A parallel Easter week
I've observed some close friends of ours, one of which I've known my whole childhood through now. They just recently had two close friends in their small group bible studies pass away from cancer. Both young men were married within 9 months or so of them passing, leaving behind very young widows. From the outside looking in, it's so hard to understand why such young souls were called home to be with Jesus so soon.
We unconsciously waltz through thinking we have our whole lives ahead of us until something like this takes us by surprise. Check in here for a heavy dose of reality. Suddenly we aren't invincible anymore. We're struck off balance with the weight of this sinful world. Life is steeper than we thought and the ground beneath us shifts. It's through these circumstances that we understand and appreciate that this life is a gift.
I attempt to separate Ryan's tumor from the man I married. It's my only tool to keep a shred of the love I once felt for Ryan alive. My successes realizing this separation in the heat of the moment are becoming more frequent. My husband isn't there when he spends all our money. My husband isn't there when he denies the actions I have proof of. My husband isn't there when he starts swinging at our children. My husband isn't there when he yells at me. My husband isn't there when he punches the wall. My husband isn't there when he argues logic itself. I don't give my heart to this stranger to stay sane and keep safe from repeated heart break.
I love my husband. I remind myself of my handwritten vows to him on our wedding day. I meant those vows with all my heart. I've hit the pinnacle of understanding what those vows truly meant, the moment it's all put to the test. When we got married I saw our potential. I worked to uphold my integrity in our relationship. I was going to break the chains of weakness from the paths walked before me. I had the tools, I had my God. I was going to do this thing right. I was ready to battle for my husband and our love for the next 60 years. I call it faithfulness. These days people call it an "old soul."
When the doctor gave Ryan a 7-15 year prognosis, I almost asked her what my prognosis was! Possibly a decade more of this hell we're in? God, HELP ME! In moments like I mentioned above, when Ryan is no longer present, do you know where my hope lies? It lies in an ending. I cling to the hope of freedom from this bondage. I AM SO WEAK. Every day revolves around this cancer. Our prayers, our actions, our schedule, what we accomplish, it has all been to accommodate this strange, ill person that I don't know anymore. I would like to think I could handle having a husband with cancer in any other part of his body other than the brain. The essence of Ryan is slowly disappearing. There isn't a cancer worse than that, one that steals the mind.
Love used to be a simple gift to give. Unfortunately, it's a grueling sacrifice at times like this. I've been so afraid that my love for him is fading. Upon re-evaluation, I was reminded that if I didn't love him, this wouldn't be so damn hard. The way I love Ryan just looks different and has morphed over time. It's servanthood more than passionate. I love Ryan by offering him my time and efforts without expectation of a returned favor. In this, I'm giving my devout support until his time arrives. I wish I could say I'm humble in these actions, but I'm not. To me, this sacrifice feels more like a chore at times than an act of love.
We're in this for the long haul and it puts a lot of mileage and wear and tear on our hearts. My sacrifice only goes so far before I run dry. My heart is weary. I can't even begin to describe what it's like having, essentially, an adolescent child inhabiting the body of my husband. No marriage should look like this. When there is a second "adult" in the house that outwardly appears normal, there is an automatic assumption that I should have able bodied help. Ryan can't help anymore. He agitates, whether he means to or not. I can't trust, rely on, or hold expectation to my best friend, my partner. Therefore, I tend to label him along with the rest of the baggage.
I think of marriage as moving forward in major phases of growth with each other and Christ. The more this tumor eats away at Ryan, the bigger the gap between us grows. It kills me and Ryan to see him lagging behind, losing the ability and endurance to catch up. Our marriage is severely handicapped. It doesn't function normally and hasn't for three years. What kind of a childhood is this for our sons? This isn't fair to them, this is just plain dysfunctional! Does God really have our best interests in mind? My head knows the truth. My heart, on the other hand, can't always reconcile this. I'm not built to live this way on a daily basis, but I have a mighty God to lean on.
Ryan had his first brain surgery when we were engaged. During this period I was so afraid that my actions or my sin was going to be Ryan's death sentence. I was terrified of death. I was terrified that God would pluck him from my life. I'm thankful to say that I've learned greater depths of God's true character since then, but there has been a shift from then until now. Ryan and I have been in marriage counseling for about a month now. It's been a breath of fresh air to devote an hour each week to one another to simply process in a neutral zone. Even with the relief of a safe place to share with each other, I was searching for a hope in our purpose there. Under normal circumstances counseling provides the opportunity for quality and improvement in the future. Yet, this cancer continues. It gets worse, it doesn't get better. That's the simple truth. Ryan's cognitive capabilities, or lack thereof, will continue to decline. Is there a purpose to this? It occurred to me this week through the words of another that the purpose of our counseling isn't necessarily to provide hope for improvement in the future as it is to help us find a peaceful ending. Death will be the sounding of our victory: the accomplishment of our peace with one another. Heavy.
Who will we be when Ryan goes? What state will we be in? What state will our hearts be in? How will God get us there from here? I'm still terrified of the hurt it will take to get us to where we need to be, but even in this incurable ache, I know there will be a season of healing before God calls Ryan home. I don't know how long that season will be. It could be two years. It could be fifteen plus years. All I know is that there will, indeed, be peace and freedom.
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We unconsciously waltz through thinking we have our whole lives ahead of us until something like this takes us by surprise. Check in here for a heavy dose of reality. Suddenly we aren't invincible anymore. We're struck off balance with the weight of this sinful world. Life is steeper than we thought and the ground beneath us shifts. It's through these circumstances that we understand and appreciate that this life is a gift.
I attempt to separate Ryan's tumor from the man I married. It's my only tool to keep a shred of the love I once felt for Ryan alive. My successes realizing this separation in the heat of the moment are becoming more frequent. My husband isn't there when he spends all our money. My husband isn't there when he denies the actions I have proof of. My husband isn't there when he starts swinging at our children. My husband isn't there when he yells at me. My husband isn't there when he punches the wall. My husband isn't there when he argues logic itself. I don't give my heart to this stranger to stay sane and keep safe from repeated heart break.
I love my husband. I remind myself of my handwritten vows to him on our wedding day. I meant those vows with all my heart. I've hit the pinnacle of understanding what those vows truly meant, the moment it's all put to the test. When we got married I saw our potential. I worked to uphold my integrity in our relationship. I was going to break the chains of weakness from the paths walked before me. I had the tools, I had my God. I was going to do this thing right. I was ready to battle for my husband and our love for the next 60 years. I call it faithfulness. These days people call it an "old soul."
When the doctor gave Ryan a 7-15 year prognosis, I almost asked her what my prognosis was! Possibly a decade more of this hell we're in? God, HELP ME! In moments like I mentioned above, when Ryan is no longer present, do you know where my hope lies? It lies in an ending. I cling to the hope of freedom from this bondage. I AM SO WEAK. Every day revolves around this cancer. Our prayers, our actions, our schedule, what we accomplish, it has all been to accommodate this strange, ill person that I don't know anymore. I would like to think I could handle having a husband with cancer in any other part of his body other than the brain. The essence of Ryan is slowly disappearing. There isn't a cancer worse than that, one that steals the mind.
Love used to be a simple gift to give. Unfortunately, it's a grueling sacrifice at times like this. I've been so afraid that my love for him is fading. Upon re-evaluation, I was reminded that if I didn't love him, this wouldn't be so damn hard. The way I love Ryan just looks different and has morphed over time. It's servanthood more than passionate. I love Ryan by offering him my time and efforts without expectation of a returned favor. In this, I'm giving my devout support until his time arrives. I wish I could say I'm humble in these actions, but I'm not. To me, this sacrifice feels more like a chore at times than an act of love.
We're in this for the long haul and it puts a lot of mileage and wear and tear on our hearts. My sacrifice only goes so far before I run dry. My heart is weary. I can't even begin to describe what it's like having, essentially, an adolescent child inhabiting the body of my husband. No marriage should look like this. When there is a second "adult" in the house that outwardly appears normal, there is an automatic assumption that I should have able bodied help. Ryan can't help anymore. He agitates, whether he means to or not. I can't trust, rely on, or hold expectation to my best friend, my partner. Therefore, I tend to label him along with the rest of the baggage.
I think of marriage as moving forward in major phases of growth with each other and Christ. The more this tumor eats away at Ryan, the bigger the gap between us grows. It kills me and Ryan to see him lagging behind, losing the ability and endurance to catch up. Our marriage is severely handicapped. It doesn't function normally and hasn't for three years. What kind of a childhood is this for our sons? This isn't fair to them, this is just plain dysfunctional! Does God really have our best interests in mind? My head knows the truth. My heart, on the other hand, can't always reconcile this. I'm not built to live this way on a daily basis, but I have a mighty God to lean on.
Ryan had his first brain surgery when we were engaged. During this period I was so afraid that my actions or my sin was going to be Ryan's death sentence. I was terrified of death. I was terrified that God would pluck him from my life. I'm thankful to say that I've learned greater depths of God's true character since then, but there has been a shift from then until now. Ryan and I have been in marriage counseling for about a month now. It's been a breath of fresh air to devote an hour each week to one another to simply process in a neutral zone. Even with the relief of a safe place to share with each other, I was searching for a hope in our purpose there. Under normal circumstances counseling provides the opportunity for quality and improvement in the future. Yet, this cancer continues. It gets worse, it doesn't get better. That's the simple truth. Ryan's cognitive capabilities, or lack thereof, will continue to decline. Is there a purpose to this? It occurred to me this week through the words of another that the purpose of our counseling isn't necessarily to provide hope for improvement in the future as it is to help us find a peaceful ending. Death will be the sounding of our victory: the accomplishment of our peace with one another. Heavy.
Who will we be when Ryan goes? What state will we be in? What state will our hearts be in? How will God get us there from here? I'm still terrified of the hurt it will take to get us to where we need to be, but even in this incurable ache, I know there will be a season of healing before God calls Ryan home. I don't know how long that season will be. It could be two years. It could be fifteen plus years. All I know is that there will, indeed, be peace and freedom.
Some silly pictures on Easter in the yard. They are plotting something fiendishly clever.
Liam hamming it up!
And then there's Jeremiah...
Copyright 2014 ->Renee Sunberg
Copyright 2014 ->Renee Sunberg
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