Hymn Singing

Cancer. I cannot get away from it. After months of struggling with it myself, now I find my Father is dying from it. His cancer is aggressive. There is no cure, no respite. I HATE cancer. It is almost easier to have cancer than to watch someone you love have cancer. When I am battling, I know where my limits are, what I can tolerate, when I need to give in and let the professionals do what they can. I know about preparing myself for the worst, about facing death, the last enemy.

I cannot know those things for someone else. I cannot DO anything to help alleviate the suffering. I am frustrated and distraught that the interventions do not help as I would like them to. This is, after all, my Father.

Today we sisters three (minus two not here yet) have lunch at the Olive Garden after a restless night in the hotel. We are all concerned about Dad. We work with the doctors, trying to find every little help to provide comfort in a comfortless situation. He cannot sleep. He is exhausted. Its OK to give him some morphine so he can rest more easily. The antibiotics give him diarrhea, making him run to the bathroom every few minutes. Stop the antibiotics. Give him Imodium. His catheter pains him. Take it out. The breathing treatments are coming too late to prevent crisis state. Give them to him on a regular basis, don't wait for him to start feeling oxygen deprived.

I remember times when I was at death's door, when I was unaware of who was in my room, what the doctors were doing. My poor sons stood watch for me as I now do for my Dad. I think back. What helped me as I went through my battles? A particular incident stands out.

I was home, invaliding on my couch. Some of the members of Amasong, the women's choir I was conducting at the time, asked if they could come and sing to me. I said yes. So they came, a timid group of women, with candles that they set about in my living room and lighted. They were unsure just how to proceed, but finally began singing. I don't remember the songs they sang that night, but I DO remember how soothing and comforting the music was.

That they cared enough about me to take time from their busy schedules and come to my house and sing was touching. The music was beautiful. It reached deep into my heart. I cried gentle tears of release. Torn places, battle weary sections in my heart began to heal. Their kindness stayed with me for days and even now thinking back I am blessed by their music, uplifted by the sounds.

I cannot fix my Father's broken body. I cannot hold him out of death's way. But I CAN stand beside him and comfort him through the music he has sung for sixty years of ministry. Blessed Assurance. Holy Holy Holy. Tomorrow we will sing Christmas carols. I pray that our a Capella singing blesses and uplifts him during his battles. I hope the words of these hymns both bring him strength as he recalls God's grace and help him to remember times when the same music touched him in the past.

I kiss the top of his head and give him a little, cautious hug around the IVs and oxygen tubes. I love you, Dad. Be better.