Sorrow for Heidi

Then there was—is—the sorrow for Heidi herself, for her own sufferings.

In his own work, CS Lewis says the following:

And I can believe He is a vet when I think of my own suffering. It is harder when I think of hers. What is grief compared with physical pain? Whatever fools may say, the body can suffer twenty times more than the mind... What sort of a lover am I to think so much about my affliction and so much less about hers?

I think Lewis is being hard on himself. It is quite evident to me that, at least in the beginning, his own wife's sufferings were topmost in his mind. The same was true for me. Sorrow for myself only came later. As Heidi approached death, my pain, my intense pain was about her suffering. It is true that she was sedated and on medications. But we really don't know what she experienced. And I guess it wasn't just her physical pain that caused us so much grief. It was really... everything, everything this rather horrible disease was doing to her body.

It was uncommonly aggressive, and its effects were very evident. This is not the place for details. I will just say that, when I think of trying to describe it, a word that often comes to me  is "absurd." And I don't know why. I don't even know what I mean by it. But I guess that's the whole point of the word. It's the word that meets us when we find that the limits of reality go far beyond the limits of our ability to make it meaningful to ourselves. I have met my horizon.

My greatest fear came in her moments of apparent responsiveness. Times when her jaw moved; times when she slightly moved her mouth or her eyes in response to our questions. I was so scared for her! What must be going through her mind? To wake up—or was she already awake, just motionless?—with all these tubes in her mouth and trachea, wondering why parts of her weren't working, why she couldn't feel certain parts, why she couldn't talk for so many reasons. Was she in pain? Was she trying to tell us what she needed? I felt so badly for her.

And I felt bad that I felt bad. Shouldn't I be rejoicing that she was showing responsiveness? Even the doctors seemed to have it as a goal and to think it was a good thing... I think because it indicated a path to eventually breathing on her own? I don't know. It was confusing to me. My poor Heidi, wanting to communicate and not being able to, for so many reasons. What did her mouth feel like?

She did not deserve this. That was my constant thought. Those of you who visited me know: I said it many times. She was so good. Such a pure, beautiful soul. Why? Why her? Why did she have to go through this? It wasn't fair. Those were my cries in the hospital. They are also my cries now when I visit her grave in the Minnesota cold. She was so good. She had so much to give, to teach, to do, to love. Why her? She did not deserve this. Can't the good be allowed to share their excellence with us on earth?

It is the classic problem of providence. Jeremiah 12:1. The wicked prosper and the good suffer, sometimes suffer horribly. St. Teresa of Avila is reported to have said on one occasion, "Lord, if this is how you treat your friends, it is no wonder you have so few." It was funny the first time I heard it. It is not funny now.

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And yet, through it all, Heidi was still so beautiful. And peaceful. Being with her in the hospital was like being in a monastery. Or in a silent forest. Or in a wide plain at dusk. At her bedside, there was a time for vocal prayers. I prayed the Psalms with her. I sang to her. But there were also times where it was important just to be silent. I needed to let her teach and strengthen me in silence. On one occasion, my brother Frederick (a priest) came by for a prolonged visit. He said many prayers. Eventually, I asked him to be silent now, which he understood. And we just sat by her bedside. I stroked her hair, and we both were just with her in silence.

She was also peaceful in her last lucid moments. She was lucid until the midnight of January 3/4. I was unable to be with her in the emergency room at North Memorial, because I had to go take care of the kids while she rode the ambulance from one hospital to another. Those who were with her in the emergency room were edified by her. Three of them told me later how she was very thoughtful and precise in her answers, using big words and long sentences, even though breathing was difficult. She even made made a joke or two. One of them told me that she spoke very proudly about our kids.

In recent days, I have finally had the courage to look up sepsis on the internet, and I found that one of the symptoms is confusion or disorientation. I think this is why the doctors and nurses in the emergency room were caught unaware by Heidi's case. She did not fit that pattern.

When I got to North Memorial, Heidi was already in the ICU. She was very calm. The far-reaching effects of her disease had not yet shown themselves, and nobody at the time really knew what was coming. But she was already, as all the doctors put it, "very sick", "critical", and her condition was "life-threatening." Yet she was so peaceful. She received the last sacraments without trepidation.

Some time between 10 and 11PM she said I should go home and be with the kids. I called her parents. They told me that all the kids (even Margaret!) were asleep, and that the house was very peaceful. I told Heidi. She finally said, "Ok. You can stay. You are the best mouth-swabber." (I had been moistening her dry mouth with oral swabs).

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I know that Heidi would probably disagree with what I said above. In her own notes on suffering, she referred to it as "just." And I know that she voluntarily offered up her suffering. I also know that, at least in one case, she asked God to let her take on the suffering of another. She told me this in those last lucid moments, at a rare time when she and I were totally alone. Fr. Kyle's homily is true, at least to some degree.

I have also heard that some of the things that she offered up her sufferings for, some of the things that we had been praying for, have turned out well.

Am I consoled by this? I am certainly glad that Heidi has inspired, edified and even taught so many. I mean that sincerely: every time you communicate to me that you have been changed or inspired by Heidi, it does me good. It is a silver lining that alleviates some of the pain.

Should I not be consoled even more? After all, what better reason do I need to see that Heidi did not suffer in vain? Apparently, at least, she saved others by her suffering!

If that is true, though, I guess a part of me asks: Why is there a quota? Why is there a fixed measure that our parish, our family, or our world has to fill up? I suppose it's nice and edifying that in the economy of God, one person can take on the sufferings that were at first left to another—to be a hero in time of distress. But why can't some of it just be... written off? Dropped? Why is there a part that is lacking to the sufferings of Christ that we must fill up (Col. 1:24), such that, if one person doesn't do it, someone else must?

I know that suffering in grace goes back to the very beginning of Christianity, to the New Testament itself. It is obvious that Christianity does not take away suffering or promise to take it away. But I still do not understand the reasons for the affliction math. Maybe Heidi can teach me.

And I am sure she will tell me that I am looking at it in the wrong way. It is really very simple. Someone is suffering. God allows us to take on their suffering, or at least to offer up our own. She would probably quote Man for All Seasons to me. "Finally, it is not a matter of reason. Finally, it's a matter of love." "Even at the risk of being heroes."

 

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