I Cry for the Zebras

If you're looking for a blog full of pictures or detailed accounts of the humorous antics of my kids, you've come to the wrong post.  Today is not the day for that, I guess.  I hope that doesn't stop you from reading, however - I hope you bear with me. 

This time I'm writing about how 2011 is sick.

And no, I don't mean "sick" like a hip 15-year-old means sick.  I mean it like it sounds - sick.  S.I.C.K.  Like "ick" with an "s."  Just like that.  I'm tired of people getting sick, I'm tired of people being sick (Ellery, are you listening to your mother?  I'm tired of your ills! :), and I'm sure my sickness of sick is very minimal when compared with those who are actually ill.

In 2011, sick in my world has meant essentially one thing - CANCER.  This January, my grandma, MY MIMI!, was diagnosed with breast cancer.  A good friend (who is my age) underwent a double mastectomy for breast cancer.  A good friend's grandma has had surgery(s) for bladder cancer.  One friend's mom is fighting pancreatic cancer, one friend still waits to hear what might be ailing her mother.  Most recently, someone from my hometown - someone I only knew of, not knew personally - was diagnosed with brain cancer, underwent surgery, experienced complications, and passed on within just a few weeks.  

Over the past 6 months, I think I've done pretty good - I've been in denial, I've shutdown, I've prayed, I've lived, I've dealt.  I've told my family and friends multiple times how sick I am of "The C Word."  I've listened to and seen my Mimi battle chemotherapy, and now radiation therapy.  I've asked about, listened to, and read about others' journeys.  Overall, I'd say I've coped alright.

That is, until recently. 

For some reason,  the loss of a man I barely knew - his illness and subsequent death - has affected me more than I would ever have imagined.  Being the person I am, I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out how a random man's illness and death have rocked me to my core. 

I've thought about all the reasons your heart aches after someone is gone, and I still am having a hard time figuring out why or how I am so saddened and touched by his loss.  Logic (especially nursing logic) dictates that I should be contented that his suffering was minimal, that his illness was swift, that he now knows the Glory awaiting us all one day.  Furthermore, I am a nurse; I live other people's diagnoses, illnesses, and occasionally deaths.  At work, I am surrounded by health care nightmares and occasionally hear about things that you might only think possible in horror films.  People from our small hometown who I only "know of" get sick and die, get in accidents and pass on, experience horrible things - and each time, I pause, thank God for my blessings, and move on.  But not this time.  This time, logic is having a hard time winning the battle.

And I think it's because of the zebras.

The medical world, ideally, is governed by Occam's Razor - and one of the best ways I've ever heard it said is "when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."  In my hospital world, this advice is crucial for first-year interns who want to search for the zebra among all the other, more logical conclusions.  However, in 2011, outside of my professional life, there have been so many zebras.  So many usually benign things that have not been the simplest answer, but instead ended as complex medical issues.  Too many lumps, bumps, and headaches that have ended up not as horses, but as cancer.  And for some reason, this last and biggest zebra really got my head and heart racing.

Those of you who know me might know that I don't cry - and I especially don't cry in public.  But during the Father's Day sermon at church, when Elders of our church sat on the stage and imparted inspirational ways for men to lead their families, I sat in the pew and openly wept for a man whose name I only knew.  I wept because he was ailing. I wept because I knew his family and friends had to be greiving his abrupt decline.  I wept because something so seemingly benign quickly became the mother of all zebras.  I wept because it could happen to any of us.

In all honesty, I have no real claim on greiving Gary's loss.  As I've said, I didn't know him - I knew of him.  I won't miss him, per se - I've never even so much as run into him at Flora Wal-Mart.  But still, a part of me greives.  And it's possible I may never be able to explain it.  For the time being, I'm counting my blessings a little more often, being more thankful for the health afforded to my circle of family and friends, and hugging those I love a few more times, just so they know. 

And, I'm praying that the zebras stop beating their hoofs.

    

The video is a little cheesy, but I like the words.

The backstory on this song is that Laura Story wrote it as her husband was undergoing treatment for brain cancer (if you really want to hear her story, go here.)  I have found it really appropriate during the last few weeks.

By now, if you're still with me reading, I'm flattered.  Even if it's just out of the principle of reading something to the end, I'm still flattered that you're sticking it out.  And I promise my next post will be about swimming pools and fun summer playdates with friends and have plenty of pictures to oogle over.  I promise.