Bullets

I've had my fair share of those galvanizing experiences that are scripted into all of our lives by the fates. Soul-crushing losses and heartbreaking struggles test our faith, stoke our courage and develop our strength.

Whoever said, "If I doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger," was on to something, it would seem.

Some of these bullets come at us straight on, firing squad style. We prepare the best we can, brace for impact -- sidestep if we can -- and above all survive. Others are sneakier, coming out of a blind spot. After a few of these hits, one can become paranoid, overly guarded -- gun shy. The best of us get back up ready to hit back. Some of us don't.

I have never been afraid to be the one who got sick or hurt or put in harm's way. On any number of occasions, I've watched bad things happening to good people and thought -- in earnest -- that I wish I could take it away, even to the point of taking their place. Whatever I have to give is on the table.

Lately, I've watched the firing squad line up those I love and take their shots while I sit idly by without a way to help or even ease the hurt.

The first week of February, cancer took my high school sweetheart who was one of my oldest friends. I couldn't help help, and now, his friends and family are in pain I cannot abate. I can stand my own pain, and I would take theirs, too. Alas, I cannot.

My mother's first friend in the town where I grew up died from complications from cancer a week later. My mother is sad, as am I from his loss, but again, there is nothing I can do.

When we found out my father-in-law's cancer was back just over a year ago, I researched treatments, doctors, hospitals. We put him in the best position to sidestep the firing squad. Hubby and I went to every doctor appointment we could. When it came time to stop the treatments, we started alternating weekends in Tennessee to help Lynda (hubby's stepmom) take care of Glen (my father-in-law), disregarding scheduling, expense and all other responsibilities.

Last weekend, I was going to Jackson to help, and before my plane landed, hubby had a flight for the next morning. Glen had taken another turn for the worse, and we were coming to the end. That Saturday night, we talked Lynda into splitting the night into shifts, and we gave her the first two off, so she could get some much needed sleep. I let hubby fall asleep, too, and stayed awake all night giving Glen his medicine every hour, making sure he was comfortable and monitoring any changes. To say it was brutal doesn't even begin to describe it.

Maybe I was hallucinating from the lack of sleep, but I swear I could feel death sitting in the room with me. I could hear it with every rattling breath he took. I sat by his bed, petting his arm and humming Coldplay's "Til Kingdom Come" until just before 4am when Lynda got up to take over. My head was spinning, and my body hurt. I'd made it through the night though.

Just as we were all stirring, Glen seemed to be choking, and I started suctioning his mouth and throat as much as I could. When it was obvious what was happening Lynda grabbed Glen's Bible. Joe held one hand, Lynda held the other, and I read the 23 Psalm. Glen took his last breath.

Glen's pain ended where ours came to a crescendo. I made half a dozen phone calls at 4am, and by 4:30am, the house was full -- friends, family, the pastor, hospice. I watched as snipers took their sneaky shots. It's a funny thing about death that you can prepare for it, but you're never actually ready when it comes. While we'd all be lined up waiting for the firing squad to take their aim, the snipers took their shots from the shadows.

The month of February was not kind to those I love. I guess it wasn't kind to me either, but I wasn't worried about me. I was frustrated that I had to stand on the sidelines watching bad things happen to good people without any way of making it stop. I have a friend who calls me her "super hero," and at one point, I thought of the Wonder Twins from the old JLA cartoons: "Wonder Twin powers activate!" Make me a sponge, so I can soak up their pain.

Life doesn't work that way. We each have our own pain to bear, and no one can take it away. I can't take the bullets for them or stop them from coming. The best I can do is hurt with them and hope it's enough.