The greatest story
The Strenuous Life
She was only in her mid-40s when she first heard the diagnosis. With pretty auburn hair and lightly freckled face, she could easily pass for a decade younger than her real age. The red in her hair gave hints about her lively personality, the laugh that always seemed about to explode from her lips. She took great pride in the three children she raised; they were proof to her that a loving God was present.
Tears flowed when she heard the doctor’s words. She reached for her husband. Cancer.
The cruel months ahead attempted to steal her spirit. She became violently sick, she lost weight. But she had a circle of friends that closed ranks and kept her family moving forward. She thanked them profusely and silently mourned the loss of her auburn hair. Forcing smiles, she committed to the fight and vowed to win. In private, she wept in nervous fear.
She marked time differently now. Scans highlighted her calendar in place of holidays. She found comfort in the moments she could forget the massive war raging within her body’s smallest vessels. Family and friends marched alongside her.
The cancer flanked her tough spirit, sneak-attacked her poor body, and defeated the chemo defenses. Finally, the doctor told her there was nothing more to do.
She heard the word she always hated, the word she so dreaded: Terminal.
The comfort of hospice care was her only defense now. No longer could she eat or drink, her throat so dry she could barely force her vocal cords to vibrate above a harsh whisper. How did I get here, she wondered in her low moments. I’ve been good, I’ve worked hard, I don’t hate anyone. How did I get here, she wondered. Her mind clouded. Her body weakened as she lay in bed for days. Then, suddenly, she hoarsely announced she wanted to be married again. She wanted to marry her husband once more.
Her husband laughed sheepishly, wondering if the request was just a hallucination. He shook the thought away. It didn’t matter. His wife wanted it and he was all in. They quickly planned.
Their daughter found the auburn-haired woman’s original wedding dress and smoothed the wrinkles with her hands. Hastily invited friends brought wine and food for a reception and gathered in the family’s home.
The bride, assisted by her daughter who served as maid of honor, slowly walked out of her bedroom and sat in a chair in the couple’s bright living room. The husband’s brother officiated.
The auburn-haired woman professed her vows in a whisper. She heard her tuxedo-clad husband profess them back. In sickness and in health. She smiled slightly and went back to bed.
Two days later, she died.
Why the wedding, the friends were left wondering. Was it a hallucination that took hold and wouldn’t let her go? Or a last chance to feel pretty, to beam as the auburn-haired bride once more?
Or was it because she wanted to make one last mystery clear, to give one last statement to her husband and children?
She celebrated. She taught them that even in darkness, the union of body, mind, and soul triumphs. The recitation of vows underscored one important truth that no amount of poisonous chemo, no amount of hair loss, no amount of pain could overwhelm. It emphasized the force of love.
Hospice wedding—an oxymoron, words that seem at war with one another and should never be uttered in the same sentence. Never, unless those who hear them are open to the mystery contained within.
The hospice wedding embodied the great journey from the comfort of life as usual to devastating news to terrible suffering. Then, acceptance. And peace. And a ceremony designed to encircle the family, to ring it with the joy of their beginning.
The original wedding all those years ago created the family. The hospice wedding enshrined it forever.
If only we could find reason to celebrate in our darkest hours, to remember the vows that make us strong, to build even when our lives are slowly slipping away. Upon doing so, we understand the distance traveled between Good Friday and Easter, between death and life.
We understand the greatest mystery revealed, the greatest story ever told.
Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org.