Yaacov didn't understand the magnitude of the situation, which means you all reading this probably won't either. That's part of the isolation of the ridiculous disease. Especially in my situation--hardly anyone my age can relate to having a terminal illness at all, because, well, there aren't many of the and they die before we can really "bond". So that stinks, and then when you throw in that I was miraculously healed, it's even harder to find people that "get" it. Not that I'm complaining, really.
There's something about being told time and again that you're going to die soon that changes you. I used to think it was like teaching English as a Second Language--you don't have to speak multiple languages to teach the new one. But I'm pretty sure that in this case you have to live through it or have some really, really, really awesome insight straight from God to get it.
That said, most people don't have the ability to turn from a happy thought into a mess of tears because someone they barely knew is dead. I have that ability, and right now I don't want it. It's like I'm living his death. I already lived my own, you know. It's not much easier this time. If he had died in a car accident or something, I probably wouldn't be too upset. But the second I read "cancer" I knew. I knew what it felt like for Jim to hear the diagnosis for the first time. For him to hope and pray for good test results. To hear bad news instead. To hope and pray for the miracle. Without ever having set foot in a hospice, I knew how it felt to have to move there, knowing it would likely be his last earthly home. Then finally, to hope and pray for a removal of the agony--mental and physical--that the bastard disease caused himself and loved ones.
I couldn't tell you what color his eyes were, but I know exactly how he felt. And I know he wanted to live as much as I did. I know he deserved to live as much as I did. And I know he didn't. And I did.
I'm so sad. Confused. Surprised. Everyone in the body has a part and I always thought mine was minor. I did hope sometimes for a position of higher impact, but life and death with myself as an example is beyond my capabilities. Why aren't I called to be a beacon of hope for something lighter? Simpler? Easier? Less painful, perhaps?
"After he was healed, the man...begged Him that he might be with Him. However, Jesus did not permit him, but said to him, 'Go home to your friends, and tell them what great things the Lord has done for you, and how He had compassion on you." Mark 5:18-19
I am quite certain the scripture above is a direct command for me, so I will keep doing it. It's not particularly hard with the right audience, but what can I say to people grieving from actual loss? "See how healthy I am?!"
I know it sounds so ungrateful to complain, when I'm still alive, but I don't know how many more deaths I can live through. I suppose the point is that I am utterly unable to perform these duties without the help of the Lord, so when I feel this way I'm on the verge of breaking through--become less so He can become more. So, come on then, God! I'm ready to feel numb again.
it makes us feel so much more vulnerable when death occurs to someone close to our age and when it was from something we have gone thru. I think that only those who have gone thru whatever illness they have had and then someone else died from, is particularly scary to us. I think that only people who have gone thru the same illness, esp cancer, can understand. For that reason, I only speak with others who have or have had cancer. I just made 19 years and it still bothers me tho it does get easier but never seems to go away. Hugs to you.
ReplyDelete"I know it sounds so ungrateful to complain" -- no, it sounds like you are being sensitive to the pain in someone else's life. I didn't read it as a complaint at all :)
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