A Miraculous Day with Jo

It has taken me almost nine months to be ready to gather my thoughts and try to put them into something coherent. It was her birthday yesterday, and she would have been twenty years old. A month after she died, I wrote a letter to her sister. For my own use, I have copied that letter here and made some significant changes to it. I’m leaving some structure and prose from the original letter, as there are parts in it that are just better than what I write now. I’ve taken out personal elements that were meant only for her sister, and attempted to rewire those sections for a more general audience. These are my recollections from Wednesday, December 17, 2014.

During the funeral, I found myself saying the following to an acquaintance: “I was thinking that we should always be good to people. Be there for our family and friends, whether we see them all the time or just occasionally. You never know when one of them may reach out and count on you for support as her child is dying.” Then I busted up into tears and looked away. 

When Jo’s mom convinced me to work on a school silent auction years ago, I never would have dreamed that I would end up where I did on her daughter’s last day on earth.

Since her third cancer diagnosis, most of Jo’s treatment had occurred out of state. Other than sending cards, letters, photos and prayers, there wasn’t much I could do for them out of state. I wasn’t very good at anything but the praying part. When the inevitable became obvious, they brought Jo home. Jo’s mom sent out an email on Saturday, December 13, and I was honored to be among the few recipients. She needed some people to come help care for Jo and do some housekeeping for a few days before some relatives would arrive later in the week. As soon as I saw the email, I knew exactly what day I could be there. As it happened, there were a ton of reasons why none of the other days that week would work, but my Wednesday was wide open as long as I could get a sitter for my preschooler. 

Within 25 minutes of receiving the email, I had a sitter and was all ready to take on Wednesday with her family, doing whatever I could to serve and be helpful. I wondered what I would possibly do if that turned out to be THE day, but put it out of my head quickly. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and I figured the only way I could be ready for it was to free my heart of any expectations. Objectively, I have learned that when you deliberately choose let go of fears disguised as either doubts or expectations, the Lord does better work with you. Practically speaking, it’s still hard for me to practice what I preach. Jo’s mom believes that God handpicked all the right people to be there for her family at the exact time their particular gifts were needed throughout all of Jo’s trials. Regardless, I admit I struggled with my own perception of why I was there the day she died. I wish I could confidently state that feelings of inadequacy go away automatically by the time we’re 41, but they don’t. It’s a struggle to choose not listen to the lying voice that tries to trick me into believing I’m inadequate or weak. Reportedly, I was the first to respond to the email, and it was “meant to be” that I had unwittingly picked the day Jo would go to be with God. I will forever be grateful for the gift I received in being there. 

On Monday and Tuesday, I tried not to be too preoccupied with what might be in store for us on Wednesday. When I arrived early that morning, Jo’s mom stopped me at the door and wanted to warn me, or at least make sure I was prepared for seeing Jo’s advanced condition. I reassured her- I’ve seen this before; I’ll be fine, and besides, I don’t fall apart easily. (Outside of some specific circumstances, that’s a true statement.) The house was clean, and there were gifts from school and well-wishers laid out in the kitchen. The cookies were good but those little candies tasted like lotion: gross. I even spit one of them out and laughed. That’s when I realized all formalities would be tossed out the window this day, and we would all simply exist in this house together, ready or not, for whatever might lie in store. I was surprised at how easily laughter came to us during the early part of the day. 

[Allow me to digress. Ahem. This family doesn’t eat cheerios or “regular” bread. They make amazing egg sandwiches, but only with smoked gouda cheese.

Mid-morning, some of us took a walk. I joked about scampering about on the waterfalls and islands, and was informed that doing so would be illegal. There’s a sign and everything, apparently. Well. I NEVER break rules. But see, there really was no sign, so what choice did we have but to stalk a homeowner while he left the neighborhood, trespass into his yard and across the bridge in his yard to the island, slip on the way UP the muddy incline, search for the legendary table and chairs atop the island, grasp onto thorny and flimsy wisps of branches on the way down the hill, leave muddy footprints on the way back over the bridge, trample through a puddle to clear the mud, and then arrive back at the house only to deny the whole adventure? None. But of course as soon as we came back to the house, I spilled the beans. I just love a good story. And I like them even better when I don’t have to make them up.]

We watched over Jo most of the morning. We talked to Jo and read her letters from her school friends. She had a thing about Oreos, and apparently she had her whole class obsessed with Criminal Minds. We had taken a walk and absolutely nothing ill-conceived or sneaky, like trespassing, occurred. I spoke with Jo’s sister who, at age 17 or 18, wondered aloud about being the “strong one.” I had mixed emotions when she spoke of that. I was incredibly proud of her, but also a little sad.  Moms want to take care of their kids no matter how old they are, and I had a glimpse of a mother’s humble willingness to watch her child find strength in a time of crushing weakness.

My thoughts turned to the deaths I’d had in my own extended family. Story after story of volatile relationships never mended have peppered the last few years of my life. Grandmothers, an uncle, an aunt, a grandfather, the list is extensive. One even literally had a lawyer write us out of a will. Sometimes I still vacillate between a cold indifference, a repressed anger, and an inevitable, sad resignation. Invariably, the circumstances of our damaged relationships weigh on me with a pain of regret I cannot adequately express. My point is not to gather sympathy here. My point is that I have seen many people die in the midst of bitter, bitter conflict with their families, and the battle lines didn’t disappear during illness or after death. It’s dreadful. I wonder if this was also a reason I was there that Wednesday. Her family still graciously thanks me for being there, but I have them to thank, too. I needed hope. Jo’s family loved her, and she knew it, right to the very end.  In fact, Jo’s literal last words were “I love you,” spoken to her sister. I know there could be times when those last words are cold comfort, but what a gift! If only every parting of family members could be that merciful, even beautiful. People make stupid, stupid mistakes sometimes, and maybe we will regret less throughout our lives if we err on the side of showing them mercy. 

I sat with Jo alone for a while. Her hands were too white. Her breathing slowed and was too quiet. This was it. I called out to her mom. I called her sister. They both rushed in. A last exhale. My stomach knotted and my face was on fire. They both cradled her and loved her into the next world. I stepped back to make room and prayed several Hail Marys. That’s not usually my go-to prayer, but the words came out of my lips without my choosing them. Her dad rushed over. I started making phone calls. A teacher brought one brother. I went to get the other. And then they were all together, stunned. Minutes felt like hours. It was getting later but I couldn't leave them. I stayed until it became obvious to me that all the arrangements had been set in motion and the family could handle it from there. I may have been a bit in shock as I drove home and entered my own house. I felt a sense of detachment for a while. I was quiet and maybe even a little withdrawn, going through the motions of resuming my own life.

Before Jo’s funeral, I had been to one deliberately joyful funeral. It was still a little sad, but there was a concerted effort to focus on new life, a heavenly re-birth. Now I’ve been to two. I admit I still wanted invent a little gadget to suck the tears out of my eyes at the time. During the slide show, I lost it over the photo with her stuffed monkey in an empty bed. I clapped during the closing song like my life depended on it, because her parents wanted it that way. It was hard, but joyful. Joyful is not the same as happy.

I feel bonded to this family in a way I would never have expected. I have tried to relay the phenomenon of love I witnessed that day to only a couple of people in the time since Jo passed. I just can’t seem to explain it right, and it became less important for me to share what we experienced with people who weren’t there. I think people want me to say it was the worst, most tragic thing I’ve ever seen. Or that everyone just absolutely fell apart. When I tried to explain how Jo's passing was beautiful, how love was tangible, one of my relatives even got a little angry with me. I guess I can't blame her. It’s just not the kind of love people expect to hear about. It’s easy for people to understand the tragedy part; it is tragic to lose a child, a sister. As people of faith, though, we know Jo was born into eternal life before our very eyes; is that not miraculous? We witnessed a miracle. That’s when people look at me like I’m crazy. I decided that’s okay.

This is a magnet Jo made for family and friends from the second time she beat cancer. I love it mostly because on the back she wrote "Thank You" and signed it, and I'm certain she still means it.