And I heard a voice from heaven saying, “Write this: Blessed are the dead who from now on die in the Lord.” “Yes,” says the Spirit, “they will rest from their labors, for their deeds follow them.”
Revelation 14:13
“Your recent MRI shows three spots in the area of the former brain tumor.” When I heard those words, I was stunned. The neurosurgeon didn’t know what the spots were, so they wanted me to return in three months. The oncologist confirmed the report. The radiologist said she checked my MRI from six months earlier and discovered the three spots were also on that one but, for some reason, no one had noticed them.
I asked what my options were. The doctors could operate again, but at this time the spots were small. They could also try chemo or radiation. Or, since my glioblastoma had a mutation in its makeup, perhaps there was another treatment.
When I left the hospital after making myriad appointments, I was neither upset nor worried. In the December 2021 edition of U.S. Catholic, I wrote about the tumor being a gift. I still see it as a gift, but the doctors’ words remind me that I know neither the day nor the hour I will be called home (Matt. 25:13).
Back in 2018, after I recovered from my first surgery, I pressed the doctors about how much time I had. I’m a person who likes to plan and prepare myself for what’s coming. All of them were reluctant to discuss this. Finally, one doctor said, “Normally, people with your type of tumor die within a year and a half; rarely do they make it to five years.” That’s all I needed to know. It’s been six years since the operation, and I see every day as a gift.
These three new spots brought this reflection back, front and center. How much time do I have? Who can I visit before my time comes? Family of course, but which friends should I make priorities? I’ve always wanted to visit the tomb of St. Peter. Can I still do that? During my last visit to Ireland, I celebrated Mass in my grandmother’s Donegal cottage; I would love to do that again. I’ve never visited my German family. Most of my cousins have died, but there are a few still around. Will I have time and energy to visit them?
I also find myself reflecting on memories of loved ones. I got my love for taking photographs from my mom. Growing up, we pored through her albums of photos taken during the Second World War. I took my first photo using my mom’s camera when I was 8; it’s of my dad and mom holding my baby sister Patty. As an adult, I took pictures of church services, school sports, camping trips, dances, and civil protests. I don’t use my camera much nowadays, but my photos are a source of comfort because of the memories they provoke. These, in turn, spark other memories of which I don’t have photos but that remind me of the love and friendships I’ve shared with so many over the years.
I’m writing this column in the summer, long before it will be published in October. As of now, I don’t have the results of the new MRI, but I’m preparing for the future. If I’m blessed with more time to walk this Earth, I’m grateful. If I will be called home soon, I’m curious about the possibilities. In my last column, I wrote about being curious about new assignments and the possibilities they present. Well, I’m curious concerning the next leg of my journey.
Imagine being reunited with your loved ones and your friends. At the end, when we go home, all we bring with us are the love and the memories of the ones we loved and the memories we shared. Nourish that love now. Let go of bitterness and anger. You have limited time. Aren’t you curious about the possibilities as you yourself approach the threshold of Home?
This article also appears in the October 2024 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 89, No. 10, page 9). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
Image: Pexels/Chris F
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