I have a dozen memories I could easily share of when my uncle was healthy and I was younger, of him teaching me basketball, and realizing as I grew up that he literally had a song for everything. As geographical distance and the courses of life have put more space between our families, these times are harder to have. Thankfully, I was recently granted time with Gailen that I think back to often.
I was sitting beside Gailen's bed, his wife Stephanie making her rounds, moving in and out between their bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, where the rest of our family was pretending to be focused on anything but Gailen when, really, it was the opposite. I sat next to my uncle as he laid under the warm, soft cotton covers in his bed, his kind face propped up with the support of a pillow. The ceiling fan made it's soft, monotonous hum above us. It's odd how little noises like that can bring us comfort, but I knew when I sat down that I needed the ceiling fan's song to get through what happens next.
As Gailen took my hand, feeling too heavy for his own, and held it, I lost control of the water my eyes were working so fervently at hold back, as if a dam trying to contain a flooding river. The tears began to trickle down my face, and I prayed that God would make them stop. Crying at that moment made me feel unworthy of my uncle's presence, his bravery. His eyes were kind and loving, his smile small but there. As he handed me a tissue, reassuring me that it would be OK - whatever 'it' was - he began to speak the words I was feeling.
He told me that life is not always fair, and found the most delicate way to explain to me why terrible things happent to good people, causing the dam of tears I thought I had regained control of to burst again. He shared some of his favorite words - most from the Bible, others from things he'd read - and he told me he believed God has a plan. His ability to sense my feelings was almost supernatural as he answered my mental response of doubt about what plan God could possibly have. And what felt like too quickly, he asked me if I had an questions for him as he squeezed my hand with one of his own and wiped a tear with the other.
I asked him how he continued to stay so positive, why he found it easier to believe God has a plan versus doubt. I listened to every word he spoke as if they were my only source of life in that time. I wanted him to talk until I found it easy to believe in a divine purpose for this cancer, even if it was only for a second. I wanted his confidence, and had hoped it would transfer to me as he squeezed my hand a second time. As we talked about hoping for a miracle but accepting whatever was handed to him, I knew that things would never be the same. I realize now that what I wanted during that time, more than confidence in a cure, was the pre-cancer version of my uncle. I wanted a miracle.
That conversation between just the two of us has gotten me through the past five months. The hugs of my parents, tears shared with my siblings, and the sympathy of my closests friends and fiance, I've found, are feeble substitutes for the genuine comfort my uncle gave me in teh few minutes spent with him alone - crying, desperately wishing for him to miraculously be healed, hoping. The small glints of faith and hope I still carry with me from our time under the ceiling fan's quiet hum tell, "Whatever happens, it will be OK" - just as my uncle told me that night. All I need is a miracle, and that's all I can hope for.
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For more about my uncle's cancer and testimony, please click here.
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