Prayin.

Needs change.

Prayers change.

The need to pray, however, that need that I have to spend some time saying, ‘Thank you’ or ‘I’m scared’ or ‘Please take care of my people,’ is always strong. I don’t know what it’s like to not have it.

I’m not saying I pray every day. Or every night.
I mean – I try to, but I certainly don’t.

When my mother in law Linda was first diagnosed, though, she was at the front-end of my prayers … Like, I got all my “Thank yous” out first (I’ve always felt that it’s important to say Thank You before asking for something. It’s only polite.) and then it was like “OK. Now let’s discuss Linda.”

I prayed for a miracle.
Every night.
And more.
I think we all did for a while.

Her prognosis wasn’t good – basically, from the very beginning, the doctor told us that they were going to fend off her very aggressive, Stage 4 cancer … until they couldn’t.
And then they would do their best to make her comfortable.

She reacted really well to her first rounds of chemo. So well, in fact, I took this to be A Sign. A Sign that she was going to live muuuuch longer than anyone thought she would.

For a while, I was right. Kind of. We had an incredible few months – and a Christmas none of us will forget. And a couple of great months after that (up and down. But still).

My prayers for a miracle – or hey – something close – continued.

And then there was a shift. And the Linda Prayers became a more desperate. And it was a fervent and continuous prayer. A plea. I was a kid tugging at her Father’s pant leg saying, “Hey – This isn’t the plan, right?? She will be turning it around soon. Right!?”

I continually pointed out (just in case He forgot) that in my version of Linda’s Story, people would see Linda – all healed and healthy, and they would be like, “WOW! The power of prayer! I’m going to pray more often!” People would freaking CONVERT and we would have a surge in believers. I saw it as incredibly solid for business. Like, if Jesus had business.

I tried using logic.
I pointed out that if you’re looking at a balance sheet of Fair vs. Unfair, it is categorically unfair for Joe and Miki to lose their mom and the kids to lose their grandma. And for Mike to lose “his girl of 53 years.” And for Grandma Jane, who is 80-something years old, to lose a third child.
I’m serious. I actually pointed this out. Regularly. A gentle reminder to God that maybe He forgot all the B.S. this family has been through. And how much we all need Linda HERE. With us.

I left Sunday, the day after our anniversary, on a business trip.
I work for an amazing company. They would have sent someone in my place, had I explained the situation.
But Joe and I decided that I should go and – I’ll be honest – even though Linda was declining rapidly, I was operating under the naïve notion that she would be with us for a while.
She was going to prove everyone wrong.
I was beyond asking for a miracle, but I was comfortable in believing she would see May Day.
I said a heartfelt “Goodnight – Love you – God bless” (standard in our house) to her on Saturday evening as she headed to bed for the night.
I said, “I’ll see you Thursday! You tell everyone not to do anything exciting til Thursday because you know I hate missing out.” (My FOMO … “Fear of Missing Out” … is somewhat legendary and is a family joke).
She smiled weakly and assured nothing exciting would happen without me.

I flew out Sunday afternoon.
Don’t get me wrong – I hated leaving my family. My parents, brother, husband, sisters-in-laws, a friend or two, and some Uber drivers (yep. More than one Uber driver. Those lucky bastards) knew I wanted to be in Minny.
I wanted to be there for the family. To be the comforting parent. The strong wife. The supportive sister-and-daughter-in-law.
Leaving was, emotionally, one of the toughest things I’ve probably ever done in all my thirty… something … years.
But not because I believed she was going to die.
Because I wanted to feel useful at home with My People.
Linda declined rapidly.
Quicker than she had in the past. Our last conversation – The FOMO one on Saturday night – was at the dining room table.
Two days later, she was downstairs in a hospital bed and she didn’t come back upstairs.
It was fast.
Which is probably a blessing.
I’m sure there were plenty of people who prayed, “If she can’t be healed, please don’t let her suffer.”

By yesterday (Tuesday) it was decided that they were just going to make her “comfortable.”
Her cocktail of pills – ranging from vitamins to her other pain pills to blood pressure meds – stopped.
And, from across the country, my prayer changed again.
Because I don’t know if it was distance or maturity or Miki’s voice over the phone that made me realize this is The End, but it hit me hard.
And it was a sharp, inexplicable, sense of loneliness.
My new prayer was that she stay with us until Thursday.
Please, just until Thursday.
I get in Wednesday night.
I didn’t have anything left unsaid with Linda. We had had our big End Of Life Talks ... Plus, we had been very open with how we felt about each other.
I was very comfortable with that.

But I prayed that she would hang on until I was home so Joe didn’t have to tell the kids himself. That was really important to me.

Today is Wednesday.
She died at about noon today.
When I was in Little Rock, Arkansas.
I’m actually writing this from the plane on my way home.
Joe is talking to the kids and answering their questions and processing his own grief right now. With four kids who just lost their grandma.

This is what I didn’t want.

Like everything in this journey we’ve been on: This doesn’t seem fair.

So. My prayers are changing.
Again.

My prayer now is for peace. It comes and goes.

My entire life I’ve believed in Heaven. And being reunited with loved ones who have passed before us. And eternal light and goodness.
So I want to focus on that. For all of us.

Who is with the kids and Joe tonight, in the big picture, doesn’t need to consume me. We will have so many conversations about her and opportunities to tell her stories and moments of “Oh my gosh – Grandma Linda would have loved this” until we are all old and gross and not telling stories anymore.
I alternate between wanting to focus on this and just being overwhelmingly sad.
I’m sad.
So sad it’s hard to breathe.

Sad for so many people for so many reasons.

But my perspective – When I really work on it – is this: Linda is no longer in pain. She is surrounded by light and love. She is watching out for all of us. And we are all infinitely better for getting to have her as long as we did.