Even If

 This week, Mike and I went to see the movie, I Can Only Imagine 2. The first movie featured the life of Bart Millard from the band MercyMe and how he came to write the popular Christian song "I Can Only Imagine." It's a beautiful song, and we actually had the music video play at the end of Jessica's Celebration of Life, which featured her photo tribute. There was a time, not so long ago, that I couldn't listen to the song without crying (I still do at times), let alone sing the words at all. I sang the song at our Life Group recently, and it was a beautiful moment that I felt honoured to remember Jessica.

I had only recently discovered that a sequel was in theatres, so I was excited to see it. I wasn't sure what this one was about, and I'm unclear on what a "sequel" could tell. Sequels are often described as "not so great" compared to the first installment, but I was willing to take a chance. If you haven't seen the movie yet, there are some spoilers in the next few paragraphs. 

The story again somewhat featured Bart Millard's life challenges with his firstborn son, Sam, who developed Type II Diabetes at a very young age. Their relationship became complicated, and neither Bart nor Sam could seem to relate to the other. Explaining that Bart's own fractured relationship with his father didn't give him a solid example to follow. We see flashbacks of the first movie, where Bart and his father struggled under his father's abuse. Of course, that relationship was healed in later years when Bart's dad became a Christian and a brand new person. 

However, as we know, the damage done in a child's early years does come back to them as adults, regardless of the healing that has taken place. Bart seemed to try many strategies, including taking Sam on a MercyMe tour. On that tour, the opening artist was a man named Tim Timmins. He was a gregarious sort of guy who instantly bonded with the teenager, Sam. Sam went on to become not only his assistant but also to play and sing with Tim on stage. 

Tim also had a song that he had had difficulty finishing, so he asked Bart to look at it and finish it for him. Bart didn't really take this seriously because he was having difficulty coming up with new material. He didn't feel he had had a truly impactful song since he wrote "I Can Only Imagine." 

It was after Tim had collapsed on tour that the band discovered he was suffering from Stage 4 cancer. They didn't share in the movie what kind of cancer it was, but after some research, I found out it was liver cancer, which is an ominous diagnosis. Bart then took the CD Tim had given him and went on to complete the song. It was at that moment in the movie that I saw the song was called "Even If."

"Even If" was a favourite song of mine, and even more so when Jessica was sick. I clung to the words many times. The chorus goes like this: 

I know You're able and I know You can

Save through the fire with Your mighty hand

But even if You don't

My hope is You alone

I know the sorrow, and I know the hurt

Would all go away if You'd just say the word

But even if You don't

My hope is You alone

 

When I listened to the song in the movie, I realized I had not sung or listened to it since Jessica died. I sang the words, "My hope is You alone," even when you don't save me through the fire, or take away my sorrow. I really thought I meant what I was singing. It was a prayer I sang over Jessica and her situation, an anthem of praise to a God who I knew was in control. 

I sang those words, and my prayers were not answered to heal my daughter on this earth. I sang the words declaring that even if He didn't heal her, save her life, keep her here for her children and all of us, her family, I would still hope in Him, praise Him, because He is good. But yet, I didn't keep my end of the bargain. While I didn't declare it with my mouth, I was upset that God didn't approve my transactional prayer. He didn't deliver, I turned my back in a sense, but He was still right beside me.  

Jesus never promised you or me that we would have a life without sorrow, without difficulty, or without any pain. In John 16:33, He tells us:

I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth, you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.”

He told us we would have many trials and sorrows, but He has overcome the world. Our hope is in Him alone. 

I had an epiphany that has awakened something in my soul. I have a longing to know Him more again. That’s something that hasn’t happened in quite some time. I pray this “epiphany” is not fleeting, like an emotion, but that it sparks me on to an even greater and deeper relationship with Jesus.

I'm singing that song again, "Even If," and, in fact, it is on and off in my head several times a day. I pray that this is another step in my healing journey with the Lord. 

Even If by MercyMe

Grief Activation

You know, I've written about how my grief gets activated, how it comes from out of nowhere. Well, the latest one hit me like a ton of bricks.

I was cleaning at my son-in-law's house, as I usually do on Wednesdays. This past Wednesday, I was cleaning the kitchen cupboards inside and out. This meant emptying the cupboards, wiping them down, sorting out some dishes and food that were not needed or expired, then restocking them. It is a tedious job, but again, I do it for Jess, the kids, and, of course, my son-in-law. 

It was going very well, and while sorting through papers that had accumulated on the top of the fridge, I ran across Jessica's chart from her home care nurses. Having worked as a visiting nurse, I know that these documents are legal and need to be returned to the nursing agency. Fortunately, the phone number was on the front of the envelope. 

The receptionist who answered my call was a lovely lady who was most helpful. I told her about Jessica's chart and that I  wanted to return it to their office. I volunteered to drop it off, but she quickly informed me that the envelope was postage-paid and that all that was needed was to drop it in the mail. 

I told her the envelope looked a little eaten up, and I may not be able to piece it together. It was her next comment that hit me like a punch to the gut. She said that while I could return it by mail, all of the records were on their electronic system and that if I had the means and was comfortable, I could shred the chart myself. With tears in my eyes, I replied that I didn't think I was emotionally able to do that. This lovely lady apologized profusely for being insensitive. I quickly stopped her and informed her she was not insensitive; it was just how my grief showed up today. 

After ending the call, I collapsed in a monsoon of tears, moreso than I had in a few weeks. It was a wailing cry from the pit of a mother's heart. It was clear to me why my grief showed up the way it did. If I sent the chart to the agency and they ultimately shredded it, I would be fine with that, because I wouldn't know. Shredding it myself felt like I was erasing Jessica, or at least a period of her life. Even though that chapter of her life was so painful, it was her final chapter. Erasing it almost made it seem more final, more real. Even though I acknowledge both of those realities in my logical mind. 

When I think about it, I still have two medication containers of Jessica's in my cupboard. The medication isn't anything I would use. They include a vial of vitamin B12 and a bottle of stomach medication, both labelled with her name. While I may get rid of them someday, today isn't that day, and tomorrow likely won't be either. 

I hang on to the tangible, what I can see. I think I'm so afraid of forgetting her, which of course I cannot ever forget my Jess. She is with me in everything I do. She is with me through her children, my grandchildren. I will continue to keep her spirit as alive as I can while I'm here on this earth.

“The memory of the righteous is a blessing.” — Proverbs 10:7

Still Making an Impact

 

When Jessica was going through her cancer journey, she had amazing people caring for her, from the PSWs who were welcomed into her home to the nurses, both at home and in the hospital, plus she had an awesome medical team. That medical team included her oncologist in London, as well as the orthopedic oncology surgeon and his team. Jess loved her team, and it was so evident whenever they walked into the room. Her spirit lifted, and her eyes lit up as she said, "Hello, Dr._____!" She saw them as the answer to her prayers. Even when things were not going well, she still had such love for them. 

One particular doctor on her surgical team, Dr. C., is a US physician who was completing his musculoskeletal oncology fellowship at Mount Sinai in 2023-2024. He was likely about Jessica's age, so they seemed to connect on things like children and family. I truly believe Jess counted him as a dear friend. 

He was amazing during Jessica's surgery, keeping us updated throughout that long 12-hour marathon. Jessica was later transferred back to London for palliative care, and after she died, I sent Dr. C a text informing him and the team that she had passed. 

The response I received back from him, I will never forget. I actually keep it on my phone and return to it from time to time. I shared it at Jessica's service: 

"Kim - I am heartbroken. Thank you for updating us and I have let Dr. Ferguson know. I can’t imagine the grief in your family, and I am praying for you all. Jessica will be in my memory forever, and my fellowship and future career has been impacted by her in a way no other patient has or will. She impacted me on so many levels. Technically - her case was challenging and pushed our skills to new levels, the decision making was challenging but thoughtful. I don’t think any of us regret anything about how things went/decisions were made. But on a personal level, spending time with Jessica and her family has made me hug my kids tighter, be more present and more grateful for my many blessings. I am a better surgeon, husband, and father because of her.

As you noted, Jessica’s spirit, even in the face of the most trying circumstances was unparalleled and inspiring. I will remember that spirit and turn to it often during the most trying times of my future career."

I was, and remain, so grateful for those words. She impacted his life and those on her care team. She made a difference to them. That was and is my girl. 

The other day, after we were in mourning regarding dear Ellie's departure from this world, I received another text from that same doctor. Note that it has been almost two years since that text after Jessica died. It read:

"Hi Kim. It’s been quite some time, hope all is well with you and your family. I’m a little over a year into my independent practice. I’m taking care of a patient right now who in many ways reminds me of Jessica. It’s a tough case, and I’m not sure if I’d handle it as well without the experience and learning, I gained and caring for Jessica.

I’m sorry to bring up hard memories, but did want to let you know that I think of you guys often and Jessica is still very much having an impact on me and my patients."

I was so moved by his compassion and God's perfect timing. There is nothing that a bereaved parent wants more than for their child to be remembered. This is not just Jessica being remembered, but that her presence on this earth continues to make an impact in the lives of others. Of course, I know that's true in our circle of family and friends, but knowing her further reach made and continues to make a profound difference in people's lives further underscores God's purpose for her life and, yes, even in her death. 

Jessica's positivity and resiliency during her illness were noticeable to everyone around her. It was her faith in Jesus that gave her hope and peace, and she certainly told people as such. 

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of my sweet Jessica and thank you that she continues to light up and impact the world for good. Just what she would have hoped for. 

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven." Matthew 5: 14-16

Ellie

Ellie in 2020

We lost a family member this weekend. Her name is Ellie. Ellie is my son's beloved cat, whom he adopted in 2020 at the beginning of the pandemic. He was away at school, and the companionship she brought him during the lonely lockdown was life-giving. 

Ellie continued to give him life as he navigated life. When he moved back home during the pandemic, she was there right beside him. She seemed to have an intuition that people might only associate with dogs, but our dear feline friends also harbour that characteristic. 

Ellie slept on his bed, beside his head at night and would wake him in the morning with a kiss on the nose. We rarely saw her as she was a one-person cat and rarely left our son's living quarters. 

When Jessica died, Ellie was there for our son, providing him comfort and support during his ongoing grief. She was his "constant and his rock." She provided the support he needed while on his journey through grief, depression and anxiety over the past two years. 

When he went away to Hong Kong to visit his girlfriend's family, Ellie was in our charge. We saw her more, as I think she was lonely on her own in the downstairs apartment. We started to develop a bond like we hadn't before. She sat with us for snuggles while we watched TV in the evening, and hopped up on our bed during the day to nap. 

When our son returned, he had noticed that Ellie had lost some weight. We figured she likely hadn't eaten well while he was away, so we didn't think much of it. When our son noticed her gums were tinged yellow and, the next day, her ears, we knew something wasn't right with our girl.

The vet told us that the yellowing or jaundice was not a good sign, as it meant something was not right with her liver system, indicating some blockage. He said that the prognosis was likely poor. While I thought I had prepared our son that this could be a serious condition and even mentioned the word "cancer" to him, he was gobsmacked. 

Witnessing my 28-year-old, devastated, hurt deep into my soul. While of course, I was upset and worried about Ellie, it was seeing my son in so much pain that pierced my own heart. 

That day, Ellie stayed at the clinic for IV therapy, on the off chance this might be reversible. One day of IV turned into two, and soon we were on the weekend, when she would need to go to an animal hospital for more intense care. Of course, none of this came without cost, but we felt we needed to help, since our son wanted to do everything possible. At that point, Ellie did not appear to be in pain.

Saturday morning, when I spoke with the vet who had been on duty all night with Ellie, something in me stirred. Until that call, the staff had been somewhat positive that she was stable, eating and peeing, so it gave some hope. This time was different. Her report was not encouraging, so I knew we were in for a rough ride.

The call took me back to 2023/2024 with Jessica. Knowing the news I was waiting for was likely not good, but hoping and praying for a positive outcome. Grasping onto little threads of hopeful comments by medical staff, but inside knowing the outcome would not be good. 

That morning, my insides were churning with a familiar sensation that I wished I would never experience again. I had to get out of the house as I felt like I would self-destruct. I went to visit Jessica's bench. It was not the greatest day to hike on a snowy trail. While the weather was clear and crisp at -20C, with snow on parts of the trail almost knee-high, the trek was worth it. I sat on the bench, prayed, and then talked to Jess, and it seemed to help me organize my thoughts. 

A call from the vet with an update from the day shift so far. Things remained guarded, and when I returned home to give my son an update, I was gentle but truthful. Much of this was bringing back not only bad memories for me but also for him. 

For his protection, I may not always have shared everything with him about Jess, at least not as bluntly. Later, he told me he felt betrayed, even though he understood my reasoning. However, he is an adult, and while I can be gentle, I need to be truthful. 

Later that afternoon, we received word that Ellie was declining. The vet did an ultrasound and found fluid in her abdomen, which she said most likely meant this was all caused by a malignancy. Ellie was not quite six years old and had otherwise been in top health. This didn't make sense. But it was clear that she was not going to return to health, and prolonging her life was only going to increase her suffering. 

We all made the trip to the animal hospital, where we spent time with Ellie. While my son held her close, she crossed the rainbow bridge. I whispered to her that she should go and find Jess. Again, he is devastated, but knows the right decision was made. 

The grief my son has over Ellie is compounded by the grief he feels for losing his sister. In the world of grief, this is called secondary grief, or compounded grief. Whatever you call it, it hurts, it sucks, and it's not fair. 

Jessica was his friend and confidant. In some ways, so was Ellie. She gave him unconditional love and support in the darkest times, but also in times of rejoicing. 

Our pets are not "just a cat" or "just a dog"; they are our beloved family members, and their loss leaves a void in our lives that we cannot "get over" in a succession of days, weeks, or even months. Not everyone understands, but those of us who do will support others in their seasons of pain.