The Olympics Part 2: Reflections on Gratitude, Plans, and Loss
Including thoughts on horses, blood tests, and a bonus joy nugget
I know that the Olympics are finished now, and the news has moved from being filled with stories of sporting prowess and overcoming obstacles to obtain medals and glory to flooding our screens and newsfeeds with stories of terrifying desperation and horrific loss. But I’ve continued to reflect on possibly the most bittersweet of the Olympics events I watched: the horse events.
Even as an Olympics fan, I had no idea there were so many events including horses—including one that’s called “eventing.” I knew about show jumping and everyone’s favorite horse sport, dressage. I did not know that a total of eight different competitions, including modern pentathlon and individual and team events, involve horses! I have to admit that I didn’t devote much of my Olympics viewing to the horse sports, in part because it would mean extra effort to search for them on iPlayer and in part because I’m more familiar with other sports—but mostly because they reminded me of my friend Clare. Clare was an avid equestrian, and she passed away in June.
Clare and I attended the same church, and she was diagnosed with breast cancer about the time we moved to Scotland. I knew who she was well enough to say hello, but that was about it. She persevered through extensive treatment and chemotherapy, and then thankfully went into remission. In 2017, I had my diagnosis of my teeny tiny, stage zero, no-big-deal breast cancer. I didn’t make a big announcement about it because it seemed more like an annoyance than a crisis. One Sunday after church, I was serving tea and coffee and Clare came through the line. She said, “How are you?” And without thinking I blurted out, “I just got diagnosed with breast cancer.”
For a millisecond, I regretted saying it. Clare had endured Big Deal Breast Cancer. What I had was nothing compared to hers. I didn’t want it to seem like I was being dramatic or trying to equate our experiences. I didn’t want it to seem like I thought she needed to do something for me just because our disease had the same name. I felt embarrassed that I had just vomited out this information during a perfectly routine exchange of pleasantries over tea.
Clare responded with immediate compassion—and sensible advice. She had the best recommendations for lotion and cream to help during radiotherapy, and she gave wise counsel on how to protect your own emotional journey through treatment. Never once did she make me feel ridiculous for discussing my little decaf cancer.
And then Clare’s remission ended.
The day in August 2017 that I met with my oncologist to learn that my radiotherapy was over and there was no more sign of cancer and I was officially discharged from oncology, Clare was one hallway over, admitted to the ward. I left the doctor’s office, and asked a nurse if I could pop in to see Clare for a minute. She said yes. I meant to stay for only five minutes; I was there for over an hour—we were having such a great time chatting and laughing. And even though she was in the hospital, dealing with the news that no cancer patient ever wants to hear, she still seemed genuinely joyful that I had been discharged from oncology.
Thankfully, God gave Clare more time, and she filled it with friends and family and love and laughter. She had capacious gifts for kindness, generosity, friendship, and honesty. She also had incredible gifts for organization and detail—she planned a beautiful 1920s-themed tea party for dozens of people as a fundraiser for a cancer charity. (I can barely plan a coffee date with one person!)
When we’d get together over coffee, we could talk about much more than cancer. We talked about our kids and their schools and schedules; experiences from when we were freelance copy editors; travels to see extended family; house renovations. In her house, festooned with ribbons she had won doing horse-y things, she told me about her love for horses and how much she missed riding. When I told Clare that my niece loves horses—really loves horses, not just the idea of horses—she smiled and said that reminded her of begging her parents for a horse when she was young. It wasn’t a fleeting childhood interest but a passion that remained.
This past spring, we had planned to get together several times for walks, but I had to cancel because I was in too much pain to handle walking very far. By the time I learned the cause of my pain and got the diagnosis, Clare’s own disease was outpacing treatment. Six weeks later, her time here had finished.
Clare’s funeral was one of the hardest and yet most beautiful experiences since my diagnosis. I was devastated that I couldn’t attend—my mobility was at its lowest point, and our church was almost completely inaccessible. I knew that her family understood, but it was grief at the loss of Clare compounded by the grief at the loss of my own ability to show up, to be present. Many of us know keenly from the past 18 months the throbbing pain of being absent.
The service was livestreamed, and I sobbed through most of it—not just because I was heartbroken to not be there or because of the magnitude of the loss of Clare, but also because it was beautiful to celebrate her values and gifts. Her family and friends testified to her extraordinary generosity that was matter-of-fact rather than mushy, her capacity for organization that was inclusive rather than pushy, and her faith in God’s enduring love and life even when she wanted more time with her loved ones.
I have thought about Clare almost every day in the two months since her funeral. Sometimes it’s when I’m filling in disability paperwork that Clare and her husband Brian told me I needed to look into. Sometimes it’s when I think of a question I wish I could ask her. Sometimes it’s when I hear a song that I know she liked. Sometimes it’s when I see horses in the Olympics.
Mostly I think of Clare with gratitude. We had enough time to say the things we wanted to each other: Thank you. I love you. You are special. She passed away peacefully at home, with her beloved family. And more than many, she understood the difference between time and life. We want more time here and we fight for it and pray for it, but we have faith that death does not mean the end of life. I am not a person given to having visions, much less sharing them, but shortly before Clare died I woke up early one morning with a vision of angels surrounding her and preparing to escort her to the life that is beyond death. Her time here is over—and how well she lived it and blessed everyone who knew her!—but her life continues. I am grateful to God for time with Clare and for the joy of knowing we will have life together with Jesus.
Treatment Update, and Other Plans Gone Awry
This was not a banner week for plans. To celebrate my parents’ golden anniversary, my sister and I booked a getaway for them in the North Carolina mountains … which turned out to be in Haywood County, right when and where Hurricane Fred swept through. They spent most of it sitting inside watching torrential rains. At the international level, events in Afghanistan have demonstrated that being a global superpower doesn’t mean you can execute your plans effectively or without tragedy.
As far as treatment, I had my bloodwork after the first month of all my treatment medications. I was supposed to pick up the next round of my targeted therapy tablets—but when I got to the hospital, my bloods had come back and my white blood cell count was too low. This is not terribly unusual, but I felt irrationally annoyed that my white blood cells were not behaving according to plan. We are supposed to be in the phase when treatment ticks along like clockwork! Take tablets, get blood test, get more tablets, and repeat until next scan in a few months! I didn’t want to deal with this interruption from uncooperative white blood cells. Turns out, being a determined patient doesn’t mean you can force your blood cells to do what you want.
We are going to try again this week. Pray that the white blood cell count has rebounded enough to be able to resume treatment.
A Bright Joy Nugget
In weeks when plans don’t work out and losses feel closer than victories, I’m especially thankful for the bright spots. And what could be brighter than this sweet nugget in her yellow shoes! What a delight to see baby Carina and her mom, Tiny!
Still in our nightly prayers, Heather and family.
Go Team White Blood Cells!