Two Mary’s
J.E. Deise
Jerry Deise is a good friend of Our Lady of Fatima Shrine and a faith-filled pilgrim. Recently, he wrote this thought-provoking piece about his recovery from cancer and his experience in the waiting room where cancer patients and friends create all kinds of community. His inspiration and faith amid troubled times enrich us all.
I’ll call her Mary. I saw her for the first and last time while waiting to begin my second radiation therapy treatment at Mass. General Brigham and Women’s Hospital (MGB&WH), in Boston, Mass.
There are a few people in the waiting room. Whether they are patients, family, or friends, like my buddies, Bill and Nick, who alternate driving me here, I cannot say. We are strangers, but we patients share at least two things in common- we are here because we have cancer and none of us wants to be here.
While waiting, I look around the room rather uncomfortably, as one might expect or have experienced when sitting in a room with strangers. Some smile nervously. Some affect a stoic courage, while others convey a kindly commiseration and understanding that we are all in the same boat together.
And so, we sit…, waiting to be called to begin our treatment, preoccupied, worried, frightened, in pain, and tired… tired of having cancer. I suspect that many of us are wondering the same things about our waiting roommates. “What type of cancer do they have?” “What treatments are they receiving today”? “What stage is their cancer? “Who are their doctors?” “What is their prognosis?”
We empathize with each other. We understand and share our common plight and may even attempt to forge, albeit briefly, an emotional connection with each other. Beyond empathy, we may also sympathize with each other, trying to express concern, compassion, and support for them while we wait. We avoid specific topics, especially those that involve the future. Invariably, however, our thoughts return to ourselves and our illness; perhaps, because it is more painful for us to think of the pain of our loved ones who are suffering along with us.
I see Mary sitting alone, wearing a surgical mask. I learned that she is waiting for her 22-year-old daughter, who is receiving treatment for the Leukemia that ravages her young body. Mary’s daughter, call her Margaret, after having received radiation and chemotherapy treatments, is here today to receive a stem cell/ bone marrow transplant.
Although I never had the opportunity to meet Margaret, I did chat briefly with her mom. I find her to be a pretty fantastic woman. She, her husband, and Margaret’s 24-year-old sister have been living with Margaret and her illness. Mary appears to be bright, kind, sincere, relatively quiet, and reflective. Despite her subdued manner, I sense that she is tough as nails in her determination, along with that of her husband and older daughter, to continue to “fight the good fight” beside the tenacious and courageous Margaret. And yet… There is something else. There is the serene and helpless acceptance of a mother’s love.
We never speak of our faith, and yet there is something about Mary that is spiritual, as one who is hopeful, but prepared to accept God’s will, whatever that might be. Whether she believes in God, I do not know. I would like to know her and her family better, but I am called for my treatment. When I am called, my buddy Bill, who drove me that day, and I tell her that we, along with our wives, will pray for Margaret, as well as for her, her husband, and her older daughter. Mary looks up at us, smiles a beautiful smile, visible even beneath her mask, and one that can be seen more clearly in her sad eyes. She thanks us with deep, touching appreciation for our prayers, which we will continue to offer for her and her family.
As I receive treatment, I continue to think about Mary. I know and believe unquestioningly that Margaret, like all of us, is in God’s hands and that whatever may lay before her, as with all things, is His will. I think of Mary’s suffering as she watches her child suffer. Other than prayer, love, and support, which are themselves the best medicine, there is little that she can do to relieve her “baby’s” suffering.
Lying on the treatment table, beyond the clicking, whirring, humming, and other sounds of the linear accelerator, I think not about cancer patients but, rather, about our families and friends who vicariously experience our pain and suffering. I find, and suspect that other cancer patients may share my view, that it is more preferable, and, for me, emotionally less painful, to be a cancer patient than to be a spouse, child, grandchild, family member or friend who suffers helplessly, but not hopelessly, as they give their loving care and prayers of support.
I am able, owing to my faith, my loving wife, family, and friends, generally, to be strong when dealing with my cancer. However, I confess that when I see the suffering of other patients, the young and, especially, children…, I struggle with my feelings and with my faith and wonder if others might, as well. I am ashamed to admit that I find myself, on occasion, questioning Our Lord’s will as to why these precious, innocent little ones must suffer. I also ask why their families and friends must suffer along with them.
How could a child suffering from cancer be God’s will? How can I continue to worship a loving God, my loving God, my God who has a special love of children, and yet, who allows such innocents to suffer? They have done nothing in their brief lives to warrant such a distinction. Why then, Lord, must they suffer?
Others, much more knowledgeable and with much stronger faith than I, have attempted to answer these questions. I do not know and, likely, will never know much less understand the answers.
I ask God’s forgiveness for questioning His will and pray that my faith will be strengthened. Prayer has led me to accept that some matters of faith, as with many things, are far beyond my comprehension. Rather than question or even logically attempt to understand God’s will (and it is foolhardy even to try), I now find solace only in prayer. I pray especially for the little ones who are sick and for their loved ones. I pray for the health care providers: the gifted and dedicated doctors, nurses, researchers, support staff, and administrators who, day after day, dedicate themselves so that we may live longer. I pray, as well, for guidance and support from the Holy Spirit, that my faith may be strengthened and to provide assurance that these little ones will pass to God’s loving embrace, where there will be no pain, no suffering, no tears, no fear… only His eternal love.
While thinking of the Mary I had just met in the waiting room, I think of another Mary who suffered greatly, Mary, the mother of Jesus. Mary was with her son when he was born, when he was tortured and suffered excruciating pain, and when he took his last breath. I can only imagine her suffering with each agonizing step she takes with her son during his suffering along what has been aptly named the Via Dolorosa (Way of Sorrow). Having already been beaten and tortured, Jesus began his final walk to
Golgotha, his place of crucifixion, which I read, was a distance of approximately ½ mile, and which will take as long as several hours for Jesus to walk. Witnessing this unthinkable cruelty was His mother, Mary, who, with each step, walks along with her son as he is insulted and assaulted by a hostile crowd, forced to wear a painful crown made of sharp spines, and falls several times, dragging a heavy cross. At Golgotha, Jesus would continue to suffer, and his mother would suffer along with him, as metal nails were driven through his hands and feet into the cross. His mother would see her son bleeding, weak, thirsty, and in excruciating pain that lasted for hours before his suffering ended. Throughout his agony, she is helpless and powerless to relieve her son, Jesus, her “baby,” of his suffering.
The hours of suffering that Jesus endured, though horrible beyond imagination, relatively speaking, was perhaps mercifully brief compared to that of His mother. Mary’s suffering, we are told, lasted until she was reunited with her son in heaven. The exact date of this occurrence is subject to debate. Some claim that Jesus chose the disciple John, who, it is believed, was the “disciple that Jesus loved,” to care for his mother, and that she may have lived a long life with John in Ephesus (western Turkey). In addition, some scholars of the scriptures assert (and I am in no position to dispute them) that Mary knew, or was likely to know, what would become of her son at the instant of His birth. If they are accurate, then Mary’s suffering lasted much longer than the walk that ended in Jesus’ death.
It is horrible to consider the death of any child. I cannot imagine anything more painful than losing your child, however old, to illness or accident. I lack the words to describe the pain suffered for that loss adequately. But to lose a child, as Mary did, watching her innocent son, as he was so brutally and wrongfully tortured and murdered, is beyond any suffering that a mother, a father, or, indeed, any loved one should endure.
I confess that I never understood, much less appreciated, Mary, the mother of Jesus. I suspect that biblical scholars and historians have attempted to tell her story, but, for me, Mary was shrouded in mystery and always seemed to be in the background. As I begin to think about Mary, the mother of Jesus, and the other Mary, the mother of Margaret, whom I met today, I see similarities, that they share as mothers. I will never forget them for the courage, sacrifice, and suffering they endured for the love of their child.
Both Marys gave birth to a child. Both raised their child/ren with tender love, affection, and sacrifice. Both, one might imagine, had happy expectations, high aspirations, and lofty dreams for their child. Both raised them through childhood. Both saw them reach adulthood. Both received devastating news that their child would suffer greatly. Both knew that their child was innocent and did not deserve to suffer. Perhaps, both even believed that the suffering of their child was unjust and without reason. Both realized that the fate of their child was beyond their help and their control. Both appeared serene and, perhaps, ultimately, accepting of their child’s fate. Both love their child and both suffer greatly.
Again, as with the innocent suffering children, I ask, why would Jesus allow his mother to suffer for so long? Throughout the scriptures, one can see that Jesus had a special place in his heart for his mother, as well as for all mothers and the little children. He especially loves children.
One might ask, and many, no doubt, have asked, “Why must there be suffering in the world?” “Why must thousands of children die of starvation each day?” “Why must children be enslaved and exploited by sex traffickers?” Why must there be wars? Why must I and others suffer from cancer? Why must horrible things happen? That these things exist in our world today, admittedly, makes me angry. Some of these horrific things that we tolerate are preventable now, immediately. Others, like curing diseases, require time, patience and support.
I have Stage IV prostate cancer and pelvic bone cancer. I consider myself blessed and am most grateful to God for being surrounded by love and support, extending beyond my faith, family, and friends. I have found God’s hand at work, as well, in the unparalleled patient-centered medical treatment that I receive at the MGB&W and Dana-Farber Cancer Center hospitals. The quality of professional care given is unsurpassed. I cannot imagine receiving better care. Their caring extends beyond meeting the medical needs of their cancer patients. It includes, notably, meeting the emotional, psychological and social service needs of the patient and the patient’s family and friends, as well. Sadly, some patients have no faith, family or others to offer support as they struggle to deal with their cancer, perhaps entirely alone. Thankfully, MGB&W and Dana-Farber support those who are alone, as well as their caregivers, family, and friends, who, at times, are helpless to relieve the suffering of their loved ones and suffer themselves because of their inability to do so.
There is a beautiful tradition at MGB&W. When patients complete their last treatment in a series, they ring a naval ship’s bell three times. I read that this tradition is attributed to a U.S. Navy Rear Admiral who received cancer treatment in 1996 at the highly renowned MD Anderson Center in Houston, Texas. Initially startled by the loud pealing of the bell, I then heard loud cheering and hearty congratulations as hospital staff, patients, along with their families and friends, gathered around the bell to celebrate their final treatment. Everyone is in the waiting room, patients and their families, joined in the celebration, adding their applause and good wishes. Amazingly, we spontaneously joined in celebrating the happiness of people we did not know, but with whom we felt a deep connection. As we celebrated their joy, we became hopeful, expecting to hear the bell ring for us.
During my 10 treatments, I heard this bell ring three times. Each time it rang, with different patients, one a child, there was the same genuine joy for the patient and those who supported and loved them.
Finally, it was my turn. My wife and I began to tear up when I rang the bell after my last treatment. Each time the three bells rang, I think of The Father, The Son, and the Holy Spirit who is with us during our treatments, and who will continue to be with us. Amid the tears, there are hugs, hearty congratulations, and prayerful thanks. Above all, there is hope.
I understand now that God allows each of us to suffer from time to time in different ways. When I first learned that I had incurable cancer, I was angry, depressed, and entirely focused on myself. Gradually, through my experience and by watching the courage, hopefulness, and love in my fellow patients, I began to view my cancer differently. I realized that rather than obsessing over how I might die, I should instead focus on how our Lord might want me to live. Finding strength in Faith, family, and many friends who also keep me in their prayers, as well as the patients, especially the little ones, I began to realize that God is never insensitive or indifferent to our suffering.
I know that He was with them, as he was with me, as I prayed during the multiple dreaded MRI and CT scans, dreaded because I was claustrophobic when I began, but through prayer, I completely overcame the course of treatment. I pray that it is God’s WILL that the doctors will learn from the various clinical trials in which I and others participate and that their acquired medical knowledge, understanding and highly professional treatment of cancer patients gained from their treatments, research and trials, may spare you, your children and all of God’s children from suffering with cancer.
I truly know, understand, and believe that God is ALWAYS with me. God is ALWAYS with all of us, if we allow HIM to be. I might never have learned this if I had not had cancer. I would not have met the remarkable Mary, the mother of Margaret. Nor would I have come to know and understand Mary, Our Blessed Mother, the mother of Jesus, better. When we cease questioning God or trying to understand His will as, foolishly, I did, and, instead, rely on prayer and faith and the courage learned from the two Marys, and the many others who offer us courage and hope, we will never again have anything to fear or be angry about. I now accept, truly accept, that ALL IS GOD’S WILL, and I pray that I may use whatever time HE offers me to praise, honor, and adore HIM.
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