Wailing

Time after time he rescued them,
but in their malice they dared to defy him
and sank low through their guilt.
In spite of this he paid heed to their distress,
so often as he heard their cry.
- Psalm 106

As I read these words while saying my Morning Prayer, I recalled how powerfully the Lord once answered my cries.

My sister, Sally, had been diagnosed with lymphoma, stage 3. She was given 6 months to live. Her oldest daughter was pregnant, again, still trying to have a child, and Sally said to her doctor that she wanted to be alive to see her oldest child happy with her own child. She asked the doctor to do whatever it took to make sure that happened. Thus she began a period of chemo treatments, and much pain and suffering, but with hope. Once a month she underwent the procedures, followed by a weekend of sickness, pain, and no sleep, for her or her husband. She told me it was worth it. And it was, because her daughter gave birth to a beautiful girl, and my sister was at the hospital to hold her. Sally was radiant. Mother, child, -- and grandmother – were all doing well. And shortly thereafter, sis’ other two daughters became pregnant, and sis again had continued hope, and a further reason to fight to stay alive, regardless of the pain to do so.

It was about a year and a half after that original diagnosis and sis had outlived all the doctors’ expectations, when I got the call. I had just arrived home from work on that Friday, and was gathering an overnight bag to take with me to a weekend retreat with other men from my parish. The call, from my niece, said that her mom Sally had had a seizure and stopped breathing earlier that afternoon. She had been revived and taken to the hospital. Preliminary tests showed she had a very large growth on her brain – the cancer had spread. Initially, the doctors were inclined to do nothing, but yet another seizure and breathing stoppage led them to change their opinion. The brain tumor was an immediate death threat, while the rest of her cancer was somewhat in a state of control. They decided to operate Saturday morning. My niece told me that the prognosis was not good.

I wanted to get on a plane immediately, and rush to my sister’s side three thousand miles away, but my niece told me there was nothing I could do, and all Sally’s daughters and her husband were gathering for support. The one who was a nurse was already on a plane from Idaho to Arizona. Stay home, uncle, she said, and pray. She said would call me in the morning and let me know how the operation went.

The concept of “wailing” was foreign to me. I had read of the Jewish women wailing at the death of a loved one; I had heard of the “wailing wall” in Jerusalem, and I had read the description of hell, where there will be a “wailing and gnashing of teeth.” But I didn’t know what wailing really meant until right then. I had been on my faith journey about 15 years by then, and I thought Jesus and I were somewhat close, but that evening I never felt so alone in my life. After I hung up the phone, I walked into the family room and looked up at the crucifix on the wall, and wailed: “Why? Why do you want to take her now? Her children need her; her grandchildren need her. I need her. She is a good and faithful servant. Why do you have to take her now? If you must take anyone, take me, I am not nearly as important as her. Please, dear Lord, please. Let my sister live, that she might give you praise, that she might give you love, and that she might be your loving presence in this world, which she represents to so many, so much better than I.” I sobbed the words out, and was so weak I almost couldn’t stand. But Jesus was silent.

I pulled myself together and drove to the retreat house. At the opening night prayers, I told the 200 or so men gathered of my sister’s situation, and asked for their prayers for her and for her doctors. And I prayed long and hard in front of the Blessed Sacrament before I went to bed that night, but Jesus was still silent. And I was still troubled. Sleep in the strange retreat house room came only with much difficulty.

When I awoke the next morning, I ached everywhere. I moaned slightly as I lifted my arm off my eyes, and looked around me. It was time to get up for morning mass. As I sat up in bed, I noticed the blood on the covers, then my hands and arms. What had happened? I slid my feet to the side of the bed and sat up, running my fingers through my hair, which was strangely greasy. Then I saw the blood on the floor, and on the wall next to the bed. I realized I had suffered a seizure during the night, a bad one. I had been diagnosed with epilepsy at age 25, but it was in control and grand mal seizures where I totally passed out were rare. And I had never had one where I had hurt myself like this.

Looking in the mirror, my face was heavily covered in blood, and the grease in my hair was blood also. My nose was acutely sore, and was the obvious source of all the blood. I had apparently woken with the seizure in the night and had tried to get up, but in the strange room all I did was fumble and make matters worse, obviously including banging my head into the wall and floors. I was a mess and the room looked positively scary.

I cleaned myself up and put on some clean clothes, thanking God as I washed, for watching over me. I went down to the entranceway and gave the security guard my room key, and explained that I had a seizure during the night, but that I was ok and was going home. I told him someone needed to be sent to my room to clean up the mess, and cautioned him that it may look like someone had been murdered there, but it was only me, and I was ok. Satisfied, he watched me leave, and I drove slowly home and went straight to bed. I missed mass that Sunday, and stayed home from work Monday and Tuesday. I had lost a lot of blood and was very weak. I called my doctor and set up an appointment for the opening he had in the following week. When I went into his office, he immediately noticed my bloodshot eyes and some scratches on my face. Touching my nose and declaring it totally smashed, but the air passages generally clear, he asked what happened. When I told him what, and when, he chastised me for not going to the emergency room. Then he laughed and asked if I had ever wanted my nose to be reshaped, because the cartilage was so shattered that now “anything” was possible. I laughed too, and looking into the mirror of his office I noticed that the large bump on my nose that I had my entire life was now gone. I didn’t need any operation to straighten my nose, God had given me a nose job – and it looked pretty good! God does things for us all the time, even if we don’t ask for them!

Regarding my sister Sally’s operation? In truth, I forgot about it that Saturday, as I spent the day in pain in bed. On Sunday, my niece called me. The baseball-sized tumor had been removed from Sally’s brain, and despite all expectations and indications, it was a benign tumor. It had apparently been slowly growing for many years in her brain, and was totally unrelated to her lymphoma cancer. We later found out that as a result of the operation sis had forgotten completely the past two years – including that she even had cancer. But despite this, all was well. Sis was going home to her grandchildren; she was going to be ok.

Everyone gave thanks to God.

After that call, I sat down and thanked God again. I didn’t ask him if he had struck me instead of my sister that night, if he had answered my prayers and been attentive to my wailing. I don’t expect to ever know in this life, but I do know what I believe. God does hear all our sincere prayers and he does answer them, although perhaps not in the way we asked for. He knows best. My bump-less nose healed and I am still here thanking him for all he does for me. Sally lived another two and a half years, and was very happy. I know she still is. I talk to her daily.

He paid heed to their distress, so often as he heard their cry. And perhaps, as I found, a little wailing doesn’t hurt either.

It is good to give thanks to the Lord,
to make music to your name, O Most High,
to proclaim your love in the morning.
Your deeds, O Lord, have made me glad.
- Psalm 92