A Slice of Ham

I have a confession to make. Let's see if I can explain this...

We've heard all through our lives -- look on the bright side. Optimism chases darkness away. There's a lot of hokum out there about "If you send your wish out to the universe, it will come true" and other such nonsense. But there is also a concept, rooted deeply in my beliefs, in Vicky's beliefs, of "Faith Precedes the Miracle." It was by faith that Moses and the children of Israel walked across the Red Sea on dry ground. It was by faith that Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon. It was by faith that the Mormon pioneers made the Salt Lake desert blossom as a rose.

I believe that. I believe that God works miracles -- in ages past and in our lifetimes. I believe that he loves his children and wants them to grow into the beings he envisions them to be. I believe that he can heal our hearts, our souls, and our bodies.

So now comes the complicated part. When people ask me how Vicky is doing, one side of my brain says that my reply should be like so: "Oh, she's doing so great! There have been some extremely promising studies showing that her type of cancer is often completely eradicated by the chemo drug she's taking. We and our doctors expect that, once they actually perform the surgery, the cancer won't even be there."

And that is true.

And it is also true that Vicky will have to go through hell first to realize that happy end. And there is also a chance that the therapy will not work. There is a mist of uncertainty over our eyes -- we agreed to live by faith on this earth, and to do our best to discern the will of God. To do that, we must live without perfect clarity. It's part of the gift of mortality. It's part of the deal.

So here's my confession: I have a hard time giving that bright, happy answer when people ask how Vicky is. I don't want them walking away from that conversation thinking: "Great! She's going to be fine. There's nothing to worry about." I want people to worry about her, to share their strength with her, even if it is in a very small way -- like a text, or bringing over a bowl of soup.

I don't want her to be forgotten.


I'm resolving today to be more balanced. Even on the bad days, there are bright moments. Moments when her smile fills the room. Moments when she points out the window to show me blue jays strutting in the sunshine. Moments when she comes and sits by me, not necessarily to talk, but just to be close. Moments when I can hear her laughing with a neighbor on the phone, laughter that runs through the house like music.

And there's the moment when I brought her a slice of ham to eat when she was feeling terribly lightheaded, and she texted me a few minutes later from the bedroom:

What a generous lady, to let her husband think that he had come riding in with that crucial slice of ham, just in time to save her life.