The Gift of Hope

This post is for my Aunt MaryLou.

Last night her daughter Maren passed away after a long battle with cancer.

I will probably write about it again, and about different facets of her battle, but right now, I want to talk about my Aunt MaryLou. Maren is her oldest daughter. MaryLou is about 22 years older than me, and I am 10 years older than Maren. I remember holding Maren as a baby and watching her grow up. Maren and MaryLou have always had a firey relationship. Both women are full of fight and passion. They warm up every room they enter with their laughter and love.

Ever since the diagnosis, MaryLou has sought to hope. She moved in with Jake and Maren to help care for them and their two kids.

Yesterday I drove to Vernal with my husband, my brother Matt, and my sister Bethany to be with them because Jake asked us to be there. I knew Maren wouldn’t make it to Thanksgiving, so I spent Saturday making a Thanksgiving dinner to share with anyone who came to see Maren. We loaded up the car with turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, fruits and veggies, and drove the 3 hours to their home in Vernal.

When we arrived, we saw Jake sitting at the head of Maren’s hospital bed, set up in the living room. He was holding tightly to her hand. Maren was so thin. Cancer thin. She was still breathing, but barely. I almost gasped with a sob when I saw her. The first words I heard from Aunt MaryLou were, “We’re still hoping for a miracle!”

I was shocked. And worried. This wasn’t the time for hope. This was the time for acceptance. I was so worried about MaryLou and I didn’t know what to say.

The kids busied themselves around us. Deaglan convinced Matt to play a game with him and Jossilyn busied herself with the fruit tray, dipping grapes into ranch, and telling us all how much she hated people who double dipped. Jake just held tightly to Maren’s hand.

I put the food in the oven to warm and everyone helped set out plates and silverware. We reached out to one another and held each other tightly. I kept seeing Amyekira, MaryLou’s youngest daughter, out of the corner of my eye. She held this quiet stillness about her. She had a smile and a hug for everyone. She comforted Jake and held her sister’s other hand. She was cool as a cucumber, and I could see some of her sister’s strength had entered her heart. She was growing into the woman of the hour right before me.

My husband Antonio texted me some thoughts. I asked him if he would share some of those thoughts in a family prayer. MaryLou asked him to as well. We gathered around and he shared these words, “Our Father in Heaven, we pray for a miracle at this time for our sister Maren Turner Collier, that she will have the strength to do your will in this life or the next. We pray for your peace and strength. We pray for a light in Maren’s soul to brighten all the lives she has touched. I know she has made my life better for knowing her.” His prayer continued on and we felt the spirit of his words.

But damn that stupid word miracle. I looked at MaryLou’s face as it lit up with hope again. He then went on to share about the times when his little brother overcame cancer. Damn it. I was filled with knots of anxiety listening to this talk of hope in the face of obvious tragedy. But MaryLou just brightened.

In the late afternoon, I asked Jake if I could sing to Maren. He said yes. I sang the song I had sung for them at their wedding, and then I just kept singing. Sometimes people made requests. Sometimes people joined in. I knew she could hear us, and I wanted her to hear beautiful music.

The children came over to the bed. Deaglan put his head next to his mama’s head and cried. My brother Matt said that this was the moment that broke him. He is a big 2nd grader, but at that moment, he was her baby boy. Jossilyn stood next to her and loudly wailed through the music. She had gone from the happy girl, glad to greet the family, to a super sad daughter, actively and willingly sharing her feelings with all of us.

And still MaryLou would tell us, “We’re still hoping for a miracle.”

The hospice nurse came in. She took vitals and whispered something to MaryLou and Jake. I barely heard her, “You need to say your goodbyes. Tell anyone who needs to say goodbye that they need to come now.”

Everyone pulled out their phones and began to call the family who weren’t there to tell them to come right away, and MaryLou ran out the front door crying, screaming in pain.

It was as though the hope and the tragedy collided in her body and the agony ripped through her insides and came out in howls. A few of us ran after her to hold her and try to help.

I resented anything I had said to contribute to her hope. I felt horrible about ever having offered a sentiment of optimism. If only I could have helped her marry her heart to the tragedy so that this moment of meeting wouldn’t have been so horribly violent. I might have prevented this explosion of pain. How could Antonio have spoken of miracles? How could we?!

The nurse tried to ground her. Matt came out to tell her that Jake needed her to come inside and be with them. The nurse tried to calm her and encourage her to be at peace to make Maren’s passing easier. MaryLou lashed out with anger at the idea that her feelings were wrong somehow. Amyekira held her mother and softly explained, “No Mom. She just wants you to help Maren to feel at peace right now so she can pass away peacefully.”

Help her daughter pass away peacefully?! As if! I could see MaryLou fighting against the words. I felt conflicted by her reaction. And then I saw it.

MaryLou would give her baby girl the gift of her hope to the very bitter end. She would NOT accept defeat. She would fight for hope and pray for a miracle to the very last second of her time on earth. She would give her daughter the gift of her hope, no matter how much the hope ripped open her heart in the face of death.

That was her gift. That was her sacrifice. I have felt afraid to hope before. That’s something I understand. But, I never followed that feeling to its opposite: the sacred bravery of hope. My Aunt held hope for her daughter in a defiant act of bravery. Hoping led her away from the peace of acceptance, but she held on to hope as a gift for her daughter.

I am in awe of her love and her bravery.

We will miss you Maren.

A couple of weeks ago I had a vision given as an answer to my prayers for her. I saw Maren covered in bands like a mummy. She was floating in the air, and the bands of death were unraveling from her body as she twirled and sailed into the air. The words kept coming into my mind, “Death is not the end. Death is not the end. Death is not the end.” over and over and over.

My hope springs eternal. I know that death is not the end. I know that she is freed from the bands of cancer and from the bands of death. I will offer to the world the gift of my hope and the assurance that I know that resurrection is the miracle God has given to each of us through the sacrifice of his beloved Son.