Finally Paying Attention
Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. - Mary Oliver
“Sir, would you like to book Elizabeth’s next appointment now? How about June 11th?”
The date in the receptionist’s routine question jolted me. I stopped buttoning up my toddler daughter’s winter coat as I stood and turned my head toward the lady behind the desk. “What?”
“Elizabeth’s next appointment. The dentist recommends that she come in twice a year. Today is December 11th – June 11th is six months from now. I can set it up for you now if you like.”
“Oh…,” I said, pausing to process her question. “No, thanks. That’s OK. I will figure it out and call back.” I grabbed Elizabeth into my arms and rushed us out of the office.
June 11th was when the doctor diagnosed my wife Kristy with cancer.
The last six months had been a whirlwind. We experienced the incredible high of bringing our son Eric into the world in late May. But we would find out about Kristy’s cancer less than two weeks later. That shocking news kicked off several months of regular hospital trips and treatments, including chemotherapy. All of this mixed in with us caring for our newborn son and two-year-old daughter at home.
In late September, we went to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota for help after a large new tumor had suddenly appeared in Kristy’s abdominal region. We arrived full of hope. But Kristy’s tumor grew even faster within our first few days there. As we went to more appointments, it became tougher to escape the brutal truth of what was happening.
My extraordinary wife Kristy passed away after two weeks at Mayo.
We spent the next several months at my mom and dad’s farm in Iowa, giving me some help with the kids and time to grieve and heal. After some much-needed rest, we were now back home in Chicago, our first week here since Kristy passed away.
Were we ready for this? Maybe we should have stayed at my mom and dad’s longer, at least until after Christmas.
After taking Elizabeth home after the dentist, I drove to work. While passing Kristy’s cemetery, I noticed the sun dramatically burst from the clouds, warming my face through the window.
On the radio, two guys droned on about fantasy football. I flipped from AM to FM, and a local country music station came on. The station was running a fundraiser for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, and the caller was telling his cancer story. The radio host asked for a dollar a day, a $30/month donation plan.
I pulled up St. Jude’s website when I arrived at the office. I remembered that I had previously given money to St. Jude’s. I checked my email folder and saw that I had done so earlier this year. The previous date was June 10th – just one day before Kristy was diagnosed with cancer. A co-worker had sent out a staff email asking for donations that day. I remembered doing it for good karma, thinking I was lucky I didn’t have to worry about something like that. I donated this time with much more heart, much more feeling.
As I left work at the end of the day, I looked over at my digital photo frame, which rotates through thousands of pictures. The photo on display was the one I had put on Kristy’s funeral card. It was a beautiful shot of her standing in front of Monterey Bay, California, taken during our honeymoon only three years before. Thanks, honey – thanks for reminding me that you are still looking over us. I love you.
I jumped into my car to head home. The country station was still doing the telethon for St. Jude’s, and the radio host was now telling a cancer story about an 11-year-old.
As I listened, it hit me that after Kristy had been diagnosed with cancer, she mentioned that the number 11 had a special significance in their family. When I drove her downtown for her appointments, Kristy would watch the overhead traffic boards. She would get excited and tap me on the shoulder every time she saw “11 minutes until the downtown exit.” Sometimes, she would even call her dad when this happened. I confess that there were times that I faked excitement when she pointed out these messages.
On that dark winter afternoon, I continued into the bumper-to-bumper Chicago rush hour traffic. As I stopped at the next light, the radio host yelled, “The child was only 11! 11! 11!” I looked at the car in front of me; the license plate had an “11”. The car next to it also had a license plate with an “11”. I sat in awe, looking up at the sky with tears.
God, thank You for never giving up on me. I finally started paying attention to your tremendous presence on that incredible day years ago.
I am astonished.
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