Traded to the Angels
I believe that there are times when we are not alone and we don't even know it. We look around, see nothing or no one and think that we are utterly alone in our own part of the universe. We may even look at the emptiness that surrounds us and feel the pain of being alone- like we have just dropped a rock into a deep, dark hole and have yet to hear the thudding sound to know that it has landed on the bottom. The emptiness reverberates through our soul. If we merely open our hearts up to the possibilities, we find faint hints that perhaps, we are not alone. Hints that can not be seen with our human eyes.
In difficult times, there are beings that surround us and follow us into the dark places that we have to go, but fear and do not want to tread. These beings vary in size and purpose. They are angels. God sends them but they do not make their presence known in a way that we can relate. Before you discount these claims, consider a the evidence:
I walked in briskly to the hospital where my brother-in-law lay fighting the virus that attacked unmercifully at his digestive system. Fear seized my heart and I fought the urge to run away and hide. This fear was a fear of what I didn't want to find when I entered Mark's room ( as I was about to do).
I had a living, vibrant fear of him dying and its grasp on me was hard to bear. If felt like if I didn't have to face him in the hospital, in that painful state, in that room, with all of the equipment, death wouldn't happen. I could avoid it altogether. During the course of Mark's five year battle with Hodgkin's, there were always situations that I didn't want to face.
Situations that were so out of my control that I could no longer stand the sight of them, thus, I did what a lot of people do, I retreated into denial and avoidance.
One particular night, my usual denial and avoidance routine wouldn't work because I had an important task. Eating had become very difficult for Mark and it had been days since he consumed food and was in danger of being malnourished. His only request was something I could provide. He wanted tomato basil soup from Nordstroms. I just happened to have picked up his favorite and now I was walking the long halls of the hospital- soup in hand. The only problem was my fear. I couldn't get it under control and for this, I stalled for time and couldn't bring myself to the red elevators that would take me to the fifth floor. Although not recommended, I took my soup into the nearest restroom and fought the fainting spell that my fear brought upon me.
Clutching the gray Formica sink counter top, I bowed my head whispered,
''God help me."
I lifted my head slowly to the mirror above the sinks and looked at my reflection. It was apparent that I wouldn't have the strength to deliver my tomato soup.
Just when I was certain that I would have to leave the hospital and eat the soup myself, a slight wind rushed over the tops of my shoulders. I lifted myself, standing fully upright and caught a glimpse of a light moving in the reflection of the mirror.
Odd.
As I turned to leave the bathroom, I felt a rushing of wind, a whoosh, following me as I turned.
I turned again to face the sink.
Whoosh!
At the very moment of the 'whoosh,' a strange blanket of courage covered me from my head to my feet. I felt warm. It was the type of warmth that overtook my insides muffled the fear. I stood up very straight, feeling a confidence and warmth I hadn't felt before.
I grabbed up my soup, turned around, and headed for the door. As I was turning, I felt the wind again and the sensation was like a row of heavenly angels were turning in a line with me. It wasn't something I saw, it was something I felt and knew was there.
I knew without a doubt that there was a row of at least eight angels behind me and one on either side- touching my shoulders. The power they wielded as we walked almost lifted me off of my feet. In fact, my feet and legs didn't carry my own weight as we moved through the halls. My movement became fast, effortless. I entered the elevator, pushed the number five and waited. My confidence grew with each floor we passed. As we stopped at the fifth floor bone marrow transplant unit, I looked to my left, then to my right and whispered, "Let's go." Each being marched in step with me out of the elevator and through the large doors holding those who were sick. They were guiding me- they had been to the transplant unit many times before.
I could tell- I no longer need a sign to tell me where to go- I didn't need the reception area or the patient board to tell me where Mark's room was located. My ten heavenly escorts marched in step with me- they had visited Mark before. I entered the room-soup in hand and greeted my brother sitting up in the bed. In a manner that was unreal, I offered him his soup, the angels standing beside me to certify that the task was done. Mark chatted with me while devouring the soup. The escorts must have known he needed it and were sent to get me.
The angels have visited many other times.
So many, in fact- it starts to become rather weird.
One particular visit was when Mark spent a number of weeks in the hospital due to his raging graft versus host disease. His body was waging war against itself and caused tiny canker sores to form all over his stomach, liver, and intestine. Eating was painful and stressful. Mark was at risk of developing infection as the lymphocytes attacked without mercy. Anytime I visited Mark, the pain he experienced was so evident. He would thrash around in pain until the pain medicine kicked in for him. He would sweat, thrash, and no position was at all comfortable.
His pain evident, I stood beside the small ICU bed that held Mark and his pain ridden body. I talked to him as he told me about a strange dream he had the night before- he dreamed that angels were in his room.
I froze.
"Mark," I said, voice and knees shaking.
"What did the angels look like?"
Mark went on to describe his dream in detail.
I stood, still frozen- listening.
Mark's dream described in detail the parade of angels that I saw standing in his small ICU room. What I saw can only be described to those who believe. In fact, I wasn't sure that I believed my own mind. Perhaps I was stressed, worried, and saw something that my mind used to make sense of my dilemma.
I couldn't deny any of it.
I saw the exact vision that Mark saw in his dream the night before.
Rows of them.
Angels with large wings standing guard, lining Mark's room with their huge bodies. They were so huge that I only saw their torso. Their faces were above the room so that they couldn't be seen. There were so many that I couldn't count them.
They stood guard.
Mark dreamed it.
I saw it.
As I mentioned earlier, there are times when we think we are alone.... but we are definitely, without a doubt-
not alone.
WARNING- Not for the Faint of Heart
Love is stronger than death. The love that binds people together can surpass the grave. I've seen it first hand. Let me let you in on a little secret.....I have the answer to the quandary of what you're thinking at this exact moment, "how is love stronger than death?" Come a little closer, grab a hot cup of coffee and I'll tell you........Leaving church, I flew down to the hospital on Sunday, December 18th. The mad rush to the highway was in response to the incoherent message my sister left on my machine which I only half listened to during my morning routine. I heard something about a respirator and Mark being moved to ICU. The tell-tale denial defense mechanism kicked in as it had during the five year war between Mark's body and his Hodgkin's lymphoma, but I had a gut wrenching feeling that this time, things weren't good. I lied to myself as I drove to the hospital- telling myself that Mark would pull out of this just as he had during the dozen other near death experiences he encountered throughout the course of his treatment. So what if he'd had a vision of Jesus and his granddad just a few days prior, so what if he had a vision of an orange light and him wanting to move toward it. So what if Dr. Abiancar came in that Thursday to tell Mark that there was nothing more they could do for him. So what, all of this didn't matter, after all, this was Mark HOLT. He never gave in when it came to his fight against cancer.
When I arrived, I went right to the waiting room for the MICU at St. Luke's hospital. I was immediately met with one of our friends, Mike, who was making jokes that seemed to me like they were a cover for how bad the situation really was. Mike's nervous humor proved to be true to the reality of the situation. Mark was breathing with his neck muscles by the time I arrived at the hospital. When I went in to see him, I nearly lost the bile churning in my stomach. This is my sister's husband, he is laying in bed and his breathing is labored and gurgilly. I nearly fainted until I ran into Linda. {If you are wondering who Linda is, than you have been too far removed from Mark and Metra's life over the course of Mark's treatment. For, you see, Linda is the psych nurse that Mark and Metra absolutely loved. I suggest you take notice of her- she plays a pivotal part in this story.}
Linda's presence calmed the anxious stomach pains I felt. She informed me that they were making Mark comfortable and that he probably wouldn't last throughout the night. I wanted to scream,
NO, NO, NO, NO! This Can't be happening!
THEY WERE MAKING HIM COMFORTABLE!!!!!???? The thought entered my mind finally, Mark is going to die. I am here because this man is going to die. I had to leave the busy ICU waiting room and walk. I had to cry, scream, walk, and fight off the urge to vomit. I kept pleading to Mark in my mind, "
"
Mark, NO- don't do this! You have to fight! You have to come out of this. What will my sister do without you?"I made a few phone calls and staggered back to the ICU waiting room. When I arrived, Mike was sitting there- still the ever present comic relief. But, this time, I wanted to shout explicitives at him.
I went back into Mark's room. I stared at the monitor that broadcasted Mark's BP, heart rate and oxygen saturation. I stared at Mark as his breathing labored on. I stared and stared. I couldn't move. The oxygen had been sucked right out of me. My sister was there, laying on the bed, not staring, but talking to Mark. Telling him she loved him. I saw Mark's ever faithful parents- we were all staring. As if we could will him out of the situation by staring and showing him how hurt we were. I didn't know what to do so I left Mark's room. I knew that we were engaged in the waiting game- we were waiting for Mark to die. Not that we wanted it, we just waited like fools. Fools without the power to change the situation. Fools who knew not what to do.
After a few hours of the staring, Linda went into the ICU room and busted up all of the chronic staring. She started in her gentle way, telling us all what to do and how to act. We all let her do the thinking for us. She had been through death many times before. Linda had hoped that Mark would hold on long enough for several out of towners to arrive. The pain medication was distributed to aid him in holding on to his life until Audrey could fly into town from Dallas. {Again, you're far removed from the Holt's life if you are asking yourself who Audrey is. She is the wife of Mark's brother- adopted at birth- John} Audrey and John strolled into the ICU waiting area, took a look at the small television in the corner that's picture was eternally purple, and started asking questions. I could tell that Audrey still had the same optimism that I possessed when I arrived just ten hours earlier- she thought Mark would fight his way out of the ICU. After all, this was Mark HOLT we were talking about! The waiting room patrons soon crushed her optimism and she started down the hall toward the double doors to the ICU room suite where Mark lay. I started my staring routine again, this time focusing on the ever purple television screen broadcasting a football game I cared nothing about. Mark would care, but I did not.
After a few hours, Linda escorted all the family and friends out of Mark's room. She was allowing Metra one last night with Mark without interruption or intrusion. She stood sentry at the ICU door, and, I for one, was way too afraid to cross Linda once the announcement to vacate had been made.
The night wore on.
People were asleep on chairs.
People snored and went in and out of the ICU room.
All the while, I kept thinking that my little sister- the one that I used to beat up on- was getting beat up on by death. Death that was coming too early. I felt that it wasn't fair that I was out in the waiting room, sprawled out on a couch, breathing without thinking about it. It was an involuntary movement for me but Mark had to work for each breath he took. It wasn't fair. How could I have the right to breathe like this? I tried to take the breaths as I'd seen Mark do so many times during that day. Mouth wide open, neck pulsed out, muscles taught, mouth closed. Nothing in his chest was working properly except his heart. Mark would open his mouth, suck the air in using his neck and then close his mouth. Many seconds would go by before the next breath of air.... one second, two, three, four, five, six seconds, seven. All of us in the room would hold our breath and then enjoy secret relief when he would breathe again. We were always afraid that each breath was the last.
Open mouth, air in, close mouth, one second, two seconds, three, four, five, six.... the cycle played out over and over the entire night.
Morning refused to come. It was hiding itself from us, perhaps so we would not have to face our greatest fear. I tossed and turned. I listened intently to the snoring of my fellow ICU members and tried to make the rhythmic snoring into a beat that would play out in a song. I hated myself for breathing. Finally, after sleep avoided me, I made my way to the wooden chapel in the front of the hospital. I stared at the familiar portrait of Christ suffering at the front of the small room. My thoughts ran to how much Mark identified with Christ because of Christ's suffering on the cross. Mark and Christ were intertwined and the story of the resurrection always held so much meaning for him.
In the chapel, I blamed God. He
could intervene and did not do so on that night. I told God in the simplest of words to show me some kind of sign that Mark's fight wasn't a loss. It wasn't a waste of a good man and the love of his family and friends. Mark's death HAD to have meaning. It had to be symbolic. I yelled at God to let me in on some of the meaning. Words, give me words, Signs, give me signs, something! Anything to make sense of this horrible mess. My emotions haunted me. They were threatening to leave my body and erupt in protest. I didn't hold them back that night in the chapel. After awhile, I came to a verse that absolutely put the event into perspective. It was in a book nestled in the middle of the Bible that I had never come into contact with before this night. It was entitled, "The Wisdom of Solomon," a book from the Apocrypha. Its words blazed themselves into my heart:
But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them. 2: In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, and their departure was thought to be an affliction, 3: and their going from us to be their destruction; but they are at peace. 4: For though in the sight of men they were punished, their hope is full of immortality. 5: Having been disciplined a little, they will receive great good, because God tested them and found them worthy of himself;This was Mark! His soul rested in the hands of God and he would never have pain or affliction again! When we look at him resting in his ICU bed, we see destruction but he is immortal. Mark was tested and found worthy. It was an amazing sign. I think that Mark himself would have been excited by this sign. I ran back to the ICU as fast as I could. New words of hope burst alive in my brain. MARK'S DEATH WOULD NOT BE FOR LOSS. IT WASN'T MEANINGLESS! I crept back onto my couch/bed and finally found a few moments of sleep.
That next morning, I awoke fully expecting a nurse to tell me that Mark had passed during the night. Instead, his heart was pumping strong. At 5 am I sneaked into the room, the fear of Linda keeping me from staying too long, and stole a peek. The vital monitor was off, Ellen, Jen, and Michelle were asleep in the suite ajacent to Mark. Mark and Metra were laying in the hospital bed, the "no bull" blanket on top of the covers, Metra hogging the covers. Linda was lounged in the chair to the left of the bed, pastor Bob asleep with his head bowed on the bed to the right. No doubt, praying for Mark and Metra until an unknown hour of the night. This sight gave me peace.
Morning raised it's sleepy head and Mark was still alive much to the surprise of all the medical personnel.
He shouldn't have survived the night.
As a result of this, the head scratching began.
Linda looked on puzzled, scratching her head as to why this man fought on.
Dr. Abiankar came in, scratched his head and left.
We all secretly knew that Mark was still fighting. He was not one to give up easily. I was secretly glad he was still alive so I boldly went into his ICU room and started reading passages to him out of my 'hoopty' bible (my bible is lovingly referred to as hoopty because it's a very easy to read translation and certain people like to make fun of me for not owning one with the king's proper English). I read and read. I read Psalms, Proverbs, and then out of the book of Mark. I read the story of Jesus's birth and I could tell that Mark was listening to every word. He would respond through his breathing and voice. His breathing became more rapid. Especially during the reading of the crucifixion. I started in on the familiar passages of the torture and the cross and Linda shook her head and said, "can't you read something more pleasant?" I knew it was a gruesome story to chose at that particular time but I replied with, "Mark loves this story. " Linda gave me a knowing look because she was so close to Mark and Metra that she already knew exactly why I was reading it. I read on as praise and worship music played. I choked on many of my words- Darn Tears.
After I stopped briefly the song,
Come Home Running started playing. Metra barked at Jen to turn it up. I could tell that Mark was listening to that song and was responding. The response wasn't verbal but very real, just the same. After reading and hearing the
Come Home Running song, they played music from the
Passion of the Christ movie. Mark's breathing slowed at this point to once per minute. It was hard to watch so I left for awhile. Metra stayed, telling Mark how much he was loved.
Now, cue the head scratching.
It started up again.
You see, being the observant one that I am, I noticed many random behaviors from those of use who were there during Mark's final hours. We stared, we glazed over, we pretended to watch a purple screened TV, we scratched our head, we paced, we made bad jokes, we engaged in nervous laughter, and we sobbed. Everyone took their turn but the only one who didn't stare, scratch, cry or glaze was Metra. She never let go.
Back to the reason behind the head scratching.
Mark was still living and he was way passed the time any person should endure when water enters the lungs. Every minute was passed a deadline. It was a deadline imposed by the body's physiological function of breathing, processing, and supporting the mind. This could be a problem. Mark's body could break down. This was not good.
Linda was smart, she realized that Metra had not yet given permission for Mark to go. She knew Metra told him it was okay a few hours earlier, but Linda knew the two well enough to know that Mark knew when Metra was not displaying her true feelings. The first time Metra said it was okay, she admittedly didn't mean a word of it.
Linda pulled Metra aside to make sure that Metra dealt with letting go in all honesty. Their conversation is unknown to me but within a few minutes, Linda, now dubbed the ICU bouncer, threw everybody out and ushered Metra in. I fought the urge to puke and went back to my familiar surrounding of the waiting room, the purple television, the staring, the glazing, and the scratching. After ten minutes, the bouncer came out (Linda) and with a tear streaming down her compassionate face, she uttered, "She did it." I ran to hug the nearest neck and wanted to faint. It was a relief that Mark's suffering was over but our suffering was just about to start. I ran to hug Linda and she whispered to me that now, my part begins.
That doggone Mark- being the strong willed, stubborn, warrior that he is - fought for Metra until she was able to let him go. You see, just one week earlier he was in surgery and then scheduled to undergo dialysis to ease the hallucinations caused by high levels of toxins in his blood. The toxins were caused by failing liver, bladder, and kidney functions. When he got out of his surgery, Metra and I were standing in the ICU room and he kept saying over and over,
"Metra, I'll fight for you, see I'm fighting for YOU, I'll never stop fighting."True to his word-
He never did.
He refused to go until he was certain she meant what she said when she told him to 'go home." Metra made the ultimate sacrifice. She put her feelings aside for Mark. She released him into eternal paradise where he could sit and chat with Jesus for hours about the many signs he'd been given.
Linda was right, she did do it. I can't believe she did it. I can't imagine the courage it took to give her ultimate best friend permission to move into his new life without her.
Maybe it was all the beatings she took from me that gave her the strength to do the most difficult task anyone has ever faced.
Maybe it was something instilled in her long ago that gave her the will to let Mark go.
Maybe, it was God.
Now, what's this about love being stronger than the grave, you say?
Mark's love defiled death, laughed at death, sneered at death, until he was good and ready- until Metra was ready.
His love spoke loudly- even in death!
{Please note- I took some liberty with this story. This story has many other sides experienced by Mark's family and friends. I took the liberty to write this based on my own feelings and perceptions. I took the liberty- especially on the part where I beat up on Metra! I didn't always win! }
The Offering Plate
Six year old Madelyn considered Uncle Mark one of her friends. Neither she, nor Mark, ever noticed the age difference, the 25 years that stood between them, never an issue. They often colored together, neither of them speaking a word. Both sitting at the table, their lips pursed in concentration. They took their art work seriously. They always worked away at a picture of a Disney character and used various forms of media- crayons, colored pencils, watercolors, chalk, to create.
They used their art as a way to symbolically communicate with each other. At various times, they were forced to be apart so that any bacteria or virus that Madelyn unknowingly carried would not invade Mark's fragile system and reek havoc on the careful work his immune system accomplished. One particular spell, while Mark was in the hospital for a few weeks, Madelyn used the offering envelopes at church to write him some sort of note with a picture of her and a lop-sided heart. When I visited Mark, I made sure to bring the notes she wrote so I would not have to answer to my six-year-old when I got home as to why Uncle Mark didn't comment on her latest letter to him. Mark, even at his sickest, always received her letters and pictures like they were the absolute neatest thing he'd ever laid his eyes upon.
On the Sunday following Mark's death, Madelyn asked me for money to put in the offering as she did every Sunday. When the plate was passed, I noticed two envelopes in the plate and both bore the unique signature of "MADELYN." I asked my daughter why there were two envelopes, I could see money in one of them but couldn't tell what was inside the other envelope. Madelyn told me that she wrote Uncle Mark a note and she was confident that God would give it to him to read.
She wrote, "
Dear Markepoo, I love you. The Mark will go. Lopsided heart, Madelyn."I knew that the sentence "The Mark will go, had something to do with the fact that she had been learning those exact words in kindergarten now for the previous month. The, will, and go, were all what I knew to be Madelyn's "sight words"- word that she was supposed to recognize and write by memory. It wouldn't be too strange that Madelyn had written Mark the latest of what she was learning. She often shared some detail of her life with him. She would call him on the phone to discuss getting in trouble at school or losing a tooth. Still, I couldn't help thinking that maybe those sight words also held some other meaning. After all, it was Madelyn who told Metra and I that Mark would be better in ten days. On the tenth day after the proclamation was made, Mark's fight was over, just as foretold. Perhaps the silent bond between the two artists- one 32 years old, and the other six years old, was stronger than death. The two were linked together in a way that was un seen- so I discounted it. I merely pegged it as a love between an uncle and his niece. Nothing extraordinary.
Perhaps love is, in its purest form- stronger than death. My six year old knew this about her and Mark's love, why didn't I?
