October 22, 2001

Most 10-year-olds don’t ask questions when they wake up late on a school morning. In fact, waking up to the kiss of mid-morning sun on your face as opposed to the cold dark punch that hits your feet when you get out of bed before the sun rises should be a welcome feeling to almost anyone. But the moment my eyes opened and adjusted to the light coming in from the window next to our bunk beds, I knew something was wrong. I looked around and saw my brothers standing next to me and realized I had not woken on my own. David’s hand was still resting gently on the arm he was shaking, and the expression in his eyes made my stomach turn.

“Are we not going to school today?”

I asked halfheartedly, because of course I knew we weren’t.

“Is dad okay?”

I asked halfheartedly, because of course I knew he wasn’t.

With my questions left unanswered, Susan and I were escorted by our big brothers into the living room where our eyes were met by friends and family all sitting solemnly in anticipation of our arrival.

No, we weren’t going to school today.

I only remember bits and pieces of the moments that followed. I remember sitting on the couch and noticing how red and puffy and lifeless my mom’s eyes looked as she sat in dad’s recliner. I remember fighting the urge to turn and run instead of facing the suffocating reality before me. I remember someone telling me that he had died during the night. I remember Susan chuckling because she thought it was a joke, and the look on her face when she realized it wasn’t.

The next few days are also a blur in my memory. Our home was constantly full of people, some I knew and most I didn’t. A lady came by to clean the house, meals poured in left and right, mom’s friends from out of town came to see us, gifts of memory books and flowers and stuffed animals were lavished upon my sister and me. I would sit in my room and try with all of my being to remember the last interaction I had with him. It had been bedtime the night before he died. I was in the living room with him…watching TV? reading? doing homework? I couldn’t remember. But I had hugged him goodnight. I had told him I loved him. Of that I was sure.

The day of the funeral arrived. It was a beautiful, sunny October day. I was wearing a long blue dress. Of all the things I remember about that day, there is one that sticks out most clearly in my mind. Once I had been satisfactorily bathed, dressed, and pampered, I was instructed to wait outside for everyone else to get ready. So I sat on the front porch swing with my headphones and CD player and listened to Lee Ann Womack. My dad loved Lee Ann Womack. He had played the song “I Hope You Dance” for me before. That’s what he wanted for me. He wanted me to choose to dance.

The funeral came and went, the reception after came and went, the people with condolences came and went. Life kept moving forward. I went back to school. I kept taking piano lessons. I missed my dad every day. I wish I could remember more about him, that I had made more memories with him, that we had gone on more adventures together. But therein lies the hideousness of ALS. It takes the life of its patients long before they die.

My dad suffered from Lou Gehrig’s disease for four years before it took his life. But he suffered well. When I was in college I found a copy of his testimony that I had never heard before. In it he elaborates on 1 Corinthians 13:12, saying, “We see through a glass darkly. It is not for us to understand each of these [trials of life], to understand His hand. We know that He is in charge, and when you release that to Him there is an incredible freedom in it. There’s incredible freedom when you know that you are not in control of it, and that you don’t have to worry about it.”

My dad was not afraid of his illness. He was not unsure of his salvation. He knew he had a Sovereign God. ALS might have taken his dignity in life, but it brought him glory in death. He did not lose heart. Though his outer self was wasting away, his inner self was being renewed day by day. His light momentary affliction was preparing for him an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison. My dad fought the good fight. He finished the race. He kept the faith.


Weekly Writing Challenge: Time for Poetry

Misty morning, fog is warning
death on her lips is sung
she smiles she screams
noise fills her dreams
death on her lips is sung

while hands of ice are softly rung
and tears flow down like streams
the birds fall still
from quiet thrill
and tears flow down like streams

but never in her wildest dreams
would ever madness fill
little scorning,
little mourning,
would ever madness fill

the time that’s left with thoughts to kill
mindful of adorning
words that are flung
and gently hung
mindful of adorning.


Weekly Writing Challenge: Time for Poetry

Weekly Writing Challenge: Threes

[Write about a memory inspired by either three of your own photographs or a memory sparked from a set of samples below.]

I used the photos below to inspire my short story for this week’s writing challenge. It’s written from the perspective of a man who has just lost his wife during childbirth.

Sample set by: A Tribute to Mom by Cardinal Guzman



The doctors were whispering again.

I still didn’t know why, but I had long since given up any hope of an explanation. I didn’t care though. I could feel the numbness starting in my toes and my fingertips and crawling in and up and through me. It would reach my heart soon. But I didn’t care about that either.

I stared at her, lying there limp and cold in the hospital bed. The monitors had been turned off but the beeping was ringing through my ears so loudly that I feared my eardrums would burst. “How did we get here?” The thought repeated itself over and over in my brain. “How did we get here?” My pulse quickened and beads of sweat trickled down the back of my neck. The question was like a virus that threatened to take the life of my sanity. “How did we get here?”

The doctors were staring at me now. I backed out of the room and slowly turned away from the door. I didn’t notice the shouts as I sprinted down the hallway, but a sharp pain in my side knocked me back into reality. The medical cart crashed to the ground and I used the chaos as my camouflage, slipping into a stairwell that I was not certain I was allowed to be in.

“How did we get here?”

I sat still, fearful, not that my location would be discovered but that my mind would never again be rid of that infectious question. I tried to play back the last hour in my mind but couldn’t piece together complete thoughts. I remembered her face as the pain took over. I remembered the sound of the ambulance doors closing. I remembered the sound of her breath as she let out the last scream. I remembered the sound of her crying…

I stood up so fast that I nearly fell back over. I remembered the sound of her crying. I remembered noticing how tiny her hands were as the doctors carried her away. I remembered the name we had picked out for her.

I left the stairwell and walked towards the elevators. I saw someone pushing a bed out of the room my wife had been in, but I did not stop to look. I could not help her now. She was not alive.

But my daughter was. And she was all I had left.


Weekly Writing Challenge: Threes