The Chronicle of Linny's Illness and Death
Please note that this is extracted from my journal and reflects the way I felt at the time. I share these thoughts substantially unedited in order to let people see the reality of living through a tragedy. We are not always on our best Christian behaviour at these times, but I believe that the loving God whom we serve does understand our misery.
July 2011 – about three months before Linny died
At church this morning, we heard that someone—the best church pianist I have ever encountered—had died from lung cancer last week. He was 55 and single—a really nice guy. A committed believer, he’s in a better place now than I am, and yet, his death is still held out as tragic. I suppose our inherent selfishness means that his musical gifts will be missed, though, hopefully, not as much as he is missed as a person.
I need to keep reminding myself that this time on earth is my preparation for life in heaven. As an athlete, in the past I’ve put in hour/days/years of training. Part of what makes the training bearable, or even sometimes enjoyable, is the thought that, at some finite time, in the not too far distant future, will come the day of THE EVENT, when all my training will finally make sense. Even now, as a “has-been” who runs irregularly just to keep fit, I like occasionally to run a race, just to give some point to all the training.
Why is death so frightening to some people? As someone said (in a song, I think): “Everyone wants to go to heaven, but they’re all afraid to die”. I’m not afraid of being dead. In fact, it rather fascinates me. I’m curious about it. It sounds attractive. BUT, I’m afraid of the mode of death.
The thought of going through enormous pain is frightening, but I’ve lived with a lot of physical pain in my life. I believe that, with God’s help, I can live through the pain. What really scares me is the thought of being dependent, being a burden, losing my autonomy, losing such dignity as I may have, being a “case”, instead of being a “mensch”.
I so take for granted the freedom that I have to move around. If I want to get up now, I can. It’s no big deal. I can just stand up, unaided, and walk across the room, lie down, stand up, go for a run, or go to bed. When I lie down to sleep, I have no doubt that I’ll wake up the next morning and be able to get up again and continue with my life. This is a precious gift which I hardly ever think about, accepting it as normal. The thought of losing all this fills me with more trepidation than the thought of pain. When the time comes for me to go to THE EVENT, I pray that my final preparation may go quickly.
I’m quite looking forward to meeting with my “glorious new body”. The thought of having no pain in my left wrist, back, shoulders, neck, right knee, right foot, and having good eyesight and no hay-fever and no asthma has a definite appeal.
I wonder what some people would think of me if they were to read this! I think most people who regard themselves as “normal” would write me off as crazy. So what? Maybe I am crazy. Oh well, it works for me. If being crazy is what I have to pay for the life I have had, the amazing experiences I’ve lived through, and all the happiness I’ve had, then it’s been a small price to pay. Thank You, Lord.
I need to keep reminding myself that this time on earth is my preparation for life in heaven. As an athlete, in the past I’ve put in hour/days/years of training. Part of what makes the training bearable, or even sometimes enjoyable, is the thought that, at some finite time, in the not too far distant future, will come the day of THE EVENT, when all my training will finally make sense. Even now, as a “has-been” who runs irregularly just to keep fit, I like occasionally to run a race, just to give some point to all the training.
Why is death so frightening to some people? As someone said (in a song, I think): “Everyone wants to go to heaven, but they’re all afraid to die”. I’m not afraid of being dead. In fact, it rather fascinates me. I’m curious about it. It sounds attractive. BUT, I’m afraid of the mode of death.
The thought of going through enormous pain is frightening, but I’ve lived with a lot of physical pain in my life. I believe that, with God’s help, I can live through the pain. What really scares me is the thought of being dependent, being a burden, losing my autonomy, losing such dignity as I may have, being a “case”, instead of being a “mensch”.
I so take for granted the freedom that I have to move around. If I want to get up now, I can. It’s no big deal. I can just stand up, unaided, and walk across the room, lie down, stand up, go for a run, or go to bed. When I lie down to sleep, I have no doubt that I’ll wake up the next morning and be able to get up again and continue with my life. This is a precious gift which I hardly ever think about, accepting it as normal. The thought of losing all this fills me with more trepidation than the thought of pain. When the time comes for me to go to THE EVENT, I pray that my final preparation may go quickly.
I’m quite looking forward to meeting with my “glorious new body”. The thought of having no pain in my left wrist, back, shoulders, neck, right knee, right foot, and having good eyesight and no hay-fever and no asthma has a definite appeal.
I wonder what some people would think of me if they were to read this! I think most people who regard themselves as “normal” would write me off as crazy. So what? Maybe I am crazy. Oh well, it works for me. If being crazy is what I have to pay for the life I have had, the amazing experiences I’ve lived through, and all the happiness I’ve had, then it’s been a small price to pay. Thank You, Lord.
Wednesday 31 August 2011
I’m just about ready to give up! I don’t know what God is trying to teach me at the moment, except that I am too thick to learn what He wants me to learn.
Linda has been sick for more than two weeks now—I think it’s more like three. We can’t figure out what’s going on. It seems stress-related, but rest doesn’t seem to be giving any lasting benefit. She’s had various medications and they are not giving any lasting results. I’m in despair. I just don’t know what to do. I also fear that I know what the underlying problem is, and it is too ghastly to contemplate.
Brigid left yesterday, which doesn’t help much. It’s not her fault; she has to. It just added to Linny’s misery (and mine). Oh well, at least we can look forward to seeing her in Sakhartvelo in December.
Linda has been sick for more than two weeks now—I think it’s more like three. We can’t figure out what’s going on. It seems stress-related, but rest doesn’t seem to be giving any lasting benefit. She’s had various medications and they are not giving any lasting results. I’m in despair. I just don’t know what to do. I also fear that I know what the underlying problem is, and it is too ghastly to contemplate.
Brigid left yesterday, which doesn’t help much. It’s not her fault; she has to. It just added to Linny’s misery (and mine). Oh well, at least we can look forward to seeing her in Sakhartvelo in December.
Sunday 11 September 2011 (just before midnight)
I feel about as disgusted with myself as it is possible to be. I’ve just had a “raging fury” and yelled at Linny. At the best of times I’d feel bad about it, but this time she’s sick. I’m so afraid, because we don’t know what’s wrong with her and she doesn’t seem to be making any progress. She spent most of today sleeping.
I got angry because I had offered to do the washing and she had said there wasn’t any; then, when I looked tonight, there was a huge load. I could have done it over the week-end. Now she says she’ll do it tomorrow, which makes me feel even more unkind. While I was on a roll, I also complained to her that she doesn’t put anything away. I’ve no sooner sorted out the kitchen counter than she scatters her tablets across it, and I have to put them away. Then I have to hang up her bath towel, put away her clothes, close the drawers in our room, close her cupboard, and hang up her face cloth. I’m not much of a housekeeper, but I’m robbed of any sense of satisfaction when what I clean up gets messed up almost immediately.
Anyway, these are reasons, not excuses. It’s unfair for me to yell at her when she’s feeling ill (or any other time, for that matter).
I’m just so tired—tired of struggling to get things done; tired of the constant pain in my head, neck, back, both wrists, both knees. If this is old age, then old age sucks. I have to teach three subjects tomorrow and I’m nowhere near ready. I’ve had the whole week-end to prepare, but I’ve just sat around without achieving a thing.
I so miss Linny’s companionship. Today I’ve felt as if I’ve been sitting in an empty house. O God! I’m so worried about Linny, and feeling guilty that we can’t afford to take her to a private doctor. Is that what we get for committing to serve You full-time?
I got angry because I had offered to do the washing and she had said there wasn’t any; then, when I looked tonight, there was a huge load. I could have done it over the week-end. Now she says she’ll do it tomorrow, which makes me feel even more unkind. While I was on a roll, I also complained to her that she doesn’t put anything away. I’ve no sooner sorted out the kitchen counter than she scatters her tablets across it, and I have to put them away. Then I have to hang up her bath towel, put away her clothes, close the drawers in our room, close her cupboard, and hang up her face cloth. I’m not much of a housekeeper, but I’m robbed of any sense of satisfaction when what I clean up gets messed up almost immediately.
Anyway, these are reasons, not excuses. It’s unfair for me to yell at her when she’s feeling ill (or any other time, for that matter).
I’m just so tired—tired of struggling to get things done; tired of the constant pain in my head, neck, back, both wrists, both knees. If this is old age, then old age sucks. I have to teach three subjects tomorrow and I’m nowhere near ready. I’ve had the whole week-end to prepare, but I’ve just sat around without achieving a thing.
I so miss Linny’s companionship. Today I’ve felt as if I’ve been sitting in an empty house. O God! I’m so worried about Linny, and feeling guilty that we can’t afford to take her to a private doctor. Is that what we get for committing to serve You full-time?
Monday 19 September 2011
I’ve just lived through 36 hours of HELL! But, as usual, God makes good things come out of such experiences.
In frustration at not being taken seriously, I finally took Linny into Karl Bremer Hospital as an emergency. At last, someone took my report on her neurological signs seriously. In a way, this was even worse—it confirmed my worst fears, but it was better than being fobbed off all the time.
When I left Linny last night, I was in despair. I got only 2½ hours’ sleep last night, so today felt even worse. The whole campus has been in prayer for Linda. Tonight, when I visited her, she was so much better that I can’t remember when last she was so alert. She has just had her brain scan, so now we need to wait for the assessment.
In frustration at not being taken seriously, I finally took Linny into Karl Bremer Hospital as an emergency. At last, someone took my report on her neurological signs seriously. In a way, this was even worse—it confirmed my worst fears, but it was better than being fobbed off all the time.
When I left Linny last night, I was in despair. I got only 2½ hours’ sleep last night, so today felt even worse. The whole campus has been in prayer for Linda. Tonight, when I visited her, she was so much better that I can’t remember when last she was so alert. She has just had her brain scan, so now we need to wait for the assessment.
Thursday 22 September 2011
D-Day. Today’s the day when they open Linny’s head.
Sunday 23 September 2011 (added later)
There’s a gap here (between 22nd and 30th September) when I didn’t really give many details. A lot of it is a blur consisting of spending as much time with Linny as I could, travelling to and from the hospital, trying to teach, eating occasionally, and sleeping even less. For Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday (19–21), I was so alone… It felt as if there was no one else in the world, especially when I was at home during the night, and in the early hours of the morning. One night during this period, when I was on the way home from visiting Linny, I fell asleep in the car in Plattekloof Road while waiting for a traffic signal to turn green. I don't know how many times the light changed before I awoke. On another night, I fell asleep in a hot bath and woke up freezing cold some time later.
What a relief when Kathleen arrived on Thursday morning! (I happily handed the driving over to her for a few days). Then, on Friday, Paddy arrived, and, wonder of wonders, Linny was allowed home for the week-end. This would prove to be the last time that we had her with us at home. Gerrit arrived on Saturday, and Brigid arrived on Sunday. So, for a bit less than a day, we had the whole family together. Thank you, Lord, for that sweet memory. We took photographs to mark the occasion—the first time we had all been together since Gerrit and Kathleen’s wedding in 2005.
What a relief when Kathleen arrived on Thursday morning! (I happily handed the driving over to her for a few days). Then, on Friday, Paddy arrived, and, wonder of wonders, Linny was allowed home for the week-end. This would prove to be the last time that we had her with us at home. Gerrit arrived on Saturday, and Brigid arrived on Sunday. So, for a bit less than a day, we had the whole family together. Thank you, Lord, for that sweet memory. We took photographs to mark the occasion—the first time we had all been together since Gerrit and Kathleen’s wedding in 2005.
Friday 30 September 2011
A week has passed and, finally, the surgery has been completed. Last Thursday it was postponed because the first operation overran the schedule. Then, on Tuesday, the same problem, again an overrun, caused Linny’s operation to be postponed. Then, this Thursday, it finally happened. Linny survived the surgery and is in the ICU (A4 West) at Tygerberg Hospital. It is a strange feeling—the operation has been successful, but it really offers no hope. It confirms the diagnosis and prognosis, but it doesn’t offer a cure—only a delay.
I currently cannot visualise a life for myself without Linny. It just doesn’t feel like a rational concept.
I currently cannot visualise a life for myself without Linny. It just doesn’t feel like a rational concept.
Saturday 1 October 2011
I’ve just had a good night’s sleep—a whole six hours! It’s such a novelty, and it’s so nice to wake up and not feel like falling asleep again. I think I’ve operated on about 3 hours a night, on average, for the past six weeks, so this has become the norm.
Linny is now in day two post-op. We saw her last night and she was as well as can be expected—awake, alert, but occasionally a bit muddled. I think the prognosis is gradually dawning on her—the thought that, barring a miracle, she’s unlikely to see next winter. I’m not dealing with it very well myself, I must admit.
My prayer for everyone is that they may never have to live through a day like I had on Wednesday, 21st September, when I had to tell my beloved wife that she was terminal, and then tell the news to our three (four actually) children.
Since I was 17, I’ve dealt with death, the dead, the dying, and the bereaved, but I realised that day that I know nothing. I suppose that 41 years of that kind of work has taught me some stuff, but nothing--nothing—can prepare you for the stunning, agonising moment when you realise that the person you hold most dear in the world is going to die before you do. Nothing could get me ready for that, not even the fact that the doctor’s diagnosis only served to confirm what I had feared for some time before. I kept hoping that the doctors would come up with some nice plausible explanation and a nice easy cure involving a course of antibiotics, or anti-depressants, or even minor surgery. But, a CURE, not this crushing defeat. Not this death sentence.
I told the professor and the doctors right up front that I have a good understanding of medical jargon and concepts and that I would appreciate honesty. They were honest, but very kind and compassionate in their honesty, which I appreciated. They explained that Linny had a Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM) in her left temporal/parietal/occipital lobe and that it was aggressive and invasive. I still think their Latin is wrong. I reckon it should be Glioblastoma Multiforma, but it doesn't make any difference.
I recalled having read that blastomas are some of the worst cancers. Aggressive meant that it was growing fast, and invasive meant that it was not a nice neat encapsulated tumour that could be cleanly removed. I think this is where the numbness that people talk about kicked in. I was able to get very objective and discuss it with them in fancy terms that hid my emotions. I had done it for years, first on rescues, then in HIV and terminal care ministry. The patient is somehow held at arm’s length and not regarded as one’s beloved wife. The disease becomes a case to be discussed. I suppose this is how one is carried through the train-smash that has just taken place in one’s life.
The surgeon told me that, statistically, a GBM is 100% fatal, with a maximum life expectancy of two years, and an average of one. I asked him for his gut-feel in Linny’s case, and he replied: “Eight months at the most; probably less”.
They said that they had discussed the situation with Linny, but had not told her the bad news, since they had wanted to talk to me first. They asked me if I wanted to tell her; otherwise, they were willing to do it. Poor guys, it must be awful to have to admit defeat when you’ve committed your life to helping the sick. I said that I thought that it was right for me to do it.
I then went down (or was it up?) to the ophthalmology department to be with Linny while they finished her tests. I didn’t say anything at this stage because I wanted to wait until we were alone. When we got back to the ward, the nursing staff closed the curtains around her bed to give us some privacy.
I held her in my arms and said: “You know that we’ve promised always to tell each other the truth? Well, do you want me to honour that promise even when the news is very bad?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I know there’s something wrong with me. What’s happening?”
I then told her the whole story. She was a bit muddled, and I had to repeat some of the details. Each time, I got her to repeat back to me what she thought I had told her (I guess this is where my experience came in useful). Each time, she seemed to misunderstand the prognosis and would say: “I’m going to die in two years”. It was agonising to keep going over this, but I wanted to make sure she understood (with hindsight, I don't know why). Finally, I said: “If Kathleen were to fall pregnant today, you wouldn’t be here to see our first grandchild.” Finally, she understood, and we cried together for a long time. After a while, she brightened and said: “I’ll be able to see Norman!” (Norman is a dear friend of ours who died of cancer in 1997).
On the Sunday night, when she was admitted to the short-stay ward in Karl Bremer casualty department, she had said to me: “I’ve had it. You’d better start looking for another wife”. Again, she told me that I had better look for a new wife, and, through the tears, I joked (my standard defense mechanism). I told her: “It’s taken me 33 years to break you in; there isn’t time for me to do that again with someone else!” We both laughed, then continued crying.
Later, I went to my office at the Seminary to break the news to our children. First, I phoned Patrick and struggled through telling him. Then I told Kathleen. I had arranged for Patrick to be ready to call Brigid once I had told her, and then for Kat to call Brij. (In fact, the resourceful three set up a Skype conference call, and were able to comfort one another). Around 10pm, (I think), midnight in Sakharejo, I spoke to Brigid on Skype. It was awful. She was so far away, and so shattered.
Somehow, I got through that night. I don’t think I have ever felt so alone.
On a more cheerful note, Sunday 25th September was memorable. After the Thursday op was postponed, Linny was allowed to come home from Friday to Monday morning. Although it was ghastly to have to take her back, we were thankful for the 2½ days of the pleasure of having her at home.
I put Linny to bed on Saturday night and, later on, got in beside her and slept for about an hour. At around 2 o’clock, I realised that she was awake. I made us some tea and got back in beside her. After we had finished the tea, I put the light off and we lay in each other’s arms for about three hours, talking and praying. We talked about happy times we had had together and all the fun we had enjoyed with our children. We prayed together, and I quoted endless tracts of Scripture. I was astonished at how much of the Bible I know by heart, but Linny wasn’t. She has always had a higher opinion of me than I have. I even sang to her, including her favourite songs--God Will Make a Way and As the Deer Pants for the Water.
It was a wonderful time—a temporary escape from the miserable reality we were facing.
Thank you, Lord, for my wonderful wife. Whatever happens, no one can ever take away the sweet memory of 35 years of friendship, of 33 years of married life, of 30 years of being parents together, of 22 years of serving the Lord together (I was the one who was slow to come to faith!). If I had to think of one word—apart from love and all its synonyms—to describe our married life, I would choose TOGETHER.
In some strange way, it is “well with my soul”.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you for the privilege of having Linny in my life. Please look after her, because I feel helpless.
In anticipation of nursing Linny until she dies, I drafted this poster to put up in our house, but I haven't got round to printing it.
Linny is now in day two post-op. We saw her last night and she was as well as can be expected—awake, alert, but occasionally a bit muddled. I think the prognosis is gradually dawning on her—the thought that, barring a miracle, she’s unlikely to see next winter. I’m not dealing with it very well myself, I must admit.
My prayer for everyone is that they may never have to live through a day like I had on Wednesday, 21st September, when I had to tell my beloved wife that she was terminal, and then tell the news to our three (four actually) children.
Since I was 17, I’ve dealt with death, the dead, the dying, and the bereaved, but I realised that day that I know nothing. I suppose that 41 years of that kind of work has taught me some stuff, but nothing--nothing—can prepare you for the stunning, agonising moment when you realise that the person you hold most dear in the world is going to die before you do. Nothing could get me ready for that, not even the fact that the doctor’s diagnosis only served to confirm what I had feared for some time before. I kept hoping that the doctors would come up with some nice plausible explanation and a nice easy cure involving a course of antibiotics, or anti-depressants, or even minor surgery. But, a CURE, not this crushing defeat. Not this death sentence.
I told the professor and the doctors right up front that I have a good understanding of medical jargon and concepts and that I would appreciate honesty. They were honest, but very kind and compassionate in their honesty, which I appreciated. They explained that Linny had a Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM) in her left temporal/parietal/occipital lobe and that it was aggressive and invasive. I still think their Latin is wrong. I reckon it should be Glioblastoma Multiforma, but it doesn't make any difference.
I recalled having read that blastomas are some of the worst cancers. Aggressive meant that it was growing fast, and invasive meant that it was not a nice neat encapsulated tumour that could be cleanly removed. I think this is where the numbness that people talk about kicked in. I was able to get very objective and discuss it with them in fancy terms that hid my emotions. I had done it for years, first on rescues, then in HIV and terminal care ministry. The patient is somehow held at arm’s length and not regarded as one’s beloved wife. The disease becomes a case to be discussed. I suppose this is how one is carried through the train-smash that has just taken place in one’s life.
The surgeon told me that, statistically, a GBM is 100% fatal, with a maximum life expectancy of two years, and an average of one. I asked him for his gut-feel in Linny’s case, and he replied: “Eight months at the most; probably less”.
They said that they had discussed the situation with Linny, but had not told her the bad news, since they had wanted to talk to me first. They asked me if I wanted to tell her; otherwise, they were willing to do it. Poor guys, it must be awful to have to admit defeat when you’ve committed your life to helping the sick. I said that I thought that it was right for me to do it.
I then went down (or was it up?) to the ophthalmology department to be with Linny while they finished her tests. I didn’t say anything at this stage because I wanted to wait until we were alone. When we got back to the ward, the nursing staff closed the curtains around her bed to give us some privacy.
I held her in my arms and said: “You know that we’ve promised always to tell each other the truth? Well, do you want me to honour that promise even when the news is very bad?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I know there’s something wrong with me. What’s happening?”
I then told her the whole story. She was a bit muddled, and I had to repeat some of the details. Each time, I got her to repeat back to me what she thought I had told her (I guess this is where my experience came in useful). Each time, she seemed to misunderstand the prognosis and would say: “I’m going to die in two years”. It was agonising to keep going over this, but I wanted to make sure she understood (with hindsight, I don't know why). Finally, I said: “If Kathleen were to fall pregnant today, you wouldn’t be here to see our first grandchild.” Finally, she understood, and we cried together for a long time. After a while, she brightened and said: “I’ll be able to see Norman!” (Norman is a dear friend of ours who died of cancer in 1997).
On the Sunday night, when she was admitted to the short-stay ward in Karl Bremer casualty department, she had said to me: “I’ve had it. You’d better start looking for another wife”. Again, she told me that I had better look for a new wife, and, through the tears, I joked (my standard defense mechanism). I told her: “It’s taken me 33 years to break you in; there isn’t time for me to do that again with someone else!” We both laughed, then continued crying.
Later, I went to my office at the Seminary to break the news to our children. First, I phoned Patrick and struggled through telling him. Then I told Kathleen. I had arranged for Patrick to be ready to call Brigid once I had told her, and then for Kat to call Brij. (In fact, the resourceful three set up a Skype conference call, and were able to comfort one another). Around 10pm, (I think), midnight in Sakharejo, I spoke to Brigid on Skype. It was awful. She was so far away, and so shattered.
Somehow, I got through that night. I don’t think I have ever felt so alone.
On a more cheerful note, Sunday 25th September was memorable. After the Thursday op was postponed, Linny was allowed to come home from Friday to Monday morning. Although it was ghastly to have to take her back, we were thankful for the 2½ days of the pleasure of having her at home.
I put Linny to bed on Saturday night and, later on, got in beside her and slept for about an hour. At around 2 o’clock, I realised that she was awake. I made us some tea and got back in beside her. After we had finished the tea, I put the light off and we lay in each other’s arms for about three hours, talking and praying. We talked about happy times we had had together and all the fun we had enjoyed with our children. We prayed together, and I quoted endless tracts of Scripture. I was astonished at how much of the Bible I know by heart, but Linny wasn’t. She has always had a higher opinion of me than I have. I even sang to her, including her favourite songs--God Will Make a Way and As the Deer Pants for the Water.
It was a wonderful time—a temporary escape from the miserable reality we were facing.
Thank you, Lord, for my wonderful wife. Whatever happens, no one can ever take away the sweet memory of 35 years of friendship, of 33 years of married life, of 30 years of being parents together, of 22 years of serving the Lord together (I was the one who was slow to come to faith!). If I had to think of one word—apart from love and all its synonyms—to describe our married life, I would choose TOGETHER.
In some strange way, it is “well with my soul”.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you for the privilege of having Linny in my life. Please look after her, because I feel helpless.
In anticipation of nursing Linny until she dies, I drafted this poster to put up in our house, but I haven't got round to printing it.
Linda’s Bill of Rights
- I have the right to be treated as a living human being until I die.
- I have the right to maintain a sense of hopefulness however changing its focus might be.
- I have the right to be cared for by those who can maintain a sense of hopefulness, however changing this might be.
- I have the right to express my feelings and emotions about my approaching death in my own way.
- I have the right to participate in decisions concerning my care.
- I have the right to refuse treatment.
- I have the right to expect my husband to function as my advocate.
- I have the right to expect continuing medical and nursing attention even though ‘cure’ goals must be changed to ‘comfort’ goals.
- I have the right to be free from pain.
- I have the right to have my questions answered honestly.
- I have the right not to be deceived.
- I have the right to discuss my religious and/or spiritual experiences, whatever these may mean to others.
- I have the right to be looked after by caring, knowledgeable, sensitive, people who will attempt to understand my needs and will be able to gain some satisfaction from helping me face my death.
- I have the right to have help from and for my family in accepting my death.
- I have the right not to die alone.
- I have the right to die in peace and with dignity.
Thursday 6 October 2011
I find it difficult to write when I am in the midst of a crisis, so a lot of this journal is retrospective.
Sunday (2 October) was an uplifting day. I went to Saint Michael’s again (Linny and I went together the previous Sunday), and I was looked-after wonderfully. What amazed me was that the first two songs we sang were God Will Make a Way, and As the Deer Pants For the Water—Linny’s favourites, which I had sung for her the previous week. No one, except God, Linny and I, could have known this. Thank you Lord. A close friend prayed for Linny’s healing, and for the family, and after the service, they all laid hands on me—as proxy for Linda—and prayed and anointed me for her healing.
Linny was very alert over the week-end and I went to her after church to read Scripture to her. We had Communion together, which was a wonderful time.
On Monday she really seemed to be doing well, but that all changed on Tuesday. At the three o’clock visit, she seemed more muddled than before and, by the time we visited her at seven o’clock, she was showing signs of cerebral irritation—restlessness, confusion, and wanting to get up and go. I spoke to the night sister and she promised to monitor her.
When I phoned on Wednesday morning, (her 57th birthday), they told me that the night staff had had to restrain her to prevent her from getting hurt. I went down immediately and saw her around 09:00. She didn’t recognise me. I got the chance to speak to the Surgeon around 11:00 and we went and saw her again. This time she recognised me, and called the Surgeon “the governor”, which was quite close to his actual surname. The Surgeon said that this was just one of the bumps in the road to “recovery”. I saw her again at 15:00 and only stayed about ten minutes. She seemed to recognise me, but was so sleepy that we couldn’t have a conversation. I phoned each of our children so that they could wish her happy birthday, but she didn’t make much sense.
Brigid and I returned at 19:00 and she was very sleepy. She had no recollection of my three previous visits. The sister told me that they were sedating her quite heavily. We noticed that she was wearing an adult nappy… After about 20 minutes we left her to sleep.
Lord, please look after her! And please help my family as well.
Sunday (2 October) was an uplifting day. I went to Saint Michael’s again (Linny and I went together the previous Sunday), and I was looked-after wonderfully. What amazed me was that the first two songs we sang were God Will Make a Way, and As the Deer Pants For the Water—Linny’s favourites, which I had sung for her the previous week. No one, except God, Linny and I, could have known this. Thank you Lord. A close friend prayed for Linny’s healing, and for the family, and after the service, they all laid hands on me—as proxy for Linda—and prayed and anointed me for her healing.
Linny was very alert over the week-end and I went to her after church to read Scripture to her. We had Communion together, which was a wonderful time.
On Monday she really seemed to be doing well, but that all changed on Tuesday. At the three o’clock visit, she seemed more muddled than before and, by the time we visited her at seven o’clock, she was showing signs of cerebral irritation—restlessness, confusion, and wanting to get up and go. I spoke to the night sister and she promised to monitor her.
When I phoned on Wednesday morning, (her 57th birthday), they told me that the night staff had had to restrain her to prevent her from getting hurt. I went down immediately and saw her around 09:00. She didn’t recognise me. I got the chance to speak to the Surgeon around 11:00 and we went and saw her again. This time she recognised me, and called the Surgeon “the governor”, which was quite close to his actual surname. The Surgeon said that this was just one of the bumps in the road to “recovery”. I saw her again at 15:00 and only stayed about ten minutes. She seemed to recognise me, but was so sleepy that we couldn’t have a conversation. I phoned each of our children so that they could wish her happy birthday, but she didn’t make much sense.
Brigid and I returned at 19:00 and she was very sleepy. She had no recollection of my three previous visits. The sister told me that they were sedating her quite heavily. We noticed that she was wearing an adult nappy… After about 20 minutes we left her to sleep.
Lord, please look after her! And please help my family as well.
Friday 7 October 2011
Yesterday was another of those days. Felicity and I visited Linny at 15:00 and we chatted a bit, but without much meaning. Linny was very dopey again, but said that she wasn’t in pain. Felicity left after about 15 minutes, and I didn’t stay much longer. I read Isaiah 53 to Linny, and she seemed to appreciate it.
Brigid and I went in the evening and Linny was having mild pain (she hadn’t yet had her evening meds). She had been catheterised. Again, we chatted without much meaning. Linny had no recollection of my four visits the day before, and only vaguely remembered coming home for the week-end before her surgery. I asked her how she felt emotionally and she said that she felt happy when we were there and sad when we were away. I asked her if she was scared and she said that she was afraid of what “they” were going to do to her. I explained that she had already had surgery, and this seemed to relieve her somewhat.
Just before we left, I asked her if she could remember any Bible texts, and she said she didn’t think so. I then said: “Can you say John 3:16?” Immediately, she said: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whomsoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life”. I think she felt quite pleased with herself.
Lord, I’m so worried about our children. Kathleen and Patrick are living with the constant frustration of not being here. Brigid is living with the horror of watching helplessly while her Mom has all sorts of awful things happen to her. Please, Lord, strengthen them in the way that only You can. Please give me strength and supernatural endurance so that I can be strong for Linny and the family. I’m still praying for a miraculous healing, Lord, but, if not, please make Linny’s end swift and pain-free.
I know that we shall meet again, but parting is going to be agonising. Help me! Please, Lord, help me.
“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego replied to King Nebuchadnezzar, “We do not need to give you a reply concerning this. If our God whom we are serving exists, he is able to rescue us from the furnace of blazing fire, and he will rescue us, O king, from your power as well. But if not, let it be known to you, O king, that we don't serve your gods, and we will not pay homage to the golden statue that you have erected” (Daniel 3:16–18 NET).
Hour by hour I have to rise to the challenge of living out what I have glibly assented to intellectually. It’s so easy to rattle off little “rule of thumb” Bible verses and statements from theological writings. It’s quite another thing to live them. It reminds me of a young engineer whom I helped to train when I was working on the construction of the container harbour in Cape Town. After a long day out on the site, when we were sometimes in water up to our chests, sometimes jumping on and off barges, sometimes standing on a concrete block in the middle of the harbour, he said: “I’d never realised the difference between the ease with which I can draw a line on a drawing-board and how hard it is for you to make that line happen on the site”. That’s where I am now. The lines that I easily draw intellectually are quite difficult to make straight in real life.
Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief! Help my conduct throughout this nightmare bring glory to You and be a witness to others. Help me in my weakness, Lord!
“Therefore we do not despair, but even if our physical body is wearing away, our inner person is being renewed day by day. For our momentary, light suffering is producing for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison because we are not looking at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen. For what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:16–18 NET).
“He said to me, ‘My grace is enough for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness’. So then, I will boast most gladly about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may reside in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, with insults, with troubles, with persecutions and difficulties for the sake of Christ, for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9–10 NET).
Brigid and I went in the evening and Linny was having mild pain (she hadn’t yet had her evening meds). She had been catheterised. Again, we chatted without much meaning. Linny had no recollection of my four visits the day before, and only vaguely remembered coming home for the week-end before her surgery. I asked her how she felt emotionally and she said that she felt happy when we were there and sad when we were away. I asked her if she was scared and she said that she was afraid of what “they” were going to do to her. I explained that she had already had surgery, and this seemed to relieve her somewhat.
Just before we left, I asked her if she could remember any Bible texts, and she said she didn’t think so. I then said: “Can you say John 3:16?” Immediately, she said: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whomsoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life”. I think she felt quite pleased with herself.
Lord, I’m so worried about our children. Kathleen and Patrick are living with the constant frustration of not being here. Brigid is living with the horror of watching helplessly while her Mom has all sorts of awful things happen to her. Please, Lord, strengthen them in the way that only You can. Please give me strength and supernatural endurance so that I can be strong for Linny and the family. I’m still praying for a miraculous healing, Lord, but, if not, please make Linny’s end swift and pain-free.
I know that we shall meet again, but parting is going to be agonising. Help me! Please, Lord, help me.
“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego replied to King Nebuchadnezzar, “We do not need to give you a reply concerning this. If our God whom we are serving exists, he is able to rescue us from the furnace of blazing fire, and he will rescue us, O king, from your power as well. But if not, let it be known to you, O king, that we don't serve your gods, and we will not pay homage to the golden statue that you have erected” (Daniel 3:16–18 NET).
Hour by hour I have to rise to the challenge of living out what I have glibly assented to intellectually. It’s so easy to rattle off little “rule of thumb” Bible verses and statements from theological writings. It’s quite another thing to live them. It reminds me of a young engineer whom I helped to train when I was working on the construction of the container harbour in Cape Town. After a long day out on the site, when we were sometimes in water up to our chests, sometimes jumping on and off barges, sometimes standing on a concrete block in the middle of the harbour, he said: “I’d never realised the difference between the ease with which I can draw a line on a drawing-board and how hard it is for you to make that line happen on the site”. That’s where I am now. The lines that I easily draw intellectually are quite difficult to make straight in real life.
Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief! Help my conduct throughout this nightmare bring glory to You and be a witness to others. Help me in my weakness, Lord!
“Therefore we do not despair, but even if our physical body is wearing away, our inner person is being renewed day by day. For our momentary, light suffering is producing for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison because we are not looking at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen. For what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:16–18 NET).
“He said to me, ‘My grace is enough for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness’. So then, I will boast most gladly about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may reside in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, with insults, with troubles, with persecutions and difficulties for the sake of Christ, for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9–10 NET).
Friday 7 October 2011 (later)
Things got worse before they got better. And, of course, “better” is only relative. Around 11:00 this morning, I got a call from the Surgeon to get permission to perform emergency surgery on Linny to relieve the pressure on her brain. I gave him permission and we discussed the fact that Linny and I had agreed not to consent to heroic measures to prolong her life if there was no assurance of quality of life. Amongst the hard things I have had to do in my life, this was close to the top. I told him that we would not consent to radiation therapy if there was no guarantee that it was not just prolonging Linny’s misery. He said that, in my position, he would make the same decision, which encouraged me to stick to my guns. I then started calling family and friends. About half an hour later, the Surgeon called again to say that he had discussed the situation with his colleagues and had decided to take a clinical approach, rather than surgical. They felt that surgery would not really be in keeping with a palliative approach, so they would just increase the cortisone dosage, add a diuretic, and see what developed over the next twenty-four hours. He concluded with: “I can’t cure her. She’s in God’s hands”.
With trepidation, Brigid and I visited at three o’clock, and our worst fears were fulfilled. Linny was semi-comatose. After we had been there for about twenty minutes, she surfaced somewhat and we talked a bit, but she didn’t really make sense. We left in absolute misery.
After the visit, we met with the Surgeon and he showed us the before- and after- CAT scans and we discussed Linny’s prognosis. He was very kind and diplomatic, and didn’t offer any false hope. (My guess is that Linny will be dead by the end of November.) By the time Brigid and I got home, we were broken. Typically of us both, we retired to opposite ends of the house and just wallowed in misery.
Just before we left for the seven o’clock visit, I said to Brigid: “I’m really scared. For the first time, I wish we didn’t have to go and visit Mom. I’d rather live in denial”. She agreed, but go we did.
Surprise! Linny was more lucid than she had been for the past 72 hours! We had a nice conversation, although she got a bit muddled at times. We left at 20:00, feeling encouraged. However, barring a miracle, the prognosis has not changed.
O Lord, You came to set the captives free. You came to heal the broken-hearted,binding up their wounds. Please heal Linny from this affliction. In the Name which is above all names—in the strong Name of Jesus. Amen.
With trepidation, Brigid and I visited at three o’clock, and our worst fears were fulfilled. Linny was semi-comatose. After we had been there for about twenty minutes, she surfaced somewhat and we talked a bit, but she didn’t really make sense. We left in absolute misery.
After the visit, we met with the Surgeon and he showed us the before- and after- CAT scans and we discussed Linny’s prognosis. He was very kind and diplomatic, and didn’t offer any false hope. (My guess is that Linny will be dead by the end of November.) By the time Brigid and I got home, we were broken. Typically of us both, we retired to opposite ends of the house and just wallowed in misery.
Just before we left for the seven o’clock visit, I said to Brigid: “I’m really scared. For the first time, I wish we didn’t have to go and visit Mom. I’d rather live in denial”. She agreed, but go we did.
Surprise! Linny was more lucid than she had been for the past 72 hours! We had a nice conversation, although she got a bit muddled at times. We left at 20:00, feeling encouraged. However, barring a miracle, the prognosis has not changed.
O Lord, You came to set the captives free. You came to heal the broken-hearted,binding up their wounds. Please heal Linny from this affliction. In the Name which is above all names—in the strong Name of Jesus. Amen.
Tuesday 11 October 2011
Today Linny woke up! Initially, I was thrilled—my Linny available to talk to again! Hallelujah!
But!
Is this good news, or is it just the opening of the portal to further misery? Yes, Linny has got past the brain-swelling (presumably), but the Grade IV aggressive, invasive, hated, glioblastoma multiforme (with its faulty Latin) is still there, still growing silently, inexorably, making up for the setback caused by the surgery. It never stopped growing, never slowed down, never hesitated. How good is the good news? Is it just ‘good’ because of our selfish response to the change in Linny’s condition? Is it just that we are too cowardly to let go? Or am I crazy to be thinking this way? I seem to have run out of positive thoughts. I see death in the near future. I’m trying to deal with it, but most other people seem to be in denial.
WHY CAN’T THEY UNDERSTAND?
If anyone should be living in denial, it should be me! I’m the one whose life is about to be destroyed! Everyone else, once this ghastly situation has played itself out, can return to their interrupted lives, pick up the loose ends, and continue. But I can’t!!! My life, as I’ve known it for the past 33 years, has gone—utterly vanished! It cannot be picked up where I left off. It is FINISHED! Oh rage! Rage! Rage against the dying of the light! The light is about to go out in my life. In fact, it has already been reduced to a glimmering, guttering pinprick. No more the joy of coming home to my beloved wife. No more the thrill at the prospect of greeting her after a long day. No more the pleasure of companionable silences while we just sit near one another. No more the fun of brisk intellectual debates on things that we almost agree on—the freedom to “agree to disagree”, and to continue loving. The joy of lying in each other’s arms and just talking, or not talking. The joy of waking each morning and knowing that my companion is there—lying beside me, loving me. Aagh! Anger!
Everyone gets to continue their lives but me! Am I doomed to this existence for the next thirty years? Oh please, Lord, take me when you take Linny! I can’t see a future for myself without my beloved Linny!
“We have scotched the snake, not killed it” (MacBeth). The snake is set back, but it is not defeated. I continue desperately to cling to the hem of the robe of the Carpenter from Nazareth—He is the only hope I have. I read Psalm 30 to Linny at the last visit—it fitted uncannily with what has been happening, but I wondered if I should read it as history or as a prophecy.
But!
Is this good news, or is it just the opening of the portal to further misery? Yes, Linny has got past the brain-swelling (presumably), but the Grade IV aggressive, invasive, hated, glioblastoma multiforme (with its faulty Latin) is still there, still growing silently, inexorably, making up for the setback caused by the surgery. It never stopped growing, never slowed down, never hesitated. How good is the good news? Is it just ‘good’ because of our selfish response to the change in Linny’s condition? Is it just that we are too cowardly to let go? Or am I crazy to be thinking this way? I seem to have run out of positive thoughts. I see death in the near future. I’m trying to deal with it, but most other people seem to be in denial.
WHY CAN’T THEY UNDERSTAND?
If anyone should be living in denial, it should be me! I’m the one whose life is about to be destroyed! Everyone else, once this ghastly situation has played itself out, can return to their interrupted lives, pick up the loose ends, and continue. But I can’t!!! My life, as I’ve known it for the past 33 years, has gone—utterly vanished! It cannot be picked up where I left off. It is FINISHED! Oh rage! Rage! Rage against the dying of the light! The light is about to go out in my life. In fact, it has already been reduced to a glimmering, guttering pinprick. No more the joy of coming home to my beloved wife. No more the thrill at the prospect of greeting her after a long day. No more the pleasure of companionable silences while we just sit near one another. No more the fun of brisk intellectual debates on things that we almost agree on—the freedom to “agree to disagree”, and to continue loving. The joy of lying in each other’s arms and just talking, or not talking. The joy of waking each morning and knowing that my companion is there—lying beside me, loving me. Aagh! Anger!
Everyone gets to continue their lives but me! Am I doomed to this existence for the next thirty years? Oh please, Lord, take me when you take Linny! I can’t see a future for myself without my beloved Linny!
“We have scotched the snake, not killed it” (MacBeth). The snake is set back, but it is not defeated. I continue desperately to cling to the hem of the robe of the Carpenter from Nazareth—He is the only hope I have. I read Psalm 30 to Linny at the last visit—it fitted uncannily with what has been happening, but I wondered if I should read it as history or as a prophecy.
Thursday 13 October 2011
Up at 04:45 to take Kat to CPT. She was booked on the 06:30 flight to Johannesburg. I got back into bed when I got home and I think I managed about an hour’s sleep, which helped. I just didn’t want to face the world today—sat on the bed until around 10:00, then got up and did nothing much. I’m scheduled to start teaching tomorrow, so I did some preparation.
We visited Linny at 15:00 and she was very dopey. She rallied a bit after we had been there for about twenty minutes. We got her sitting up and she seemed to brighten somewhat.
Shortly after we had arrived, she opened her eyes and gave me a beautiful smile, and said: “I love you sometimes”! About half an hour later we told her what she had said and she thought it was very funny.
We are planning to give Linny a haircut when we go at 19:00—a number two probably. Her hair is such a mess that it will look better and be easier to look after if it’s short.
We are going to go in tomorrow morning to meet with the social worker to do some discharge planning.
We visited Linny at 15:00 and she was very dopey. She rallied a bit after we had been there for about twenty minutes. We got her sitting up and she seemed to brighten somewhat.
Shortly after we had arrived, she opened her eyes and gave me a beautiful smile, and said: “I love you sometimes”! About half an hour later we told her what she had said and she thought it was very funny.
We are planning to give Linny a haircut when we go at 19:00—a number two probably. Her hair is such a mess that it will look better and be easier to look after if it’s short.
We are going to go in tomorrow morning to meet with the social worker to do some discharge planning.
Friday 14 October 2011
Our 19:00 visit yesterday went well. We cut Linny’s hair and generally smartened her up. We tired her out and she was happy to doze off when we left.
This morning, around 11:00, we met with the social worker and found out about hospice referrals. UIF, disability benefits, etc. She was very pleasant and very sympathetic. When we visited Linny at 15:00, she was totally non-responsive. We stayed for an hour, but really got nowhere. When we went back at 19:00, she was unchanged. Someone (Brigid, I think) thought of giving her some water by using a straw like a pipette. This worked, and she started to improve. We stayed until 20:30, during which time we gave her 250ml of water and some grapefruit juice. By the time we had finished, she was taking small sips. Tomorrow we’ll take her some Energade. I’m looking forward to getting her discharged.
O Lord, please help us all through this nightmare!
This morning, around 11:00, we met with the social worker and found out about hospice referrals. UIF, disability benefits, etc. She was very pleasant and very sympathetic. When we visited Linny at 15:00, she was totally non-responsive. We stayed for an hour, but really got nowhere. When we went back at 19:00, she was unchanged. Someone (Brigid, I think) thought of giving her some water by using a straw like a pipette. This worked, and she started to improve. We stayed until 20:30, during which time we gave her 250ml of water and some grapefruit juice. By the time we had finished, she was taking small sips. Tomorrow we’ll take her some Energade. I’m looking forward to getting her discharged.
O Lord, please help us all through this nightmare!
Saturday 15 October 2011
Thank you, Lord! About 07:30 this morning my cellphone rang and Linny was at the other end! She told me that she loved me and I told her that I loved her. She finished off with: “Totsiens, Kevin”. Her voice was very slurred, but it was wonderful to hear her. She hadn’t really talked sense for two days previously.
When we visited at 15:00, she was tired, but able to speak clearly. We took her some Energade, instant pudding, water, and mouth-wash. In spite of our admonitions, she swallowed the mouth-wash, but it didn’t seem to worry her.
I am so tired of all the quack-remedies being offered, using dagga oil, eye of newt, or what-have-you. Can’t people be a bit sensitive? It feels as if they think we aren’t doing enough.
When we visited at 15:00, she was tired, but able to speak clearly. We took her some Energade, instant pudding, water, and mouth-wash. In spite of our admonitions, she swallowed the mouth-wash, but it didn’t seem to worry her.
I am so tired of all the quack-remedies being offered, using dagga oil, eye of newt, or what-have-you. Can’t people be a bit sensitive? It feels as if they think we aren’t doing enough.
Sunday 16 October 2011
I don’t want to see anyone today. I’m just plain miserable. I’m not even going to try to go to church. I’m just so tired of talking, talking, talking; telling the story over and over again. As new things happen, the situation might change slightly, but the outcome never changes. I’m going to lose Linny. Even though I cling to the hope (certainty) that we shall meet again, the agony of our inevitable parting is more than I can bear. The thought of waking each morning until I die without Linny beside me is torture! I can’t see anyone today!
Last night’s visit was better than the afternoon. Linny was a bit dopey, but still had her sense of humour. Through the drowsiness, she still sounded like the old Linny. I love her so much! I don’t know how I am going to continue without her. I think I could more easily rehabilitate from becoming a double amputee or losing my sight than recover from the loss of Linny. O Lord, please take me as soon after Linny’s death as is possible! I don’t want to live without Linny. But, Lord, please preserve me strong and tenacious, and loving, as long as Linny is alive. Help me to care for her to the best of my ability and beyond. She has been such a wonderful wife to me; she deserves all that I can do for her. Help me undertake for her, help me to be an advocate for her, and, most of all, let her know the love I have for her. Help me to see love as a joyous duty that I undertake with pleasure, affirming that it is not just a whim, not just a passing fancy, not just a fair-weather thing. Love “always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres” (1 Corinthians 13:7 NIV). Please, Lord, help me to do and be all these things for Linny.
Please, Lord, I know you have promised to be with me forever, but my faith and courage are at their lowest ebb. Even my sight isn’t very good right at the moment. Please don’t be a still, small voice; be a loud voice that I cannot ignore. Don’t be a glimmering little candle in the darkness of this sad world; be a bright, blazing light that shines on me constantly and from which I cannot hide.
Lord, I’m really struggling at the moment (as well You know). I’ve always believed in Your sovereignty, in Your absolute, mighty power. You know all things, see all things. There’s nowhere I can go to escape Your presence. And yet, You seem absent at the moment. You seem to have removed Yourself and Your blessings from Linny and Me.
I know You don’t punish us during our earthly lives, but I also know that, in Your sovereignty, You can cause anything to be, or prevent anything. I cannot understand why You have allowed this to happen to Linny. You knew it was coming. You could have prevented it; but you didn’t. What am I to make of that?
Lord, please protect me from people. Help me to be gracious. I’m so tired of getting into situations where I land up counselling well-wishers who don’t know what to say, or who are in denial about death. I really don’t have the strength or desire to deal with them. If they don’t know what to say, then let them rather say nothing. I don’t want to discuss miracle cures using snake-oil, or fancy diets, and explaining why we are not opting for them. I’m not interested in hearing about how Aunt Maud opted for radiation therapy and lived to a ripe old age. Can’t they understand that I’ll try anything for Linny that won’t cause her pain and distress, but I will not allow her to be turned into some kind of human experiment for quack medicine? She’s my wife, not a lab rat! If I thought for one moment that radiation therapy would help—offer a cure, offer extended quality life—I would fight to get Linny onto it. But I don’t, so I won’t. Even the Surgeon agreed with my choice.
So many people think all cancers are the same, so, what happened in Aunt Harriet’s left breast is the same as what is happening in the left hemisphere of Linny’s brain. But, it is not! The only thing they have in common is the hated name--Cancer. I know that people are trying to help, but I wish they would take their ignorance elsewhere! Lord, help me to be gracious.
I’m so grateful for people like ———, ———, ———, and the Seminary family, who just keep surrounding me with their love, and keep praying for Linny and me, and the family. I’m so grateful for the steady love and support from our wonderful children. Thank You, Lord, that even in the dark there are some pinpricks of light. I think that’s all that’s keeping me going at the moment.
Last night’s visit was better than the afternoon. Linny was a bit dopey, but still had her sense of humour. Through the drowsiness, she still sounded like the old Linny. I love her so much! I don’t know how I am going to continue without her. I think I could more easily rehabilitate from becoming a double amputee or losing my sight than recover from the loss of Linny. O Lord, please take me as soon after Linny’s death as is possible! I don’t want to live without Linny. But, Lord, please preserve me strong and tenacious, and loving, as long as Linny is alive. Help me to care for her to the best of my ability and beyond. She has been such a wonderful wife to me; she deserves all that I can do for her. Help me undertake for her, help me to be an advocate for her, and, most of all, let her know the love I have for her. Help me to see love as a joyous duty that I undertake with pleasure, affirming that it is not just a whim, not just a passing fancy, not just a fair-weather thing. Love “always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres” (1 Corinthians 13:7 NIV). Please, Lord, help me to do and be all these things for Linny.
Please, Lord, I know you have promised to be with me forever, but my faith and courage are at their lowest ebb. Even my sight isn’t very good right at the moment. Please don’t be a still, small voice; be a loud voice that I cannot ignore. Don’t be a glimmering little candle in the darkness of this sad world; be a bright, blazing light that shines on me constantly and from which I cannot hide.
Lord, I’m really struggling at the moment (as well You know). I’ve always believed in Your sovereignty, in Your absolute, mighty power. You know all things, see all things. There’s nowhere I can go to escape Your presence. And yet, You seem absent at the moment. You seem to have removed Yourself and Your blessings from Linny and Me.
I know You don’t punish us during our earthly lives, but I also know that, in Your sovereignty, You can cause anything to be, or prevent anything. I cannot understand why You have allowed this to happen to Linny. You knew it was coming. You could have prevented it; but you didn’t. What am I to make of that?
Lord, please protect me from people. Help me to be gracious. I’m so tired of getting into situations where I land up counselling well-wishers who don’t know what to say, or who are in denial about death. I really don’t have the strength or desire to deal with them. If they don’t know what to say, then let them rather say nothing. I don’t want to discuss miracle cures using snake-oil, or fancy diets, and explaining why we are not opting for them. I’m not interested in hearing about how Aunt Maud opted for radiation therapy and lived to a ripe old age. Can’t they understand that I’ll try anything for Linny that won’t cause her pain and distress, but I will not allow her to be turned into some kind of human experiment for quack medicine? She’s my wife, not a lab rat! If I thought for one moment that radiation therapy would help—offer a cure, offer extended quality life—I would fight to get Linny onto it. But I don’t, so I won’t. Even the Surgeon agreed with my choice.
So many people think all cancers are the same, so, what happened in Aunt Harriet’s left breast is the same as what is happening in the left hemisphere of Linny’s brain. But, it is not! The only thing they have in common is the hated name--Cancer. I know that people are trying to help, but I wish they would take their ignorance elsewhere! Lord, help me to be gracious.
I’m so grateful for people like ———, ———, ———, and the Seminary family, who just keep surrounding me with their love, and keep praying for Linny and me, and the family. I’m so grateful for the steady love and support from our wonderful children. Thank You, Lord, that even in the dark there are some pinpricks of light. I think that’s all that’s keeping me going at the moment.
Wednesday 19 October 2011 (written early in the morning)
The Day Linny Died
“Klein Saterdag” at the College—students doing ministry while faculty takes the opportunity to prepare for forthcoming lectures, exams, etc. The past two days have given me some escapism. When I teach, I become so focused that everything else ceases to exist for a while. Like a very poor person who occasionally gets mindlessly drunk in order to escape from his misery—albeit temporarily—I use teaching as my period of drunkenness. For a while, the world looks rosier and the pain feels a bit less agonising.
Linny has had ups and downs. At the moment, she doesn’t seem to be breathing too well. Perhaps she’s getting hypostatic pneumonia, but I suppose rising intra-cranial pressure is more likely; either of which, I suppose, would give her a gentle way out of this misery. It’s awful to visit her and be confronted with “what’s left of her”. She looks like my Linny, but she is no longer the amazing, assertive, highly organised wife that I’ve known for a third of a century. She struggles to remember our names, doesn’t know where she is, or what has happened to her. She doesn’t remember at 19:00 that we visited her only four hours earlier! She’s in your hands, Lord. I rely on Your love and mercy.
She still responds when I pray with her. She doesn’t seem to have the strength or concentration to pray out loud herself, but when I pray, she always says: “Thank You, Lord” or “Thank You, Jesus”. Lord, she’s been such a faithful servant of yours for so long; please deal kindly with her. I love her so much. I don’t know how I am going to continue the journey without her. Lord, please help me to live out the rest of my days to Your glory and in honour of the wonderful wife who selflessly has done so much to make me the man I am today.
It’s a terrible thing to take anyone or anything for granted, but Linny has been here with me and for me for so long that I have never considered the concept of living without her. This is born out by the comments that so many people make—“It doesn’t seem right to see you on your own; it’s always Linda and Kevin”. We’ve become accustomed to being referred to as The Weirs far more often than as Linda and Kevin. The other day, a colleague said: “Kevin, I can’t get used to seeing you on your own”. O Lord, help me! I’m far weaker than anyone realises. You are my only help! You are my only comfort!
“Klein Saterdag” at the College—students doing ministry while faculty takes the opportunity to prepare for forthcoming lectures, exams, etc. The past two days have given me some escapism. When I teach, I become so focused that everything else ceases to exist for a while. Like a very poor person who occasionally gets mindlessly drunk in order to escape from his misery—albeit temporarily—I use teaching as my period of drunkenness. For a while, the world looks rosier and the pain feels a bit less agonising.
Linny has had ups and downs. At the moment, she doesn’t seem to be breathing too well. Perhaps she’s getting hypostatic pneumonia, but I suppose rising intra-cranial pressure is more likely; either of which, I suppose, would give her a gentle way out of this misery. It’s awful to visit her and be confronted with “what’s left of her”. She looks like my Linny, but she is no longer the amazing, assertive, highly organised wife that I’ve known for a third of a century. She struggles to remember our names, doesn’t know where she is, or what has happened to her. She doesn’t remember at 19:00 that we visited her only four hours earlier! She’s in your hands, Lord. I rely on Your love and mercy.
She still responds when I pray with her. She doesn’t seem to have the strength or concentration to pray out loud herself, but when I pray, she always says: “Thank You, Lord” or “Thank You, Jesus”. Lord, she’s been such a faithful servant of yours for so long; please deal kindly with her. I love her so much. I don’t know how I am going to continue the journey without her. Lord, please help me to live out the rest of my days to Your glory and in honour of the wonderful wife who selflessly has done so much to make me the man I am today.
It’s a terrible thing to take anyone or anything for granted, but Linny has been here with me and for me for so long that I have never considered the concept of living without her. This is born out by the comments that so many people make—“It doesn’t seem right to see you on your own; it’s always Linda and Kevin”. We’ve become accustomed to being referred to as The Weirs far more often than as Linda and Kevin. The other day, a colleague said: “Kevin, I can’t get used to seeing you on your own”. O Lord, help me! I’m far weaker than anyone realises. You are my only help! You are my only comfort!
Thursday 20 October 2011
Looking back at what I wrote yesterday, it seems as though God answered my prayer quite swiftly. At 08:00, I wrote (and prayed): “She doesn’t seem to be breathing too well. Perhaps she’s getting hypostatic pneumonia, but I suppose rising intra-cranial pressure is more likely; either of which, I suppose, would give her a gentle way out of this misery.…. She’s in your hands, Lord. I rely on Your love and mercy.… Lord, she’s been such a faithful servant of yours for so long; please deal kindly with her. I love her so much”. I’m not sure that it was pneumonia—more likely coning—but God did give her a very gentle way out of this world and into her wonderful new one.
I was having tea with some of my colleagues at the Seminary when the call came on my cellphone. It was the Surgeon. He said: “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we’ve just lost Linda”. We had lived under the cloud of this threat for a month but, somehow, while Linny was alive, there was always an element of escapism available to us. We could ignore the threat and just live for the day—exist from hospital visit to hospital visit. Now, the hope—however faint—the denial, the escapism, were all gone. Now there is just one horrible, stark reality. Linny is dead!
My lovely Linny; the girl with the naughty eyes, who captivated me the first time I met her, has gone from my life. My companion, my lover, the mother of our children, the best friend I have ever had on this earth—gone. O God, help me! Help me through this time. Help me deal with this gaping hole in my life. Lord, it hurts so dreadfully!
I’m so grateful for the way Linny was protected from pain and suffering. I would check whenever I visited her—often twice in a visit—and she was always comfortable and pain-free, Thank You, Lord.
I was having tea with some of my colleagues at the Seminary when the call came on my cellphone. It was the Surgeon. He said: “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we’ve just lost Linda”. We had lived under the cloud of this threat for a month but, somehow, while Linny was alive, there was always an element of escapism available to us. We could ignore the threat and just live for the day—exist from hospital visit to hospital visit. Now, the hope—however faint—the denial, the escapism, were all gone. Now there is just one horrible, stark reality. Linny is dead!
My lovely Linny; the girl with the naughty eyes, who captivated me the first time I met her, has gone from my life. My companion, my lover, the mother of our children, the best friend I have ever had on this earth—gone. O God, help me! Help me through this time. Help me deal with this gaping hole in my life. Lord, it hurts so dreadfully!
I’m so grateful for the way Linny was protected from pain and suffering. I would check whenever I visited her—often twice in a visit—and she was always comfortable and pain-free, Thank You, Lord.
Saturday, 22 October 2011
This is the 26th morning since I last woke up with Linny beside me. It’s not getting any easier. I indulge in various forms of escapism, but the dull, grinding pain is alive and well and ever-present.
“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints” (Psalms 116:15 ESV).
I still cannot visualise a life for myself without Linny—an existence, maybe, but not a life! I suppose that will gradually change, but it’s hard to look forward at the moment, let alone upward.
It reminds me of the agony of carrying stretchers on the mountain. I would try to “zone out” and think that, at some future time, this pain and discomfort would be just a memory, as I lay in a luxurious hot bath, or stood under a refreshing shower. I guess I must try the same trick now—proceed in “moron mode” and hope that, at some happy future time, I shall be able to look back on this period as just a memory.
“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us” (Romans 8:18 ESV).
Thank You, Lord, that, because of the Resurrection, I can make some sense of all this, can find some hope, can find a reason to keep going. I know that I shall meet Linny again and, together, we’ll be in the immediate presence of Jesus for eternity.
“O Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight” (Spafford – “It is Well With My Soul”). Amen! Maranatha!
Hanging onto this:
“And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you” (1 Peter 5:10 ESV).
“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints” (Psalms 116:15 ESV).
I still cannot visualise a life for myself without Linny—an existence, maybe, but not a life! I suppose that will gradually change, but it’s hard to look forward at the moment, let alone upward.
It reminds me of the agony of carrying stretchers on the mountain. I would try to “zone out” and think that, at some future time, this pain and discomfort would be just a memory, as I lay in a luxurious hot bath, or stood under a refreshing shower. I guess I must try the same trick now—proceed in “moron mode” and hope that, at some happy future time, I shall be able to look back on this period as just a memory.
“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us” (Romans 8:18 ESV).
Thank You, Lord, that, because of the Resurrection, I can make some sense of all this, can find some hope, can find a reason to keep going. I know that I shall meet Linny again and, together, we’ll be in the immediate presence of Jesus for eternity.
“O Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight” (Spafford – “It is Well With My Soul”). Amen! Maranatha!
Hanging onto this:
“And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you” (1 Peter 5:10 ESV).
Monday 24 October 2011
Linny cremated at 17:00 at Drakenstein Crematorium, Paarl.
A new week without Linny! It just doesn’t feel right. After more than one and a half thousand weeks of waking up with my beloved lying beside me, it can’t feel normal. It’s not normal; but it’s irrevocable and unavoidable, so I just have to get used to it. “The only way out is through.” It’s a journey that only I can undertake. No one can do it for me. Thank you, Lord, that underneath are Your everlasting arms. Thank You for the love and support of Your people—Your Church.
This is a kind of “vacuum week”. I feel as if I can’t really move on until after the memorial service. In the next few days, my focus will be mainly on preparing my address for the service and, somehow, preparing myself for Friday. It’s quite frightening. I’ve done plenty of funerals for others—even friends—but never for a family member; certainly, I never expected to have to do it for my wife. Lord, help me to strike the right balance—a time to grieve, a time to celebrate, a time to witness. Thank You, Lord.
I fetched Linny’s death certificate on Saturday. I think I’ll have to fetch her ashes today. Help me, Lord!
A new week without Linny! It just doesn’t feel right. After more than one and a half thousand weeks of waking up with my beloved lying beside me, it can’t feel normal. It’s not normal; but it’s irrevocable and unavoidable, so I just have to get used to it. “The only way out is through.” It’s a journey that only I can undertake. No one can do it for me. Thank you, Lord, that underneath are Your everlasting arms. Thank You for the love and support of Your people—Your Church.
This is a kind of “vacuum week”. I feel as if I can’t really move on until after the memorial service. In the next few days, my focus will be mainly on preparing my address for the service and, somehow, preparing myself for Friday. It’s quite frightening. I’ve done plenty of funerals for others—even friends—but never for a family member; certainly, I never expected to have to do it for my wife. Lord, help me to strike the right balance—a time to grieve, a time to celebrate, a time to witness. Thank You, Lord.
I fetched Linny’s death certificate on Saturday. I think I’ll have to fetch her ashes today. Help me, Lord!
Friday 28 October 2011
This is it: D-Day. Today, lots of family, friends, and colleagues will get together at 15:00 to bid Linny a final farewell. Actually, the business is all completed for Linny, but we who remain behind still need this “closing scene”. Please, Lord, help me to conduct myself in a way that brings glory to You and honours Linny. I am overwhelmed by the love and kindness that’s been shown to us. Thank You, Lord, for Your Church, and for the beauty of Your creation. Particularly, Lord, thank You for Linny—for the 33 wonderful years of our married life. I can’t imagine how I could possibly have had a better wife, or a better marriage. Thank You, Lord. Thank You, too, for the amazing children whom You granted to us. Thank You for the comfort that they are to me at this time. May Your Name be praised!
Yesterday I fetched Linny’s ashes. Patrick and I opened the container last night and took out two small portions: one to be scattered in Georgia when Brigid goes back, and the other to be (hopefully) scattered in Jerusalem, if I ever manage to get there. The rest we plan to scatter on Table Mountain this week-end.
I am going to spend the rest of today finalising my address for this afternoon and getting myself spiritually and emotionally ready for the ordeal. Actually, I hope it’s not an ordeal—I hope it’s a joy.
In my efforts to find healing at this time, I bought a book called Finding Hope When Life’s Not Fair, by Lee Ezell. Yesterday I found two really great quotes. Here they are.
“Instead of encouraging your readers to seek the purpose of God, encourage them to seek the presence of God. Then all these things will be added to them” (Ezell 2001,191 emphasis added).
And,
“The power of His presence is more satisfying than the power of knowing the answers” (Ezell 2001, 192).
I want to hang onto this concept. I cannot explain what has happened in my life over the past forty days—it doesn’t make sense in my limited understanding of God and His cosmos—but I do know that He has never left me nor forsaken me, and He will never leave nor forsake me. In the same way, He has never abandoned Linny. He was with her all the way, preparing the road for her and helping her along it. “The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).
“Today is mine. Tomorrow is none of my business. If I peer anxiously into the fog of the future, I will strain my spiritual eyes so that I will not see clearly what is required of me now” (Elisabeth Elliot, quoted in Ezell 2001, 200–201).
Yesterday I fetched Linny’s ashes. Patrick and I opened the container last night and took out two small portions: one to be scattered in Georgia when Brigid goes back, and the other to be (hopefully) scattered in Jerusalem, if I ever manage to get there. The rest we plan to scatter on Table Mountain this week-end.
I am going to spend the rest of today finalising my address for this afternoon and getting myself spiritually and emotionally ready for the ordeal. Actually, I hope it’s not an ordeal—I hope it’s a joy.
In my efforts to find healing at this time, I bought a book called Finding Hope When Life’s Not Fair, by Lee Ezell. Yesterday I found two really great quotes. Here they are.
“Instead of encouraging your readers to seek the purpose of God, encourage them to seek the presence of God. Then all these things will be added to them” (Ezell 2001,191 emphasis added).
And,
“The power of His presence is more satisfying than the power of knowing the answers” (Ezell 2001, 192).
I want to hang onto this concept. I cannot explain what has happened in my life over the past forty days—it doesn’t make sense in my limited understanding of God and His cosmos—but I do know that He has never left me nor forsaken me, and He will never leave nor forsake me. In the same way, He has never abandoned Linny. He was with her all the way, preparing the road for her and helping her along it. “The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).
“Today is mine. Tomorrow is none of my business. If I peer anxiously into the fog of the future, I will strain my spiritual eyes so that I will not see clearly what is required of me now” (Elisabeth Elliot, quoted in Ezell 2001, 200–201).
Saturday 29 October 2011
It’s over. Yesterday’s service was really a blessing and it did, in some inexplicable way, give me a time of catharsis. I feel as if I have closed the chapter of my life that involved Linny’s physical presence. I shall always love her and miss her, but now I must go on without her, until we meet again on another shore.
The people of the Seminary really excelled in the way they decorated the chapel and in the organisation of the service. Their organisation even extended as far as having students designated as parking attendants and ushers, to make sure that the guests were welcomed and directed to the right place.
Patrick and I arrived around 14:30 (the girls drove with Gerrit) and I sneaked into my office via my front door so that I could avoid having to talk to anyone. Bob came to my office and we made sure that we both knew how things were going to run. I was so broken that I was really starting to fear that I would be unable to preach. Bob prayed for me and asked the Holy Spirit to help me to deliver my message. It was hard to see any obvious result at that stage because I was crying so much that, as I leant against Bob’s chest, I could feel that I was water-logging his shirt.
We walked into the chapel about 14:50 and it was beautiful! They had used a lot of blue (Linny’s favourite colour), with little candles across the stage, and a big picture of Linny with a blue candle burning in front of it. There were many flowers, which would have gladdened Linny’s heart. I sat next to Patrick, right at the front, and, on his right were Brigid, Kathleen and Gerrit, then Bob.
About five past three they signalled me to start and, somehow, I stood up and welcomed everyone, my voice packing up on me frequently. I didn’t see how I was going to preach. For praise, we sang God Will Make a Way and As the Deer Pants for the Water, and I felt a bit calmer after that. Then Bob introduced the time for eulogies. He spoke beautifully of his work relationship with Linny, as well as their friendship. Patrick had chosen not to speak, but Kathleen and Brigid did. They both did very well, and I felt proud of them. Linny did a wonderful job on our three children! Gerrit also spoke well, and a few other people spoke as well. It was comforting to hear of the positive impact Linny has made on so many lives.
Bob led the prayers and then Marvin read (beautifully) two of Linny’s favourite Scriptures—Isaiah 40:21–31 and 1 Peter 1:3–9. Then it was time for my address.
I know quite a few people were praying for me, that I would be able to deliver my message, and their prayers were answered amazingly. An incredible calm came over me and I was able to speak clearly and calmly, even making the people laugh a few times. I felt that I was able to honour Linny’s memory and witness to the God Who saves us.
The prayers carried me through the afternoon. After Izel had said the benediction, we sang Linny’s all-time favourite hymn--To God Be the Glory, Great Things He Has Done—and the service ended. I spent the next few hours being greeted by hosts of people.
Later I went out for dinner with Janette, Patrick, Kathleen and Gerrit, Brigid, and Lorin and Richard. It was nice to sit and talk and joke, and just to relax. I slept quite well last night, probably for the first time in more than a month.
Thank You, Lord, for carrying me through this ordeal. I look to You for strength for the future.
The people of the Seminary really excelled in the way they decorated the chapel and in the organisation of the service. Their organisation even extended as far as having students designated as parking attendants and ushers, to make sure that the guests were welcomed and directed to the right place.
Patrick and I arrived around 14:30 (the girls drove with Gerrit) and I sneaked into my office via my front door so that I could avoid having to talk to anyone. Bob came to my office and we made sure that we both knew how things were going to run. I was so broken that I was really starting to fear that I would be unable to preach. Bob prayed for me and asked the Holy Spirit to help me to deliver my message. It was hard to see any obvious result at that stage because I was crying so much that, as I leant against Bob’s chest, I could feel that I was water-logging his shirt.
We walked into the chapel about 14:50 and it was beautiful! They had used a lot of blue (Linny’s favourite colour), with little candles across the stage, and a big picture of Linny with a blue candle burning in front of it. There were many flowers, which would have gladdened Linny’s heart. I sat next to Patrick, right at the front, and, on his right were Brigid, Kathleen and Gerrit, then Bob.
About five past three they signalled me to start and, somehow, I stood up and welcomed everyone, my voice packing up on me frequently. I didn’t see how I was going to preach. For praise, we sang God Will Make a Way and As the Deer Pants for the Water, and I felt a bit calmer after that. Then Bob introduced the time for eulogies. He spoke beautifully of his work relationship with Linny, as well as their friendship. Patrick had chosen not to speak, but Kathleen and Brigid did. They both did very well, and I felt proud of them. Linny did a wonderful job on our three children! Gerrit also spoke well, and a few other people spoke as well. It was comforting to hear of the positive impact Linny has made on so many lives.
Bob led the prayers and then Marvin read (beautifully) two of Linny’s favourite Scriptures—Isaiah 40:21–31 and 1 Peter 1:3–9. Then it was time for my address.
I know quite a few people were praying for me, that I would be able to deliver my message, and their prayers were answered amazingly. An incredible calm came over me and I was able to speak clearly and calmly, even making the people laugh a few times. I felt that I was able to honour Linny’s memory and witness to the God Who saves us.
The prayers carried me through the afternoon. After Izel had said the benediction, we sang Linny’s all-time favourite hymn--To God Be the Glory, Great Things He Has Done—and the service ended. I spent the next few hours being greeted by hosts of people.
Later I went out for dinner with Janette, Patrick, Kathleen and Gerrit, Brigid, and Lorin and Richard. It was nice to sit and talk and joke, and just to relax. I slept quite well last night, probably for the first time in more than a month.
Thank You, Lord, for carrying me through this ordeal. I look to You for strength for the future.
Sunday 30 October 2011
Yesterday we scattered Linny’s ashes on the slopes of Table Mountain, just above Tafelberg Road, more-or-less midway between Right Face and Platteklip Buttress. We didn’t have the inclination to go up very far—it didn’t seem to matter. I stood on a rock and emptied the bag into the wind, so the ashes were carried some distance and were well and truly scattered.
I had a sleep when we came home, which helped, I think. I am exhausted, and I feel that I should sleep whenever I get the chance. Lord, please help me! I cannot escape the grinding loneliness of being without Linny. Even in company, I am conscious of how I have faced the world with her by my side for so long that it feels completely wrong to be without her. Be my companion, Lord. Let me feel Your comforting presence beside me day by day. It’s only with You that I can get through.
Patrick and Gerrit and Kathleen are leaving this evening; then Brigid and I have to settle down into some kind of a modus vivendi. I want Brigid to know with certainty that she must not feel trapped. She mustn’t feel that she’s to be my housekeeper. Linny and I always said that our duty was to teach our children to fly and then let them fly. That’s what must happen.
I’m hoping to sublimate my grief by hiding in lots of “busy” work—sorting out Linny’s estate, packing up the house, finding new accommodation, setting exams, invigilating exams, marking exams, preparing courses, teaching courses, College life in general, etc., etc. This is the form of escapism that I plan to use to get me through. But Brigid is unemployed. She cancelled her contract in Georgia in order to come back. Now she has to try to rebuild her life. Lord, please help her!
“You are my refuge. Into your hands I commit my spirit; redeem me, O LORD, the God of truth” (Psalms 31:4–5 NIV).
I had a sleep when we came home, which helped, I think. I am exhausted, and I feel that I should sleep whenever I get the chance. Lord, please help me! I cannot escape the grinding loneliness of being without Linny. Even in company, I am conscious of how I have faced the world with her by my side for so long that it feels completely wrong to be without her. Be my companion, Lord. Let me feel Your comforting presence beside me day by day. It’s only with You that I can get through.
Patrick and Gerrit and Kathleen are leaving this evening; then Brigid and I have to settle down into some kind of a modus vivendi. I want Brigid to know with certainty that she must not feel trapped. She mustn’t feel that she’s to be my housekeeper. Linny and I always said that our duty was to teach our children to fly and then let them fly. That’s what must happen.
I’m hoping to sublimate my grief by hiding in lots of “busy” work—sorting out Linny’s estate, packing up the house, finding new accommodation, setting exams, invigilating exams, marking exams, preparing courses, teaching courses, College life in general, etc., etc. This is the form of escapism that I plan to use to get me through. But Brigid is unemployed. She cancelled her contract in Georgia in order to come back. Now she has to try to rebuild her life. Lord, please help her!
“You are my refuge. Into your hands I commit my spirit; redeem me, O LORD, the God of truth” (Psalms 31:4–5 NIV).
Sunday 30 October 2011
I think I’ve run out of tears to shed. I guess it’s only temporary, but at least it gives me some time for my eyes to stop hurting. Since Linny was admitted to Karl Bremer on 18th September, I’ve had sore eyes, attributable, I guess, to a lack of sleep and a surfeit of crying. Now, my eyes are dry, but still hurting. I’m hoping to get some better-quality sleep soon, but I don’t know when that will happen.
On the other hand, I have a deep-seated burning, grinding, debilitating, agony somewhere inside me. It’s an agony that won’t go away. It’s an agony born of grief, of loneliness, of misery, of struggling to see a hope for the future. It’s an agony that makes me want to hide from the world. It’s an agony that makes me pray to God to take me as soon as possible.
It’s an agony that, despite my brave words in my homily on Friday, makes my heart cry out to God, pointing an accusing finger or clenching an angry fist: “How could You! How could You take my Linny like that? How could You take her and leave me? How can I see that as just and loving? “And yet”, replies my head, “God owes me nothing. I have no right to cry out against Him. I have no right to accuse Him.” The conflict rages within me.
Finally, my intellect wins over my emotions. I must accept that God is infinitely wise, infinitely just, and infinitely loving. Even though I cannot understand Him, I have no choice but to trust Him, for He has “the words of eternal life”. I have to live on with the hope of meeting my beloved Linny again.
With Job, therefore, I “repent in dust and ashes” (42:6). I cry out: “Lord, comfort me! Give me a hope! Help me live out the rest of my days to honour Linny’s memory and to give glory to You, the God Who made her and gave us to one another in the sacred bond of matrimony. Parakletos, empower me to keep on keeping on. It is only in You that I can find peace and healing and security. It is only in You that I can find meaning in this sad life”. Maranatha!
On the other hand, I have a deep-seated burning, grinding, debilitating, agony somewhere inside me. It’s an agony that won’t go away. It’s an agony born of grief, of loneliness, of misery, of struggling to see a hope for the future. It’s an agony that makes me want to hide from the world. It’s an agony that makes me pray to God to take me as soon as possible.
It’s an agony that, despite my brave words in my homily on Friday, makes my heart cry out to God, pointing an accusing finger or clenching an angry fist: “How could You! How could You take my Linny like that? How could You take her and leave me? How can I see that as just and loving? “And yet”, replies my head, “God owes me nothing. I have no right to cry out against Him. I have no right to accuse Him.” The conflict rages within me.
Finally, my intellect wins over my emotions. I must accept that God is infinitely wise, infinitely just, and infinitely loving. Even though I cannot understand Him, I have no choice but to trust Him, for He has “the words of eternal life”. I have to live on with the hope of meeting my beloved Linny again.
With Job, therefore, I “repent in dust and ashes” (42:6). I cry out: “Lord, comfort me! Give me a hope! Help me live out the rest of my days to honour Linny’s memory and to give glory to You, the God Who made her and gave us to one another in the sacred bond of matrimony. Parakletos, empower me to keep on keeping on. It is only in You that I can find peace and healing and security. It is only in You that I can find meaning in this sad life”. Maranatha!
Wednesday 2 November 2011
I wonder if a “Klein Saterdag”—a Wednesday at CTS—will ever seem different to me in the future. For now, it’s the weekly reminder—two weeks now—of the day Linny died. It still hurts, but I think I’m beginning to see a way forward. There’s a big hole in my life—an enormous hole—and I have to learn how to get round it and not fall in. I’m sure I’ll fall into the hole regularly for a long time to come, but, hopefully, the times between falls will get longer and longer.
I’ll always love and remember Linny, but I hope that I’ll get to a point where the happy memories will overshadow the sad ones. In the meantime, I’m focussing on keeping myself busy and on identifying a purpose in my life. I have my work at the Seminary, plus I have to sort out Linny’s estate, pack up this house, and find some other accommodation. It’s not too urgent, so I can just slowly work away at it. Some days I just feel so unmotivated that I achieve nothing. I suppose all this will pass, given time (quite a lot of it!).
Lord, keep me strong, I pray. Help me to keep my eyes fixed on You.
I’ll always love and remember Linny, but I hope that I’ll get to a point where the happy memories will overshadow the sad ones. In the meantime, I’m focussing on keeping myself busy and on identifying a purpose in my life. I have my work at the Seminary, plus I have to sort out Linny’s estate, pack up this house, and find some other accommodation. It’s not too urgent, so I can just slowly work away at it. Some days I just feel so unmotivated that I achieve nothing. I suppose all this will pass, given time (quite a lot of it!).
Lord, keep me strong, I pray. Help me to keep my eyes fixed on You.
Saturday 5 November 2011
[00:10] Brave words (up above), but I came so unstuck on Wednesday that I landed coming home at 15:00. Brigid and I went to L and J for dinner, which helped quite a bit. It’s so nice to be with people who just let you be, and even cry with you!
I am so heartily sick of being interrogated about what I’m planning or the future, where I’m going to live, whether I’ll make a career change.
Then there are instructions—“just be strong”—huh! how? “This will pass”—yeah great! I’d already guessed that. Try telling that to someone who’s trying to pass a kidney stone! “You’ll get over it”—balls! I’ll never get over it. That’s like telling someone who’s lost a leg
that one day he’ll be able to walk with one leg! I’ll learn to manage my life around it, but I’ll never get over it; not until I meet Linny again in heaven.
“You’re so strong”—crap! I’m barely hanging on. I’m not strong at all. I’m weak and defeated. I don’t even have the strength to tell the idiots who utter these platitudes to stuff off! It’s open season on Kevin. Nail him while he’s down and can’t fight back. After all, you mean well. Yeah, so did Adolf Hitler!
And then there’s the loony stalker who phoned, the day after Linny died, to commiserate and to ask me out. In the first two weeks after Linny’s death, this idiot phoned me four times. She’s very angry that I don’t want to see her, but she won’t leave me alone. I’m going to have to start hanging up on her.
I don’t need this!
Saturday 5 November 2011
[00:10] Brave words (up above), but I came so unstuck on Wednesday that I landed coming home at 15:00. Brigid and I went to L and J for dinner, which helped quite a bit. It’s so nice to be with people who just let you be, and even cry with you!
I am so heartily sick of being interrogated about what I’m planning or the future, where I’m going to live, whether I’ll make a career change.
Then there are instructions—“just be strong”—huh! how? “This will pass”—yeah great! I’d already guessed that. Try telling that to someone who’s trying to pass a kidney stone! “You’ll get over it”—balls! I’ll never get over it. That’s like telling someone who’s lost a leg
that one day he’ll be able to walk with one leg! I’ll learn to manage my life around it, but I’ll never get over it; not until I meet Linny again in heaven.
“You’re so strong”—crap! I’m barely hanging on. I’m not strong at all. I’m weak and defeated. I don’t even have the strength to tell the idiots who utter these platitudes to stuff off! It’s open season on Kevin. Nail him while he’s down and can’t fight back. After all, you mean well. Yeah, so did Adolf Hitler!
And then there’s the loony stalker who phoned, the day after Linny died, to commiserate and to ask me out. In the first two weeks after Linny’s death, this idiot phoned me four times. She’s very angry that I don’t want to see her, but she won’t leave me alone. I’m going to have to start hanging up on her.
I don’t need this!
Sunday, 6 November 2011
[08:00] The loony stalker called again yesterday around midday. I just hung up. I can’t be bothered to get involved in some mindless conversation. If she has some kind of problem, I’m sorry for her, but I’m not in a position to offer her any help. I’m battling even to help myself at the moment.
I still feel as if my life has become meaningless without Linny. I suppose the feeling will pass, but, at the moment, it is very strong. Everything that needs to be done—eating, marking papers, sorting out the house, settling Linny’s estate—just doesn’t seem worth the effort. Once again, I’m not going to church. I just can’t stand all the sympathy, and having to tell the story over and over and over again. This seems weird and ungrateful, but I’m afraid it’s very real and, at the moment, I can’t be bothered to try to overcome it.
My neck aches constantly, my head aches most of the time, my stomach is sore, my knees are aching so much that I can’t even think of going for a run. Even my chopped-off toe is hurting.
To tell the truth, I wish I were dead. I can see far more point at the moment in being dead than alive. But, I AM NOT SUICIDAL—it’s too much of a risk. I don’t want to jeopardise my chance to see Linny again. So, I’m trapped..., trapped in a life that I neither value nor want..., trapped in a life that has no appeal, no value for me.
Two months ago, I was really excited at the prospect of teaching Philosophy next year. Now I don’t give a stuff. It sounds like a whole lot of work for nothing.
I’m discovering just how unsociable I am. I find it an enormous schlep to talk to people—any people—other than my children, who at least can relate to how I’m feeling.
I just don’t want to go on any more. Lord, please, either help me to find some joie de vivre, or else, take me out of this life and into the next. I don’t just need a modus vivendi; I need a causa vivendi. Help Lord! Help!
My preference at the moment would be to be taken swiftly out of this life without pain, suffering, or indignity. The problem is that I think it would be cruel to put our children through the death of a second parent so soon after the first (today is only 18 days since Linny’s death), so I guess I have to, somehow, toil on, pretending that things are coming right. Perhaps, if I pretend long and hard enough, I’ll succeed in fooling myself and will imagine that I am happy. The problem is; I’ve never been successful at lying to myself, so I doubt that I’ll succeed this time.
I’d like to get on with my writing but, at the same time, I can’t be bothered—it’s just too much trouble. Besides, I should be giving priority to marking papers and drafting the Corinthians exam, which
is due now, but it’s just too much trouble.
It seems crazy, in one of the most highly-populated cities in Africa, on a planet accommodating seven billion people, that I should be lonely, but I am. I am agonisingly, grindingly, miserably lonely because the only person whom I need has gone and she’s not coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
O Linny! I miss you so much! I’m still battling to grasp the reality of no longer having you in my life. The thirty-five years since we met have gone by so fast, but now, each day without you feels like toiling for a thousand years through chest-deep mud, carrying an enormous load and not really making any progress.
I think it’s true to say that, at the moment, I am just existing. I AM NOT LIVING. I am not having the John 10:10 life in abundance. I don’t even like my life.
From all the blah that I’ve read, I guess that I might feel different tomorrow, but today I feel SHIT! I feel lost, deserted, directionless, and ANGRY! I’m angry with You, God—not because of the way You answered my prayers—but because You allowed this hideous mess ever to start. Why should Linny have been allowed to get brain cancer? How was that necessary for your eternal plan for the world? Why couldn’t you have taken me instead? Or both of us simultaneously? Why Linny?
I wish I were suicidal, then I could just end it all. I could just opt out and end this misery. I don’t think You would answer that prayer, would You—“Lord, please make me suicidal”? It even sounds absurd to me. But it’s just part of the mess in my head as I try to process my current situation.
I feel, emotionally, like the motorist who stops someone (a local) next to the road and asks the way to Johannesburg. The local replies: “I wouldn’t go from here if I were you”. Well, emotionally, I want to get to WHOLENESS, but I’d prefer not to go from where I am at the moment. Huh? I guess I’ll never escape my Irish roots!
How can I go forward? How can I gain wholeness? I DON’T KNOW!
So, once again, You’ve got me, Lord. I can’t exist without You. Even when You seem to be silent, I have to trust You.
Where else can I go? You have the words of eternal life. Oh, help me, Lord!
[08:00] The loony stalker called again yesterday around midday. I just hung up. I can’t be bothered to get involved in some mindless conversation. If she has some kind of problem, I’m sorry for her, but I’m not in a position to offer her any help. I’m battling even to help myself at the moment.
I still feel as if my life has become meaningless without Linny. I suppose the feeling will pass, but, at the moment, it is very strong. Everything that needs to be done—eating, marking papers, sorting out the house, settling Linny’s estate—just doesn’t seem worth the effort. Once again, I’m not going to church. I just can’t stand all the sympathy, and having to tell the story over and over and over again. This seems weird and ungrateful, but I’m afraid it’s very real and, at the moment, I can’t be bothered to try to overcome it.
My neck aches constantly, my head aches most of the time, my stomach is sore, my knees are aching so much that I can’t even think of going for a run. Even my chopped-off toe is hurting.
To tell the truth, I wish I were dead. I can see far more point at the moment in being dead than alive. But, I AM NOT SUICIDAL—it’s too much of a risk. I don’t want to jeopardise my chance to see Linny again. So, I’m trapped..., trapped in a life that I neither value nor want..., trapped in a life that has no appeal, no value for me.
Two months ago, I was really excited at the prospect of teaching Philosophy next year. Now I don’t give a stuff. It sounds like a whole lot of work for nothing.
I’m discovering just how unsociable I am. I find it an enormous schlep to talk to people—any people—other than my children, who at least can relate to how I’m feeling.
I just don’t want to go on any more. Lord, please, either help me to find some joie de vivre, or else, take me out of this life and into the next. I don’t just need a modus vivendi; I need a causa vivendi. Help Lord! Help!
My preference at the moment would be to be taken swiftly out of this life without pain, suffering, or indignity. The problem is that I think it would be cruel to put our children through the death of a second parent so soon after the first (today is only 18 days since Linny’s death), so I guess I have to, somehow, toil on, pretending that things are coming right. Perhaps, if I pretend long and hard enough, I’ll succeed in fooling myself and will imagine that I am happy. The problem is; I’ve never been successful at lying to myself, so I doubt that I’ll succeed this time.
I’d like to get on with my writing but, at the same time, I can’t be bothered—it’s just too much trouble. Besides, I should be giving priority to marking papers and drafting the Corinthians exam, which
is due now, but it’s just too much trouble.
It seems crazy, in one of the most highly-populated cities in Africa, on a planet accommodating seven billion people, that I should be lonely, but I am. I am agonisingly, grindingly, miserably lonely because the only person whom I need has gone and she’s not coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
O Linny! I miss you so much! I’m still battling to grasp the reality of no longer having you in my life. The thirty-five years since we met have gone by so fast, but now, each day without you feels like toiling for a thousand years through chest-deep mud, carrying an enormous load and not really making any progress.
I think it’s true to say that, at the moment, I am just existing. I AM NOT LIVING. I am not having the John 10:10 life in abundance. I don’t even like my life.
From all the blah that I’ve read, I guess that I might feel different tomorrow, but today I feel SHIT! I feel lost, deserted, directionless, and ANGRY! I’m angry with You, God—not because of the way You answered my prayers—but because You allowed this hideous mess ever to start. Why should Linny have been allowed to get brain cancer? How was that necessary for your eternal plan for the world? Why couldn’t you have taken me instead? Or both of us simultaneously? Why Linny?
I wish I were suicidal, then I could just end it all. I could just opt out and end this misery. I don’t think You would answer that prayer, would You—“Lord, please make me suicidal”? It even sounds absurd to me. But it’s just part of the mess in my head as I try to process my current situation.
I feel, emotionally, like the motorist who stops someone (a local) next to the road and asks the way to Johannesburg. The local replies: “I wouldn’t go from here if I were you”. Well, emotionally, I want to get to WHOLENESS, but I’d prefer not to go from where I am at the moment. Huh? I guess I’ll never escape my Irish roots!
How can I go forward? How can I gain wholeness? I DON’T KNOW!
So, once again, You’ve got me, Lord. I can’t exist without You. Even when You seem to be silent, I have to trust You.
Where else can I go? You have the words of eternal life. Oh, help me, Lord!