Our house is relatively small, so sometimes I get to hear parts of conversations between Carol and whomever she is talking with.

She has been talking quite a bit lately, listening to her eldest daughter. The daughter, Jaclyn, has been living with her boyfriend for the past year, a fine fellow named Peter. Both are recovering from divorce; both have sons of about the same age. She recently changed jobs and now works for the U.S. Postal Service.

A couple of months ago, Peter had a problem which resulted in his hospitalization with a brain tumor. Supposedly the tumor was to be removed – something which didn’t happen. Instead, it was learned that only a biopsy was performed, and the tumor was the result of another cancer in his esophagus… a stage 4 tumor.

Needless to say, Jaclyn was upset. I could hear it in her voice when she called her mother. The only thing Carol could effectively do was to listen, and to be with her daughter on at least one visit to the hospital.

Peter went back into the hospital about a week or so ago. The conversation Carol and Jaclyn had on Sunday revealed that Peter has only two to four months to live.

Jaclyn is crushed.

Between having been through a probation period with the Post Office and having to deal with a reality she is not really equipped to deal with, she is under a considerable amount of stress.

Another circumstance coming into play is that her ex-husband is having his own battle with cancer (found after their divorce). She is, therefore, worried about the effect on her son having both of his “fathers” extremely ill at the same time.

I have relegated myself as a bystander in this situation. I have put myself in that role, knowing that as a man, my tendency is to offer solutions without necessarily paying attention to the full extent of the problem. That’s what men do.

I was reminded of the demise of a couple of friends of mine; one had terminal cancer, the other had early onset Alzheimer’s disease.

Rob was a member of my Cursillo small group. He was also, incidentally, my Cursillo sponsor. An engineer at a government facility south of town, he was first diagnosed with esophageal cancer at about the time my son, Stuart was born. He, his wife, and his two sons were on tenterhooks for several months while he underwent treatment. In the middle of his ordeal, he suffered a heart attack. He recovered from both quite nicely and was able to attend Stuart’s first birthday party.

His recovery didn’t last. At the Cursillo Christmas party, he announced that the cancer was back, and with a vengeance. He had been given five months (more or less) to live.

Our small group supported him through the following March. He was able to participate. We prayed for him and with him, hoping that his doctors were wrong.

They weren’t.

He was gone by the end of May, leaving a wife and a pair of school-aged sons.

I was unhappy, wondering why he had been cut down at so young an age. My faith was shaken and to a degree it has never recovered.

Rob’s widow was in the same boat. He made sure that she was taken care of, financially. Within five years, she was nearly broke, having made some bad decisions along the way – decisions she would not have made if Rob had survived.

And then there’s Norm.

Norm and I met while I was between the start and the end of my college career. He was a bit of a vagabond, working radio from “Town to town and up and down the dial.” He met and married his live-in girlfriend, quipping when he first moved in with her that his parents were relieved that he wasn’t gay.

Norm and Karen became fixtures with my ex and me. They were enchanted with our daughter, Sarah, to the point that they described themselves as Sarah’s “Jewish Godparents.” (As a side note, Sarah became enamored of the Shor’s dog Adrick, which she referred to as “The dog Ad-er-ick,” which I transferred to the dog Filbrix.)

A few years after moving to Allen, Karen revealed that Norm had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. They came to visit while Norm was in the early stages of the disease. It was easy to tell that he wasn’t all there, so to speak. Life went on with occasional dispatches from Karen on the progression of the disease.

Life happened here in the Metromess, with my divorce and my re-marriage to Carol. We met up with Karen while camping at Lake Erie nine years ago. I had every intention of continuing up the road to Erie, Pennsylvania to see Norm one last time, but Karen said no… he was already too far gone.

He lasted another year. Should I say, his shell lasted another year? Regardless, I went to Norm’s wake where I was the featured speaker at what was a family gathering.

I was saddened by Norm’s passing, especially saddened by the fact that at the end, it was his shell which finally gave out. Norm was gone.

Let’s bring this around to the situation with my stepdaughter and the man she hoped to spend the rest of her life with. From her description, Peter is in a semi-lucid state. He’s not all there, as if his mind is either going or gone. He’s teetering on the edge of the abyss while his body fights the cancer within him.

Rob’s wife, Barb, described his condition as a semi-lucid state toward the end, as if he was teetering on the edge of the abyss while his body fought the cancer within him.

Same thing with Norm. Karen and I have discussed Norm’s demise on several occasions and the same imagery came from her. Teetering on the edge of the abyss while his body fought to remain alive.

We are all faced with the finality of death. Some sooner, some later. From those facing the challenge of what comes next, we get a sense of acceptance, or even surrender. Those of us who survive are, for the most part, hoping and praying that the person we love will go to “The Good Place.”

That’s where having faith can be comforting.

My study in EFM has been challenging to what little faith I have left after the demise of my friends. Much of what we have studied has shown me a faith based on previous answers to questions developed by mankind about concerning life and death. It is not my intention to rob others of their faith by what I may say or believe. I may think differently at the end of this year of EFM, or at the end of the fourth year of EFM. For now, I am where I am.

Be Seeing You.

Postscript – I wrote this piece late Wednesday night and presented it at our EFM (Education for Ministry) class Thursday morning. Less than forty-eight hours later, I received news that Peter had died. The merciful part about the final days of his journey was that they were short. It does not make the burden any lighter for my stepdaughter or for anyone else in the extended family.