63. Questioning God
Questioning God — Imagine That
Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us, only sky
Imagine all the people
Livin’ for today
Ah
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Livin’ life in peace
You
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one.
John Lennon’s, Imagine, was released in 1971. It was a hit record. In my humble opinion, it should have been. The lyrics are lovely, though to some, controversial. Musically speaking, the piano solo is beautiful — its simplicity is just brilliant.
I was fourteen when the song was released, too young to really push into the controversy surrounding the lyrics. It wasn’t until 1980 that I took another listen to Imagine. A good listen. Why? Apparently, John Lennon’s words — his politics and his passions — put him in the crosshairs of an assassin.
I remember hearing about Lennon’s murder during a Monday night Patriots game against the Miami Dolphins — a gridiron smackdown I never missed. So, when I settled in with some popcorn and a soda, that’s what I expected for my Monday night — a football game.
That’s not what I got.
If you were tuned into that night’s game, then you don’t need to ‘imagine’ the action-call of Frank Gifford being interrupted by Howard Cosell with these words.
“We have to say it. Remember, this is just a football game. No matter who wins or loses. An unspeakable tragedy confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City. John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City, the most famous, perhaps of all of the Beatles, shot twice in the back, rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, dead on arrival. Hard to go back to the game after that news flash, which in duty bound, we had to take.”
Why am I telling you this? It’s part of my history. I think it’s interesting. It’s a written segue. I’ve been having some weird dreams lately and in one of them, the events surrounding The Beatles breakup, and the Lennon/Ono coupling, and the politics and passions of that period in time tumbled freely in my semi-sedated mind.
The Lennon Night — yeup, I’ve begun naming my weird dream nights. My world’s become a bit small, and whatever needs to be done to make it interesting for me, is done. Anyway, I woke to find a few tears had started their trip down a well-established path on my cheeks, and the words from Imagine were being whispered from my lips. Certain lyrics pushed in and began digging a trench in my head and heart.
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Livin’ life in peace
I’ve figured out why those particular lyrics found me. The religion part — or the God part of my religion — is sort of the point of this blog, and I’ll get to it, but I need to explain something. You know I don’t reread my blogs once they’ve been posted. In order to write Blogs 63 and 65, I need to take a look back at my written words, and the thoughts and feelings I hoped they conveyed. Despite the emotional shit fest back then, I think I mostly hit the mark. For the purposes of these two blogs, the things I hoped to find were there and I’ll be using them.
We’ve come to the point of this blog, but we’re doing some recap first. In Blog 3, Being Angry at God, I wrote.
Someone asked me if I am mad at God. To be perfectly honest, the question caught me off guard. It never occurred to me that that was an option. For the record, I am not mad at God. I don’t think He got up one day and said, “Hmmmmm, I’m gonna screw with Sheryll O’Brien and I’m gonna screw with her big time” … I believe He knows I am facing challenges and I pray that He hears my request — that I am given no more than I can handle. If that ends up being a handful of months, or perhaps a year, then so be it. I believe He supports my decision to not torture myself when I’m told there is no more hope, I know He does not want me to suffer. So, I guess what I’m saying is this, I will take the hand of God and trust that He will help me find my way through this mess, that He will hold me in his mercy because He accepts my faith in Him. And I believe my God is grateful that I chose to follow Him through my life and now toward my death.
I’ve had lots of time to think since then — some might say, “Too much time.” No arguments from me — well some arguments, because let’s face it — time is a pretty big commodity for someone like me. Anyway, I’ve had the time, so I’ve done the thinking.
Central to my ‘religious’ thoughts was my strongly-held belief that God didn’t do this to me. And then I read what I wrote in Blog 12, Firsts and Lasts, the part where I was mentioning to Father Dude a complaint I was having in the God department.
The only thing I have prayed for since the beginning of this ordeal, is that God won’t give me more than I can handle. Sometimes, I think He might be missing my prayer … I’ve sort of been getting one blow after another: you have metastatic breast cancer; it’s in your bones; it’s full body bone cancer; it is terminal; your femur and L-1 are your biggest concerns; dying of bone cancer is excruciatingly painful; there may be a pill that can help with the amount of pain you have getting from here to hospice; you’ll need to have a bone biopsy to see if you’re eligible for the pill; the biopsy can be painful; you should meet with hospice in the near future; you should begin planning a funeral; and, and, and — all of this happening in the span of a few weeks. It’s sort of been a lot, and it feels like it’s more than I can handle, sometimes … But, I guess I’m handling it because my friends and family tell me they can’t believe how strong I am, or how important it is for me and for others that I’m blogging about this, or how in awe they are that I’m still enjoying life.
Apparently, I took another whack at trying to make sense of this mess I’m in. In Blog 15, Blessings Big and Small, I wrote.
Happily, I was put on notice that I am on my final journey. For those who know me well, you know that my receiving this little tidbit of information is for the best. After all, I am a planner, an organizer, a doer. I manage my life to the nanosecond, and to varying degrees, I manage the lives of those around me. I make lists for everything — even make lists reminding myself that I have lists. So, I imagine I would have been r.e.a.l.l.y. pissed if I found myself dead one day leaving behind a basket of unfolded towels, or a half-written novel, or a half-eaten Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer … I’m quite sure God knows about my obsessive compulsive disorder, and I suspect it weighed heavily into His decision to give me fair warning about my impending demise … AND … If I’d died suddenly, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to write a book for Hadley — to put a lifetime of grandmotherly advice between the covers of a 75 page book. Then again, I wouldn’t have had gut-wrenching time to grieve the things that I won’t be here to share with her. And to ache in places I didn’t know existed. It breaks my heart that she will be profoundly sad when she no longer finds her MammyGrams’ wide open arms ready for the hug that she’ll need — the hug only I can give — but won’t be here to give … My having time to really enjoy the things that could have slipped by without my appreciating them is a really BIG BLESSING. As for the small blessings — I guess there’s really no such thing.
Okay. So, back then I didn’t think God gave me terminal bone cancer BUT I did think He was torturing me with more than I could handle AND I also thought he was blessing me with the gift of time.
Head swirl. Maybe not for you, but for me.
During the quiet and stillness of many nights I went back to the basics of my religious roots — not necessarily the best place to go when you’re hopped up on drugs and your only companion is confusion, but it’s now or never. Right?
In Sunday School at Greendale People’s Church, from kindergarten through high school, the religious learning was all Bible based — go figure. In the simplest of terms, Protestants don’t have a church hierarchy to learn about or rules to follow beyond the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule, so there’s some drilling down on the words written on the pages of the Bible. Grade schoolers begin by learning the names of the books and then go through them one by one in age-appropriate fashion. The New Testament is left to high schoolers to continue their studies on their own. Why? Because high schoolers become part of the adult congregation and are welcomed at weekly church services, in the chapel or the sanctuary. I always chose the balcony in the sanctuary. Kinda felt cool looking down on the gatherers. My mother always sat in the pew at the base of a stained-glass window honoring Hannah and Esther. I found comfort whenever I saw her there. Except, on the somewhat rare occasion, when she embarked on a fit of laughter with her bestie, Peggy Martin. I don’t know what would happen with the two, but off they’d go in an uncontrollable shaking of the shoulders, and covering of their mouths, and the scooching away from one another. The ritualistic-remedy pew-spacing had its successes, and the two Deaconesses would simmer down, until Round Two took over.
FYI Shirl, your laughing jigs were legendary.
For shame. For shame.
Anyway, during long, lonely nights, I started searching my head for Biblical lessons about the things that were bothering me. A few times, I considered reading the Bible, something I admit I haven’t done in a very long time. The idea felt so cliché. Dying woman + Biblical reading = brown-nose points with God. That didn’t feel right, and besides, I still have that last unread Agatha breathing down my neck!
So, what’s a girl to do?
I cracked the spine of neither, but I did drill down into my religious memories a bit. I remembered some stuff; the most important thing, hands down, was that Luke the Evangelist is my guy. I made a promise to read some of the Gospel of Luke, and Acts before I leave the mortal plane, no matter what anyone thinks about it.
With that plan behind me, I pushed into this question: does God have a hand in everything — even in my getting cancer? I remembered touching on some anger at God in one of my blogs. I went on a search, and there it was in Blog 29, I Am Dying. Here is some of what I wrote.
I’m pissed that I won't be seeing Wells Beach again. I’m profoundly sad that I won’t write another novel … I’m scared shitless by what’s next and how it will play out … I can barely type through my tears remembering in great detail my need to call out to Tim — to have him come sit with me — and how overwhelming the urge was to rage at someone. So I chose God because I knew He was there with me. I’ve felt Him near me so often lately. Without my reaching out to Him in prayer, I have felt Him near … In that moment of darkness I was angry at God and I let him have it — not because I blame Him for this, but because there was no one else to be angry with. I know the things happening to me are no one’s fault — certainly not His. My faith in Him assured me that He’d take and accept my rage — and He’d keep me safe while I faced my truths … That’s why I found the strength to call this out in the darkness that allowed such things — “I am angry that I am dying!” And then I said the words that surprised me to my core. “WHY ME?”
And. There. It. Was.
The ramble that clarified things.
I demanded an answer — from God — Why Me?
Did I secretly blame God for this?
Head Spin!
And. Then. This. Happened.
I looked at my body scan and I wrote in Blog 56, Turning the Corner.
On November 9, 2021, Tim took me to UMass hospital for the much dreaded bone scan. I met with a very understanding and very patient technician who helped prepare me physically and mentally for an IV push of radioactive material into my veins, and a terrifying trip into a partially enclosed machine … The results of that scan showed widespread cancer throughout my skeleton. I was put on high alert that the imminent cause of concern was a break of a major bone or the collapse of my spine which would lead to a rather quick demise. Barring that, it might take six months for the cancer to claim me … Anyway, the fear of a broken bone has been forefront in my mind since my diagnosis. My fear ratcheted up when I looked at my bone scan results a month or so ago — and saw — with my own eyes — how much cancer is inside of me — and how much deterioration has taken place. I’ve shared the scan images with a handful of people, each of whom lost their breath when they first saw the ink black skeleton. Some of the astounded uttered things like, “Whoa,” or “Oh. My. God.” or “How did you not know?” A couple echoed my sentiments upon seeing the devastation, “Fuck” … I was sort of pissed with myself when I first looked at the images. It was one thing hearing Dr. Wonderful say I had bone cancer from my skull to my knees, but believe you me — his words took on greater meaning when I saw the images for myself.
You’ll see it for yourself in Blog 64.
If you so choose.
As for getting from there to here on thoughts about God’s hand in all this — I’ve spent time with religious thoughts and memories AND I’ve spent time riding the pendulum between Does It Really Matter and You Bet Your Ass It Does.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I flipped the coin and came up with this thought process: I was a very sick woman for a very long time and I had absolutely no idea AND I am a very sick woman who will die sooner rather than later AND I am a woman who probably should have died already.
So, this is where I am — I don’t know if His hand is in all of this.
I do know it’s a miracle that I’m still alive.
I don’t need to ‘imagine’ who is responsible for miracles.
God is good. God is great. And I love Him.
Blog 64 will be posted Wednesday AM.