Grief is a valley through which we all must walk. But how prepared are we for the journey? Hugh Begbie shares his experiences.
This is my story of grief. I was married in 1975 and I lived for almost 28 years with Helen, a beautiful woman, friend and mother of my children. In 2001, at the age of 49, she collapsed with an obstructed bowel. That evening a doctor told us that the problem was almost certainly bowel cancer, a diagnosis confirmed after major surgery the next day. The obstruction and operation made her gravely ill. Six weeks later chemotherapy began. The half-year of treatment was deeply unpleasant for Helen but we were encouraged by the possibility that it would reduce the risk of secondaries. This hope proved ill-founded; two large secondaries were discovered in January 2002, three days after our daughter’s wedding.
Secondary bowel cancer is almost always fatal so, following more surgery, Helen decided to refuse further chemotherapy and enjoy the time she had left. From February to August she felt fantastic and we had a rich time together, but from August onwards the cancer began to gradually destroy her body. Her abdomen filled with fluid and had to be drained on a weekly basis. By November she was unable to eat and could hardly drink. While her abdomen swelled, the rest of her body wasted away.
Throughout the final period she stayed at home. With the help of others I nursed her and gave her the additional injections she needed to stave off nausea and pain. Finally, after a terrible night in which I learnt for the first time the real meaning of the words, ‘death rattle’, she drowned in my arms on the 11th December 2002 from an infection of the lungs.
Some of you may have lost loved ones and for you the story may be different. I have been explicit in detail because many have had no experience of such things and do not understand the terrible nature of terminal illness or the lonely journey of grief that follows. In sharing my story my hope is that it may help others prepare for this inevitable process.
When death comes gradually, grief, loneliness and separation begin before the end. The anticipation of parting and the process of decline bring their own pain but, as the illness progresses, conversation becomes more restricted. As I took over some of Helen’s responsibilities, I stopped talking about them. They were no longer relevant to her and her lack of strength meant she could not sustain interest in them. Likewise, I am reasonably sure that Helen protected me from some of her inner experiences. In any case, her capacity for conversation gradually dwindled. In the end, not much could be said but “I love you”.
Grief is like living with a profound absence, a shadow that lurks at every corner. At times it has felt like a physical pain. For almost 28 years, I lived with my friend, sharing many wonderful experiences, enduring hard times and rearing a family. Then it was gone and I had to learn to live again with half of me and all her memories missing. Grief is a personal and lonely process. It differs from person to person, from spouse to child. For me, grief and longing are not the same thing; I have grief over Helen’s death but I have longing for that which she gave. Different stimuli evoke different responses and some can bring both. Music—love songs—photographs, images and unpredictable memories can bring tears to my eyes. Weekends are the worst. Even though I have a close family and good friends, I find myself trying to fill the empty spaces. I walk many kilometres and sit alone in coffee shops. I find myself observing couples or young families and my heart bleeds. I enjoy the theatre but all the best plays or movies touch the deep recesses of the human heart. Church can be difficult as I try to redefine my presence and my ministry alone, singing the music we once sang together. When I am at home, I find myself carrying out domestic chores with (almost) as much diligence as Helen would once have shown. Ironically, I now find ironing relaxing.
I fear that some of you will feel sorry for me or think my life is falling apart. In fact, my family is getting on with life. But I believe that often well-meaning Christians—even church leaders—speak about faith in ways that fail to prepare us for suffering. Profound biblical teaching is superficial if it fails to intersect with the real-life journeys of those who sit in the pews. Some sermons never acknowledge the hard questions that press upon those in pain. A truly biblical sermon must touch the heart as well as the head. Some churches unashamedly teach that faith leads to health and wealth. Such a distortion condemns many who face suffering to loneliness, anger, guilt or deep despair.
Yet, even when churches are blessed with more balanced teaching, it is easy to downplay the truth. For example, how many of our public prayers ask God to change the world to suit us and how many dare to ask God to change us to live with faith and courage? I am not excluding our need to express our desires to God or precluding his power to intervene in human affairs. But even though I struggle to work out why God works in different ways in different times and places, it is clear to me that the Bible teaches that, ultimately, death, suffering and/or persecution is part of our fallen lot. If this is so, shouldn’t our prayers seek from God that which we need to live in this mixed world in a way honouring to him? In creation where beauty and ugliness—life and death—light and darkness—co-exist, we need from God a spirit of thankfulness, courage, faith and love. We need the honesty to name death and suffering for what they are and not camouflage their real power. I cannot honour God if I talk about resurrection in Christ but do not make clear the power of the enemy he came to conquer.
In all this I have learned two valuable lessons. Firstly, it is important to be open with others about our circumstances. People cannot love or care for a façade. Often they do not know what to do or say and they look to the dying or grieving person for clues. They desire permission from those suffering to enter their world, but this permission cannot be granted if you remain silent or put on a false front (even if that front is motivated by the desire to ‘be strong in the faith’). Helen and I were open about her impending death and the support and friendship we experienced were wonderful.
Secondly, God is gracious and provides many redemptive moments in difficult times. Many good things came out of the last two years. I was granted study leave just before Helen’s secondary cancer was discovered. This gave us 6 wonderful work-free months together. Many people gave us great friendship and support. I will never forget sharing the Lord’s Supper with our home group sitting on and around Helen’s bed, or enjoying the quartet, The Idea of North, singing to her. Since her death I have been given the opportunity to share with others the hope we found in Christ and the greatness of his love in the midst of pain. I was even invited to speak to Queenslanders affected by the Bali bombing. By these things God grants healing to me.
Our life hangs by a thread and ultimately we control very little. In the end we are master only of our beliefs, commitments, interpretations of life and willingness to love. Helen believed to the end and loved to the end. When all else had to be relinquished, these things remained. While there are many things I cannot change, I am reminded that I must make the decision to live each day—to make positive choices, act wisely, grow in faith. The alternative is to wither and die like a branch severed from the vine. My responsibility is to live by faith, to love others as Christ has loved me and get on with the life to which God has called me. God can and does forge wisdom and compassion through fire, even though the fire remains a terrible and lonely thing to bear.
I have experienced the loss of an extraordinary woman. Like many others I now do many things alone and it is my dog that first greets me in the morning. And yet I have seen the grace of God at work. I have witnessed in Helen an example of how to live and how to die and I have been reminded through her of what is important in life. And if, through my testimony, I can help others find the way through the valley of the shadow of death and see the light of God, then Helen’s faith and love will not only have been a blessing to me, but a lingering presence beyond the grave that touches the lives of others. And for that I can only be grateful—to Helen and to God.
Hugh Begbie first wrote this article in August 2003.
