Where’S the Veil?: A Widow’S Journey from Grief to Joy

By Trish Rankin

In times of loss, everyone experiences grief, whether from the loss of a marriage, the loss of a job, or the loss of a life. In grief, you are not alone, we often say to comfort grieving loved ones. But tell that to the woman who feels like her world has just been turned inside out. During two inconceivably difficult weeks, author Trish Rankins life radically morphs into something almost unrecognizable. Her husband dies of an inoperable brain tumor, and, simultaneously, their son suffers liver failure. To move forward together, both as partners and parents, on their God adventure, Trish and Dr. David Rankin chose to use the techniques she had taught for years in grief programs.

In this honest, heartbreaking memoir, Trish lifts the veil on loss. She stares lovingly into the face of whats real: the shock, the agony, the suffering, the hope, the re-emergence, and, eventually, the ability to rediscover joy. Once she finds the strength to lift that metaphorical veil, she realizes that, like the butterfly emerging from its cocoon, her loss is the gateway to an awakeningand perhaps to creating a full life once again.

Woven within this inspiring grief journey are techniques to help others on their own path to healing. Trish Rankins story is one of tragedy, deep struggle, and, ultimately, hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462069194

Trish Rankin

Trish Rankin raised three children in Orlando, Florida, while directing the Rainbow/Kaleidoscope grief program. After losing her physician husband of forty years, she began teaching at a children’s grief camp. Later, she chronicled her journey and produced an accompanying grief workshop called Joy after Loss. Trish currently lives alone near Mt. Vernon, Ohio.

Book preview

Prologue

When a person becomes a memory,

the memory becomes a treasure.

January 10, 2007

The soothing sound of Mission Bay lapping against the shoreline outside the rented beach house eases into my early-morning consciousness. I cover my squinting eyes as the focused beam of light streams in through the tiny, naked window. I suddenly remember. My heart races, but soon the rhythm of the waves calms my agitated soul. My white nightgown, disturbed from my fretful sleep, is crumpled under my ample tush. I reach out and touch David’s side of the bed. The dramatic emptiness pierces my heart as it has done most mornings for the past year. My packed suitcase, ready for my trip to visit my niece Heather in Provo, lies open at the foot of the bed.

Siena babbles in the back room, awaiting her morning bottle. I shuffle down the hallway toward the refrigerator when I hear the clock strike 7:00 and realize I’ve slept in for the first time since it happened. Perhaps it’s a sign that I am beginning to heal, I think. I find it hard to believe that David has been gone one eternal year.

My granddaughter whines as I approach her room. Her sweaty blond hair curls around her innocent face. Startling blue eyes look deep into me as I hold the bottle to her lips. I lose myself in her gaze, letting my mind drift back to that clear fall day more than a year ago at our farm in Georgia—the perfect weekend that had been the prelude to the most difficult time of my life.

Part I

Chapter 1

A Disturbing Fatigue

Ignorance is bliss until it’s not ignorance anymore.

October 2005

Blue Ridge, Georgia

HELLO, BRIARPATCH! Billie yelled as she exited the car. The group of three, Glenn, Billie, and Woody, who were part of Everything But Chess, had left Orlando at O-dark thirty to arrive at our cabin before dusk. Billie stretched her long body like a waking cat as she took in the beauty of the surrounding mountains.

Hello, Billie and Glenn! I yelled from the steps of the cedar cabin, which nestled under massive hickory trees.

Every year, the ten people who composed Everything But Chess headed over for a long weekend at our farm, lovingly called The Rankin Inn. The tradition began twelve years before, when I had formed an eclectic group of the funniest people I knew. Frustrated over how little I could do to help my friend Mary Helen and Glenn, her husband, as they fought her breast cancer, I decided to follow Norm Cousin’s remedy for healing: laughter. Giggle therapy, I called it. We ten met every two weeks to do nothing more than play games (except for chess) and laugh and share struggles. Although after a six-year battle with cancer, Mary Helen hadn’t survived, the group had.

This setting never ceases to create enough wonder in me to fill a country barn, Billie commented to Glenn. Her southern charm and narrow waist were complemented by her short brown hair and attractive face.

Forty acres of hills and virgin pasture surrounded the small cabin. A large rushing creek was often the only noise interrupting the quiet, except for an occasional owl or coyote at night. Cows dotted the green grass, creating a pastoral scene that could have been from Switzerland instead of north Georgia.

Welcome to the Briarpatch! I yelled. Where’s Woody?

Who knows? Billie said as she climbed the steps and grabbed me, her hug strong, warm, and genuine.

He wanted to walk in from the gate … to stretch his legs, Glenn said. He’ll be here soon.

Glenn unfolded his large, portly frame from his latest Volvo. His thick gray hair and a matching mustache adorned his kind, wise, professorial face.

The porch was covered a foot or two deep in dried leaves that formed a colorful, brittle barrier to the wooden floor. We crunched our way inside.

Although I had done some cleaning in the short time I’d been there, the cabin was still musty from being closed up for months. Cobwebs decorated the walls like wallpaper. The eleven-hour drive south from Apple Valley, Ohio, limited our trips, and the months between visits gave the spiders time to set up residency.

David’s job was to warm up the chilly cabin with a fire in the fireplace. My skinny husband, with his small, protruding paunch, slouched on the country-plaid couch, allowing himself a few moments of rest from the pyro job he took so seriously. Having struggled with MS for over twenty years, David fatigued easily.

Good to be here, huh? he asked, stretching back comfortably.

Yeah. I kissed his hair. David always reminded people of Harrison Ford with his thick, wayward brown hair and thin stature. His thin, deep-lined face glowed with the reflection of the flames on his pale skin, while his hair took on the reds from the fire. Though he gave little effort to his appearance, David was comfortable with who he was.

How much stuff did you bring this time to cram into two thousand square feet, Miss Billie? I asked, partially in jest, as she entered with overloaded arms.

Weeeellll—she drew out the word in her North Carolina twang—"one time, I only brought one suitcase and one tiny duffle bag to Everything But Chess weekend, if you recall?" There was a touch of sarcasm in her voice as she flashed her conniving grin. Though they had been Florida residents for twenty years, their native North Carolina was still a huge part of both Billie and her husband, Woody.

That’s because David weighed your luggage, I jabbed back jovially, and made you unpack half your stuff before he loaded the Bonanza. For twenty years, David had piloted his own plane until MS had robbed him of so many things, including his pilot’s license. Regularly, we had flown to the cabin to help him relax from his stressful job as a radiologist at ORMC, a large medical center in Orlando.

Due to David’s unexpected forced retirement eight years earlier from a cognitive disorder associated with multiple sclerosis, we had relocated to Apple Valley, near our expected grandchildren and Ohio’s Amish Country. Florida’s unrelenting heat aggravated David’s MS, so the cooler Ohio weather was an additional lure. When I was in my teens, my family had transferred to Florida from Pennsylvania, and the rolling hills and seasons drew me back north. Even the cold Ohio winters were beautiful to me. After the stunning fall colors were all raked away, the cove outside our lakefront home froze, collecting snow with each new storm until a blanket of white greeted me each morning from my bedroom’s picture window. But in wintertime, our dangerously steep, icy driveway sent us to California, near our daughter’s home.

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Everything But Chess at our annual Fall Festival Weekend

I’m sorry, honey, I explained to Billie, but this cabin is adequate for two people. This weekend with ten, it’ll be splitting at its cedar seams. Nearby, Glenn grinned but was wise enough to stay out of the friendly banter. The tight quarters weren’t a problem, since relationship was our goal. After so many years, the cabin had permeated the fabric of Everything But Chess, weaving its woodsy wonder into the makeup of our group.

Where have you been, young man? Billie teased when Woody finally arrived, kicking the dirt from his hiking boots.

I found Carolyn driving through the pasture. A herd of deer wandered by, so we sat down and watched, Woody answered. I’ve just been unloading the car and making up the beds downstairs. Carolyn’s freshening up and will be up for dinner soon. He turned my way playfully. We are having dinner soon, aren’t we? Food dominated Woody’s world.

Yes, of course, I said.

An hour later we were all settled in and hungry. One last couple would arrive later.

Can someone wake David for dinner?

Finally, we can relax! Judy said, plopping down into the porch rocking chair with a plate of spaghetti. Judy and Kenny usually arrived right after horse chores, in time to join us for dinner. Having moved from Orlando to Georgia to build a horse ranch seven years earlier, their interaction with Everything But Chess was limited to the fall retreat. Running Cedar Haven Farm was hard work, but when Kenny sat down, he knew how to relax. He glided across the porch in the rope chair, swinging his long, thin limbs back and forth while balancing spaghetti and salad on his knobby knees.

Rich conversation flowed easily. The rushing creek and glowing Milky Way soothed the cluster of weary travelers. Candlelight flickered off contented faces as we caught up on each other’s lives long into the wee hours. The night fog settled into the hills and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and bodies were blanketed to ward off the chill. Familiarity settled once again into Everything But Chess like a favored old shoe, soft leather, tattered with time, but treasured all the more for the perfect fit.

Morning came slowly to the mountains, when a soft sun finally rose above the hills, warming the frosty night air. A variety of birds twittered around the feeders, ravenous after their long slumber.

Good morning, Glenn, I greeted cheerfully.

Good morning, Trish. Where’s David? he asked casually.

Believe it or not, he’s still asleep. I tiptoed out so I wouldn’t wake him.

He’s usually up long before me, Glenn remarked.

I know, strange, I said, without thinking about it much. I thought I’d do the waffle thing this morning as people get up. Then this afternoon we can hike over to the Swinging Bridge.

What about David? He can’t hike. Glenn was always attuned to David’s needs, but over the years I had learned not to let his limitations stifle my plans. After almost thirty years with multiple sclerosis, David required two canes to ambulate inside, but needed a wheelchair outdoors. His laid-back personality allowed him to be involved without fully participating.

He’ll want to go too, I added, stirring the waffle mix. He can read in a chair under the trees. David’s positive attitude gave me permission to continue to live as if I weren’t also handicapped. It freed me from the guilt I saw in so many other couples that dealt with debilitating diseases. But I’m certain he’ll want to go, I continued. He won’t want to miss anything.

The morning passed. Porch chatter, fireside reading, and puzzle searching occupied the group until it was time for our annual trek. I quietly went to David, still clad in his pajamas and sitting in his favorite couch spot.

David, what do you need to do to get ready to go to the Swinging Bridge? I asked, trying to speed up the departure.

I’m not going, he said calmly.

What?

My legs are just too weak today. I think I’ll stay home and nap.

But you just got up a few hours ago, I said in disbelief.

I know, but I’m really tired today. When you return, I should be good for the evening. I recognized the frustration on his face. He must have registered the shock on mine. It was totally out of character for David to miss anything.

His disappointment only made it harder on me. Acceptance was something I had learned to abide, abandoning the fruitless pleadings long ago. Dejectedly, David limped off to bed as we piled into several SUVs, laughing and conversing.

The refreshing, undemanding walk along the wide river and over the suspension bridge was fall perfection. We returned late in the afternoon, tired and hungry. I headed into the bedroom, surprised to find David still asleep. I leaned down, kissed his forehead, and whispered, Hey, sleepyhead, you want to get up now?

Nervousness crept into me like the squirrel that stealthily raided my bird feeders daily: slow but determined. Except for his weak legs and unusual fatigue, nothing else seemed wrong; nonetheless, my apprehension mounted.

Really? I slept that late? he asked.

"Come join us. Everyone missed you today. You’ve slept through half of Everything But Chess weekend already."

I’m so tired. I don’t know what’s going on with me. His uncommon concern further unsettled me.

Are you okay, honey? I queried.

Just tired, I guess.

October 15, 2005

How did Angela and Charles like the hayride at Bert’s? Billie asked, shoving boiled peanuts into her mouth. Charles and Angela, the last members of Everything But Chess, had arrived in the wee hours of the morning, sneaking into their usual sleeping nooks like church mice. We had stopped at Bert’s Pumpkin Patch for the annual group photo. Popcorn, pumpkin bread, gourds, and a variety of pumpkins from Bert’s now filled the already-crowded car as we headed onward to the Gold Rush Festival.

Charles said it was fun. I hope Gold Rush isn’t as crowded as last year. I could hardly get my wheelchair through the people, David complained, still feeling very weary. He stared absently, preoccupied. Addressing his medical issue would be first on the list when everyone vacated; perhaps we would call his neurologist for some advice on the extreme fatigue and weakness.

Later, with shopping bags hanging off all our available arms, Judy and I approached the large oak tree in front of the brick columned courthouse that served as the stately backdrop for the spot where David rested. As he’d sensed, the hordes of people at the festival made it difficult for him to explore with the group. Want some cinnamon nuts? Judy asked as she dropped more accumulated packages into David’s capable hands. His eyes lit up at the prospect of a new fair food group he hadn’t yet tried. Who knew what he had already consumed before the group convened around him to show off their handmade country crafts and share food? David could eat what he wanted. Except for the belly that had been developing since he was a young man, his weight rarely fluctuated. In fact, since his prostate cancer surgery in May, he had lost some weight; unfortunately it was likely muscle mass. When the post surgical tests had showed no further malignancy, we had all rejoiced and relaxed. However, he hadn’t fully healed yet.

Sure, I’d love some cinnamon nuts, David said, but Trish, could you also get me some real food? Maybe a roasted corn on the cob and a barbecue sandwich? Oh, and a Coke too? he asked sweetly. I sighed. That meant standing in two different long lines, but it was past lunchtime and maneuvering his wheelchair was nearly impossible with the crowd.

Woody overheard and chimed in, David, I’ll get you some yummy barbecue, ole buddy. I want some too. Don’t you worry your little self. Ole Woody here will take good care of you. David smiled up at his dear friend.

Thanks, Woody, I added.

The undulating, overcrowded masses scanned the tiny craft booths that lined the streets. The aroma of candied almonds permeated the air, stirring gastric juices and taunting my willpower. Judy and I started out again to scan the country wares while David ate.

Trish, David said, halting my departure, I was hoping that you were nearly ready to go home. I’m so tired. I recognized the extreme frustration on his face. But Everything But Chess was still shopping. I couldn’t leave yet. Or at least I didn’t want to.

Trying to be magnanimous, I agreed, finding it difficult to mask my resentment of the abrupt departure. With half the fair yet unviewed, I’d had different plans. But after living with MS for almost thirty years, I knew that by the time David asked to go, his patience and energy were already spent. Over the years, we had departed in the middle of plays, concerts, meetings, parties, and occasionally even church. At first it had bothered me a lot, but then I had accepted it as part of our life together with MS. Even so, I often felt cheated—robbed somehow. Appreciation shone on David’s face when I agreed to accompany him home.

Trish! My head jerked up to see Carolyn rushing our way, carrying a yard sign that said, Goblins Stop Here.

I want to show you this beautiful nativity I found, she said.

We need to go—David. I gestured toward my spouse. Still tired.

Carolyn’s face drooped. Darn, she said simply. My long-term collection would miss the opportunity to welcome an additional member.

We have to go. But you all can stay and come home later. My voice reflected my harbored resentment, and shame washed over me, as it had done when I’d been caught sneaking a dime from my father’s pants pocket when I was a child. Billie joined us, and I took both of them aside and lowered my voice so David wouldn’t hear. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m getting worried. But I hate leaving already when everyone else is still having such a good time. I sighed. I wanted to see the pig calling and the parade first.

Carolyn grabbed my neck and pulled me into a fierce squeeze. Sorry, honey.

Although not typical for David’s particular type of MS, called slow progressive, his symptoms were part of the disease’s profile. Remitting/remission had more definite symptoms—ones that could come on quickly and leave just as rapidly, stunning its unsuspecting victims. But David’s case was different, progressing slowly and evenly, with changes that were subtle, not sudden. This dramatic shift scared me. I hated the uncertainty of multiple sclerosis. At times I felt like it defined our lives, leaving us with little control over our daily destiny. Lately, we’d been arguing more than usual due to poor decisions David had been making, especially while driving. Were his cognitive abilities decreasing rapidly also? Was that part of this new progression?

Thirty minutes later, after much coordination, everyone decided to join us for the trek back to Briarpatch. Although I outwardly discouraged this communal action, secretly I was glad. Otherwise I’d have moped around, feeling excluded, my emotional welfare ignored as David napped.

I reminded myself that, with three wonderful children and the same number of grandchildren, my life was indeed blessed. Our marriage of almost forty years was strong and loving; our faith was firm. But if I was entirely truthful with myself, at times I felt distressed by the sly health bandit that stole our normalcy.

Chapter 2

God Will Provide

On the mountain of the Lord, it will be provided.

Genesis 22:14

October 15, 2005

BY SUNDAY evening, everyone had started home straight from the Apple Festival, satiated with smoked trout, roasted corn, and warm apple dumplings with cinnamon ice cream. The successful weekend had renewed our friendships and warmed our hearts, but David remained exhausted.

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David and Trish during better times

When are Cindy and John coming? David asked from the couch.

We have two weeks alone, with lots to accomplish before they arrive. We had built the forty-acre Briarpatch twenty years before. The place captured our hearts, our memories, and often our energy. The work was a labor of love, but it was also exhausting, especially for an MS patient. We worked as a team; David ran the machinery and I accomplished the manual labor. Together we managed the forty acres of vacationland—though not easily, since we visited it infrequently.

Gazing at a hummingbird hovering near the feeder, I overheard David talking on the speakerphone to our friend. Hey, John, any chance you and Cindy could come up here any earlier? he asked timidly.

No, David. I have charge conference next Saturday, he announced. After I preach on Sunday, we’ll leave right away. Why do you ask?

I don’t know—just a feeling. Just thought I’d ask. We’ll see you in two weeks then. David never did explain his premonition to me, and I never asked.

You don’t seem any better today, I said after he’d hung up. David struggled to the couch, his gait awkward and challenging, appearing years older than his actual age of almost sixty.

I’m going to call my neurologist tomorrow and suggest a course of steroids to see if I can ward off this downhill slide. I believe I’m having my first-ever exacerbation. I think she’ll trust my judgment on this.

As expected, his neurologist was happy to comply and follow the recommendations of his doctor patient, and a five-day course of steroids was prescribed. The week was uneventful. David’s condition improved slowly, relieving my anxiety over his rapid deterioration. Certain that rest was what he needed most, I worked around the yard myself, accomplishing what I could without my partner in crime.

On the way to church that Sunday, I remembered that I wanted to share with Pastor Katie a strange event that had occurred the previous day. David’s ’74 Chevy truck, named Ole Blue, had needed a tune-up. Retrieving it from the local garage, David took Ole Blue and I drove the Excursion: a honker-truck-like SUV that could safely shelter David’s wheelchair from the northern weather and damaging salt. I rarely drove it, so I didn’t mind that it was too large for me to handle comfortably. Country music blared from the radio, but my mind was preoccupied with replaying the joys of the previous weekend. Suddenly, a Christian talk radio station magically interrupted the music. I mentally checked back in.

You see, dear folks, the preacher was saying. Abraham was willing to be obedient, even if it meant giving up Isaac to death. So he took him up to the top of Mt. Moriah and tied him to the makeshift altar. I focused on the familiar account from Genesis. Every time I pictured the look on Isaac’s face as he watched his father go through the motions of preparing him as the sacrifice, I cringed.

How scared and confused the poor young son must have been. Surely his own father wouldn’t set a fire under him. Would he? the preacher continued, but static began to cloud the signal. I drove deeper into the forest, curving toward the Briarpatch. Again the preacher’s voice became crystal clear.

"Isaac asked innocently, ‘Father, where’s the sacrifice?’ I’m sure his young voice must have trembled at the thought that it might be him. After all, he was the one tied down over a pyre. Abraham couldn’t look his dear son in the face, or he would lose his courage and take Isaac home. He lowered his eyes and said, ‘God will provide a sacrifice.’ Abraham was certain if he obediently slew his son, that God would resurrect him immediately.

"It wasn’t but a few minutes later that God stopped Abraham, and a pure ram, appropriate for sacrifice, stirred in the bushes, replacing young Isaac on the makeshift altar. Abraham killed the ram, his obedience and faith already proven.

"‘You see, son,’ Abraham said gleefully, the sweat on his brow giving away his nervousness, ‘God provided the sacrifice.’ Then Abraham named the place ‘God will provide!’"

How relieved and happy Abraham must have been when he realized he didn’t have to give up his only son for God. I couldn’t imagine being obedient enough to willingly give up anyone I loved. I feared my selfishness was a character flaw. The radio preacher related God’s willingness to give up his son, Jesus, as a sacrifice on that same Mt. Moriah in Jerusalem. The parallels jumped out of the radio waves. David and I had traveled to that region twice before, but I had never understood the proximity of these legendary events. I now had new insight into an old story, and my interest was heightened immensely.

God will provide, in many circumstances, not just for Abraham but for you too, the preacher persisted. Suddenly, country music was blaring again.

Darn! I really wanted to hear the rest of that, I muttered to the radio, as if it could commiserate. The talk radio station never returned, no matter how many times I twisted the dials.

I wondered if God was trying to tell me something. All the way home, I thought about it, but no insight emerged. Throughout the evening, I dwelled on the prominent message: God will provide. Struggling with its meaning and hoping for some perspective, I decided to approach our pastor after Sunday’s services.

Pastor Katie listened intently as I relayed the radio incident. She laid her hands on both of my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye, and said, Be watchful! God is preparing you for something. Let me know if anything unusual happens this week. She squeezed my shoulders, and I left.

I just finished my steroids yesterday, David said over lunch. I think I’m much better.

Well, you do seem improved. I’m certainly relieved. Do you really think that was your first exacerbation? I asked skeptically.

I guess it was, he said. Cindy and John were due the next week, but before we had a chance to welcome them, our comfortable, happy world changed forever.

October 23, 2005

It began as an ordinary day in the mountains. The late morning sun had finally broken through the gray fog, melting the frosty red clay earth. The promise of a beautiful, clear day hung in the air. I read in the rocker to the sound of the creek outside, as David sprawled comfortably on the couch, a radio earpiece attached to his head, a computer on his lap. A large lot subdivision was going in, and the previous day our first neighbor, Angela Perk, had visited all afternoon chatting amiably on the porch, sharing dreams, swapping life stories, and getting acquainted. We proudly showed her the cabin and surrounding property. After we exchanged telephone numbers, she promised to watch over the Briarpatch for us when we returned home.

As I read my book, David asked, Trish, did you see my jeserphant?

Your what? I looked up at David, slightly perplexed.

Didn’t you hear me? Did you see the hosinszet? I set my book aside and gazed into David’s face.

David, you’re making no sense. What’s a hosinszet? David didn’t have much of a sense of humor. As a matter of fact, neither did I. My friends called me HI—humor impaired—so if this was a joke, I didn’t find it funny.

David, you’re not making real words. I treaded lightly.

Of course I am! he said defiantly, sounding perturbed with me. Don’t you understand kerzioch? Suddenly, I knew that something was horribly amiss. I bolted from the room, fear gripping my entire body. I paused, took some deep breaths, calmed myself down, and returned to the living room.

David, I started, something’s terribly wrong. You’re making up words that don’t make sense, and you don’t even recognize that they’re gibberish. Call your neurologist, and this time, I want to talk to her, I said firmly.

David seemed confused by my obvious distress, but he dialed the number and handed me the phone. I don’t know what the big deal is, he muttered in the background.

After I had explained to Dr. Merrick what was going on, she asked to speak with David. I want you to go to the local hospital and have a urinalysis done. Sometimes a urinary tract infection (UTI) can present with some unusual symptoms. This seemed like a stretch to me, but one I was eager to accept. Recently, David’s elderly mother, Katherine, had presented with vomiting and chills, confusion and fatigue, only to find out she had a UTI. After a round of antibiotics, she returned to normal quickly. I put all my eggs of hope in this basket.

The test results at the lab proved negative, leaving us perplexed and confused. David continued with the gibberish, so I called Dr. Merrick myself.

Well, I’ve never seen an MS attack like this one before, so I’m inclined to believe it’s not one. I’m sorry I’m not much help. She hung up without resolution. I needed reassurance—for her to tell me I was being melodramatic or overreacting. Instead, she confirmed my doubts, fueled my fears.

David, I want to call Lissa, I said, reaching over him for the phone. Our oldest daughter practiced medicine, albeit obstetrics and gynecology, in San Diego.

Lissa? I need some advice. The fear in my voice was now evident, even to me.

After I explained the events of the day, Lissa began, Mommy, take him to an emergency room in Atlanta right away.

Maybe I’m overreacting, I added, hoping to avoid the trip to Atlanta.

Not this time, Mommy. I’m afraid he might have had a stroke. If you catch it within the first twenty-four hours, they can do some things to help, Lissa explained.

I’ve thought it might have been a stroke too, but the urinalysis took all day and it’s so late now. The drive to Atlanta would take two hours. Are you sure we have to go tonight? Couldn’t it wait till tomorrow? I dreaded the long, late drive in David’s honker car. It would be 10:00 p.m. before we were even seen, and that’s if we were lucky.

Yes, Mommy, take him tonight. Let me know what they find. I’ll be waiting for your call. I love you both. A long night stretched in front of us like a new cold: necessary to undergo, but not much fun to endure.

Suddenly the day that had begun with a pristine sunrise through the fog seemed more threatening, less attractive. Clouds of fear and doubt dominated, causing a prickling sensation on my skin, heightening my awareness, like the electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. I called our neighbor, Kenny, hoping he would offer his assistance; he didn’t, and I was reluctant to ask. I felt as though a storm was catching me off guard, without the usual advisories from NOAA. I said a quick prayer as I loaded David into the car.

We need to find a level one trauma center, David said, his years of medical training kicking into play. They’ll have a radiologist there to read the MRI tonight. Many of David’s nights over the previous thirty years had been spent interpreting the meanings of symptoms for others. His time had now come.

As we drove, David looked over and said, Just get me to a travel one llama center. Northside Hospital should be one, according to Kenny.

This time a giggle bubbled up, threatening to escape. I repeated his words, certain that once he heard them he too would laugh. A travel one llama center, David? I quipped.

That’s what I just said, he retorted, his voice uncharacteristically stern.

Really, a llama center? I repeated once again. The giggle burst out of confinement and rang throughout the car. David looked confused. Hearing