''Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him'' - Job
13:15
The tears surprised me. I pulled over, blinded by them.
The incident is sharp in memory because it was a turning point:
the moment I finally accepted the unacceptable. My mom was going
to lose her battle with breast cancer. She was going to die.
My sisters and brother had already come to terms with it. I was
the one still clinging, stubbornly and defiantly, to an
expectation of miracles. To do otherwise felt like a betrayal of
my mother. And of my faith.
But that day back in 1988, acceptance finally forced itself on
me. Cancer had made her a stick figure. It had clouded her mind
with hallucination. And it had reduced her to a toddler, her hand
feather light in mine as she tottered down the hall.
I left her bedside at a trot. Got in the car and drove until I
couldn't see.
As you've probably guessed, I'm writing about Terri Schiavo,
who died today. And I'm doing what I guess we all do when we
contemplate her tragedy. I am personalizing it.
How can you not? On the one side, there is Michael Schiavo,
ordering removal of the feeding tube that sustained his wife for
15 years because, he said, she would not have wanted to live in a
vegetative state. On the other, there are the parents, Robert and
Mary Schindler, begging in tears for their daughter to simply
live, in whatever state she could. It is only natural to run such
a painful conundrum though the filter of experience -- or
imagination -- and try to tease out truth you can live with.
Here's mine. Acceptance is hard. Acceptance hurts like
hell.
For as much time as we've spent discussing spousal rights,
political opportunism and the meaning of life, I think that's the
signature lesson here: Conceding the inevitability of death is one
of the hardest duties of life. And maybe the longer you put it off
-- the Schindlers and Michael Schiavo have been fighting for seven
years -- the more difficult it becomes.
Which is why the denouement of this drama has been painful,
even for those of us who were not directly involved. Watching the
increasingly naked desperation of the fight to keep Terri alive
came to feel intrusive and voyeuristic. You wanted to turn away,
but there was no place you could go.
So you watched as the Schindlers strained credulity with claims
that their daughter tried to say ''I want to live'' even as her
feeding tube was removed. And never mind that, five years ago,
according to a report in the Miami Herald, the couple openly
conceded that Terri was insensate, her brain destroyed.
You watched as the Rev. Jesse Jackson, in a stunning
illustration of the axiom about politics and bedfellows, spoke out
on behalf of the Schindlers, a boogeyman of the liberal left
making common cause with the religious right.
You watched as House Majority Leader Tom DeLay denounced as
''barbarism'' the removal of Terri's feeding tube and trampled the
constitutional separation of powers with extraordinary legislative
maneuvers to keep her alive, yet neglected to mention that he
raised no similar objection 17 years ago when his father suffered
a massive head injury and the family decided it was best that the
elder DeLay be allowed to die.
You watched as people went just a little bit nuts.
And maybe, if you were the praying type, you said, Hey, God,
how about a little help here? When should we stop waiting on the
miracle? When is it OK to give up hope?
But God, as far as is known, kept His own counsel. Maybe He
felt He'd said what He had to say 15 years ago.
Terri Schiavo's death, hard as it was, feels like mercy. For
her and for us. Once again, we can avoid confronting our
irresolute feelings and fears.
There is, however, wisdom here, for those to care to seek it.
Roughly distilled, it goes like this: to face reality is not to
betray faith.
God answers every prayer, a preacher once said.
Sometimes, the answer is
no.
