time granted to her in between scans. But I know it applies to this most recent transition as well: She went through the door to another tomorrow. She loved the space she left behind, but I believe she's enjoying the new space as well.

I know that for the most part, I have been a mere spectator to the last eight years. I know nothing of the grief that Josh or their kids or Alisa's parents or sisters are feeling right now. I don't even pretend to compare my grief with theirs. But I've still been searching for comfort and for answers to some of life's biggest questions, and this poem, by President Gordon B. Hinckley, has soothed my troubled spirit and brought me a measure of peace:

What is this thing that men call death

This quiet passing in the night?

’Tis not the end but genesis

Of better worlds and greater light.

O God, touch Thou my aching heart

And calm my troubled, haunting fears.

Let hope and faith, transcendent, pure,

Give strength and peace beyond my tears.

There is no death, but only change,

With recompense for vict’ry won.

The gift of Him who loved all men,

The Son of God, the Holy One.

This week, I've been reading The Education of Little Tree by Forrest Carter. It's about a little boy who is raised by his Cherokee grandparents. At the end, as Little Tree's Granpa lays dying, his parting words are, "It was good, Little Tree. Next time, it will be better. I'll be seein' ye."

It was good, Alisa. Next time, it will be better. I'll be seeing you.

P.S. If you want to be inspired by Alisa's journey, you can read the first half (2007-2009) here or the second half (2011-2015) here.

My Quiet Sadness

I've been quiet the last few days, and not without a reason.

On Saturday, almost a week ago now, my sister-in-law, Sonja, delivered a beautiful baby boy. He was full-term, perfect, and stillborn.

I have been quiet because my heart is breaking.

Writing is how I sort out my pain, my feelings, my heartaches, my dreams. That's why I write in my journal every day. And at first I thought I would just contain my thoughts and feelings about this loss to my journal (certainly many of them have already been recorded there). But because I write in my journal every day, my thoughts are often disjointed and sporadic...I write about whatever I am feeling at that particular moment, and often those feelings don't connect into something very cohesive.

I'm realizing more and more that when I experience hard emotions, I don't want to talk about them, but I do want to write about them. Mike and I have broached some of the most difficult conversations in our marriage through letters. That may sound silly, but both of us need the quiet time and space it takes to thoroughly examine each item, measuring it against what we already know or feel.

I couldn't talk at all on Saturday...not in the morning when Mike's sister, Alisa, called and said the doctors couldn't find the baby's heartbeat; not in the afternoon when we were together with other members of the family; and not late at night after Mike returned from praying with his family and holding Sonja's angel baby. At first, it was because I was in denial. I believed if I didn't talk about it and didn't ask any questions and continued to steadfastly pray that the outcome might change. But once it was undeniable that this devastating thing had happened, then the sadness and grief came flying at me from such a multitude of directions and levels that I did not know what to do with it all. And behind all that grief, the ever-pressing thought, This is nothing compared to the pain Sonja and her family is feeling. Nothing. And I would cry anew at the thought of all they were going through.

Late Saturday night, as all of the closeted emotions came pouring out in wrenching sobs, Mike kept asking, "Is it because you feel sad for Sonja?" I couldn't answer him. I literally could not get a single word to come out of my mouth. But now I'm finally feeling like trying to articulate this complex web of sadness.

Yes, I am sad for Sonja. So incredibly sad. My heart aches for her and her husband and their four other children. At the center of every other emotion I feel is the deep sadness I feel for them. I know how much each one was looking forward to this sweet baby.

I'm also sad for myself. In this light, it sounds selfish, but I was excitedly anticipating the arrival of their baby. Today was supposed to be his birthday, and I had planned to visit Sonja in the hospital and hold and snuggle him for the first of many times. Aaron and I talked often about the new brother his cousins would soon be welcoming into their family. He was excited, too.

On Saturday, I was not only sad but so angry. I've seen this happen to other people...something tragic happens and they wonder how God could be so unfair and unjust. That was exactly how I felt. In my silence, my mind and heart raged. Why would Heavenly Father allow this to happen? If miracles were possible, why weren't we blessed with one? What was even the point of praying if in the end it was all random anyway...one family received a miracle, another family didn't. Maybe their wasn't a God after all because it certainly didn't make sense to take away their baby at the last possible moment.

These feelings of intense doubt threatened to pull me under and drown me. It is in times such as this one that I recognize the wisdom in establishing faithful habits. Daily prayer and scripture study provide a crutch for me to lean on. I was feeling completely faithless, but these habits are sustaining me and pulling me through. Even though I can't make sense of this tragic event, deep down I know that turning away from Heavenly Father will never give me the answers I fervently want. In addition to prayer and the scriptures, I have been so grateful for the talks from the most recent General Conference, particularly President Eyring's,  Elder Bowen's, and Elder Anderson's. Little by little, I am rebuilding my faith, and hopefully it will be stronger than it was before. I do have faith in the Atonement of Jesus Christ to heal all wounds, but I also know there are some heartaches that, as President Eyring said, will "last a lifetime."

This week also brought with it waves of fear and anxiety. I keep thinking, A week ago we had no idea this would happen. We didn't know we would be going to a graveside service today for our baby nephew. What other events are on the horizon? A week from today will I be looking back on another tragedy we didn't have a premonition of? Life feels so volatile, and it scares me so much.

I also keep thinking about how an event like this not only alters the future but also, in some respects, the past. The future is obvious: we thought we would get to watch this baby grow up; we thought we would get to know his sweet smile and the many facets of his personality; we thought he would be a part of the festivities on Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I've also noticed that some memories from the past will forever be changed in my memory because I now know what happened later on. As a rather inconsequential example of what I mean, a few weeks ago, Max broke a little piece of pottery Mike and I bought when we were in Chile four and a half years ago. It wasn't particularly sentimental and therefore I didn't really mind, but I did say something like, "When we bought that pot, I had no idea that a little boy named Max would break it." Over the last few days, memories keep surfacing, happy memories that are still happy but also laced with sadness because I now know what I didn't know then.

One of the hardest things for me on Saturday and Sunday was just wondering what I could possibly say or do for Sonja and her family. I wanted to talk to her, but like I said, it's so much easier for me to write hard things than say them. Plus, I knew there was nothing I could say that would actually ease the pain. And I also knew there were probably a great deal of things I might accidentally say that would make it worse. Besides being my sister-in-law, Sonja is also one of my dearest friends. She is so much wiser than me, and I trust her opinion completely. I've seen her go through hard things in the past, and I respect and love her so much. In the end, it was Sonja who guided our first conversation, not me, which just showed me once again how truly amazing she is.  

The graveside service for little baby Daniel was this morning. We have been enjoying beautiful autumn weather, but last night a storm blew in, and today it was cold with thick, heavy snowflakes falling steadily. I thought I would hate the snow, but while it was inconvenient, it was also oddly comforting. Everything was blanketed in pristine snow, and that word, "blanket," kept repeating itself in my mind. It felt like a gift from heaven: a pure and soft blanket from Daniel to comfort all of us at the same time.

As part of the service, my sister-in-law, Brittany, sang the song, "I Will Carry You." I accompanied her on a small keyboard. Throughout the service, water and snow dripped from the overhanging branches of trees onto the keys, and by the time we performed the keys were wet and very cold. As Brittany was singing, and I was playing, I looked out over the white expanse and felt my fingers going stiff and thought how I would never in a million years have pictured myself in this specific situation. I would never have wished for it, but it was a privilege to be able to do something.

More than a decade ago, a family friend gave birth to triplets, two boys and a girl. They were born prematurely. The girl was strong, and she grew and developed well. But the boys were severely handicapped. To this day, they require constant care and have never walked or talked. One time, the mom said, "In our home, we think about heaven every day." They know that someday, their sons will be blessed with perfect bodies, and they hold fast to that hope. That thought has stayed with me, and it came back to me today with greater meaning and hope.

Daniel has given me a reason to think of heaven every day.

More from Brooklyn

Ever since finishing A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, certain passages have been on my mind, and so I feel compelled to revisit Brooklyn and share some of my thoughts.

One of the themes I noticed throughout the book was the nature and purpose of suffering. When Francie begins to go to school, all is not as she expected with her teachers or her peers. One of the more physical problems is lice. Conditions being what they were, the lice flourished and was passed from head to head from week to week. Francie's mom, Katie, had her own vicious method of combating this problem, which still resulted in an isolating effect on Francie. The response, however, that I was particularly interested in was that of the other children towards the child with lice. They were cruel and mean and did little to comfort the afflicted, even though chances were good they'd either had lice already or would have it soon.

I was especially struck by this passage: "It might be that the infected child would be given a clean bill next examination. In that case, she, in turn, would torment those found guilty, forgetting her own hurt at being tormented. They learned no compassion from their own anguish. Thus their suffering was wasted." (p. 161, emphasis added)

I've thought so much about that phrase: Thus their suffering was wasted. What things am I going through right now that will be wasted if I don't learn from them and change my actions?

When I was 14 and 15, I went through a trial which was rather personal in nature. About a year into it, I remember thinking: What have I learned from this experience? I took a sheet of paper and wrote down every lesson I could think of (and there were many!). Somehow, looking at the long list, the trial did not seem so bad; in fact, it seemed almost worth it. Since I'd already gone through it all once, I didn't want to have to go through it, or something similar, again. I didn't want my suffering to be wasted.

I want to make sure my experiences count for something, that my energy and heartache and time are not given in vain. But suffering is rarely completely personal. Usually it involves others. And when it does, suffering has the potential to bring us together in a tender way that nothing else can.

At a later point in the book, Francie is outside and witnesses the way a young woman is ostracized because she gave birth to a child out of wedlock. Her name was Joanna, and she was a kind and attentive mother, but she had no friends or mentors because of her immoral actions. One day as she pushes her small baby in a stroller, the other women literally begin to throw stones at her, and they even end up hitting and hurting her baby.

Francie then makes this observation: "Most women had the one thing in common: they had great pain when they gave birth to their children. This should make a bond that held them all together; it should make them love and protect each other against the man-world. But it was not so. It seemed like their great birth pains shrank their hearts and their souls. They stuck together for only one thing: to trample on some other woman...whether it was by throwing stones or by mean gossip. It was the only kind of loyalty they seemed to have." (p. 237)

This made my heart break. They could have built such a tight friendship around their common suffering but instead they turned on each other and let the suffering drive wedges between them. There have been times in my own life when I've been on the stone-throwing end, maybe not in an aggressive, brutal way but by turning my back and not offering help or friendship.

Both of these examples lead me to this conclusion: Suffering is a tool. If we use it in the right way, it does so many wonderful things: It pushes us onward to the next bend in the road and makes us stronger for the next mountain to climb. It builds bridges and creates true friends out of mere acquaintances. And last, and this is my personal belief, it changes our very natures to make us more like Jesus Christ...humble and meek, forgiving and faithful.

Isn't it amazing that something that leaves us feeling weak and vulnerable actually makes us strong and unconquerable?