A Message of Hope

He Watched With Me © 2004 Ginger Hamilton Caudill

I awoke abruptly from a troubled sleep. The pains are back again, I thought, and worse than ever too. Like a wounded animal, I dragged myself out of bed to suffer or possibly die alone. The pain was so intense, the prospect of my dying from it wasn't hard to imagine. Thankfully still asleep, my husband didn't move. He had helplessly watched with me, both of us in tears, many nights before. I think he suffered nearly as much as I did.

A new chemotherapy drug I took for my breast cancer had caused my nerve cells to swell up, sending millions of pain messages to my brain. Every nerve cell in my body panicked and told my brain to make my body get away from whatever caused the pain. Unfortunately, it couldn't. The medicine had absorbed into each and every cell in my body. There seemed no relief, except perhaps death. At that moment, death seemed a preferable experience.

I decided to try and take my mind off my pain by surfing the net or reading email or even trying to write a story. Millions of people are online at all times, but none of my friends were. I went through my list of online bulletin board groups and read each posting. Cheerful Christmas stories and silly requests from Santa weren't what I wanted to read right now. I felt even lonelier knowing the entire world was happily anticipating Christmas, baking and wrapping presents, while I suffered.

I opened my email. A thoughtful friend had sent me an e-card. Suddenly feeling cold, I looked down at my pajama top. It was soaked clear through with my tears. Lifting it away from my chest, I realized it was sopping wet. Just then, a midi file began to play "Silent Night."

Surprised, I looked up at the monitor. I hadn't realized I'd clicked on the e-card. I loved "Silent Night." It was one of my favorite Christmas songs. I began to sing the words in a blubbering whisper to try and take my mind off my suffering…all is calm…all is bright. I felt as if my chest would burst, and choked on yet another sob. All is not calm. All is not bright. I am suffering and alone! I am so alone! 

It occurred to me this must be how Christ felt in the Garden of Gethsemane when all he wanted was for his friends to watch with him, and they fell asleep. I would have watched with you, my Brother. I would have kept the faith and not slept, I thought. I'm so sorry you were alone.

At once, I felt a comforting, loving warmness that filled me from head to toe. I felt like a cup with warm cocoa being poured into it, all the way to the top. A veil of calm descended over me, and my breathing became deep and regular.

I didn't hear a voice, but a powerful thought entered my mind that I was not alone, I was never alone, that Christ was with me in everything that I experienced, that He would never abandon me. The thought continued that all was well and according to plan, that the part of me that was truly me, my spirit, was alive and well and thriving despite what my physical self experienced, that I was eternally safe.

I got much-needed relief from my pain. The intensity was never as severe after this marvelous event. I was able to tolerate the pain until the effects of the medication wore off some weeks later. The real relief, though, is in the complete assurance that I am never alone.

"John Maloney Shrugged . . ."

On Clifford Garstang's recommendation, I read Sven Birkerts' essay "Finding Traction." If nothing else, I am definitely more paranoid about my opening sentences now. Then again, I think back to Charles Dickens' "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . ." and I relax a little. Birkerts' article is still worth a read.

I've been working hard, typing my fingers to the bone so to speak. Well, the arthritis is rearing its painful head, anyway. Started Osteo Bi-Flex last week and am anxiously awaiting its magical relief ("Shows improvement in joint comfort within 7 days!" it promises). All I can say is, if this is an improvement, I'm sure glad I took the Osteo Bi-Flex or I'd be suffering more than I could stand. Yes, it's been difficult. 'Nuff said.

Has been forty days since I stopped smoking! Forty days and forty nights. That's a magical number, the number of days Christ fasted in the wilderness and was tempted by Satan. It rained for 40 days and 40 nights when God "cleansed" the world and "started over". Egyptian embalming took 40 days. Noah spent 40 days on the mountain with God. Twice. Lent lasts 40 days and nights. Elijah walked for -- well, you get the idea. According to one source, the number 40 represents a period of grace and preparation for some special action of the Lord. Of course, another source says that 40 merely represents a Biblical "long time."

I feel as if I have finally overcome my smoking dependency. Now if I could just kick this rotten cold . . .