The First Acceptance
Finally back from our getaway, I needed to find some inner peace, figure out up from down. With sun-kissed skin and memories to hopefully last a lifetime, I set out on my own for the afternoon, with much apprehension from Rowan. For a while, I just drove aimlessly through the streets until I found myself downtown. I parked, got out, and started milling through the different shops I’d seen all my life and never once walked inside. St. Michael’s came into view, and I don’t know why, but I was pulled in the direction of the biggest church Cambridge had.
Stepping through the large, heavy doors of the church, even though packed with parishioners, nobody turns to gawk at the newcomer. I’m more than grateful, as I’m not even quite sure what I’m doing here just yet.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve walked into St. Michael’s, and even longer since my last confession. Mentally, I thumb through the filing cabinet that is my brain, trying to remember how this is supposed to go. What’s the protocol? Am I even going to confess anything? Or do I just need to seek guidance and have an extra set of hands digging in the trenches, praying for a miracle on my behalf? God, I’m a mess.
Instead of winging it, I sit in a back pew, away from the crowd, and watch. A crying woman stands near the altar, a lit match in her hand, putting the flame to a small votive in a glass holder. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can see her mouth moving. I should do that, too, while I’m here—it can’t hurt. Then, a man stands from his seat, raises his bowed head, and moves toward the reconciliation room.
Pray.
“Got it,” I whisper to myself, the memories of my childhood coming back. Back before I met Rowan, my parents and I attended mass regularly, and on more than a few occasions, either my mother or father would be in need of confession; therefore, I’d be here, waiting in the pews. I remember them praying before they headed inside to confess their sins to the priest.
“God,” I mumble quietly, then all thoughts flee my head. Just a second ago, they were on the tip of my tongue, now … completely vanished. I don’t remember what prayer to say—if there even is one—or how to address God. Maybe I am going to fly by the seat of my pants.
I suppose when going to God in a time of desperate need, the only kind of prayer to say should be a personal one, not something recited from memory. If I were God, the raw, honest ones would be the first ones answered.
I clear my throat and try to not think too much; my heart needs to offer this plea. “God,” I state more firmly, yet still quiet to not bother the others. “I need a miracle. Fast. I need You.”
Even though the words are between me and my maker, saying them aloud brings a slew of emotions I haven’t yet felt. I know that sounds crazy—I’ve been diagnosed not once, but twice, been given the grim outlook of my condition, and been told the only thing that would save me would be that miracle. But voicing it—not in the company of my family or Rowan, but the man who already knew why I was walking through those doors, who already has my life, or lack thereof, planned out, and had it planned out before I was even born—it’s sobering.
My clasped hands turn cold and clammy, and I feel a strong pull to go to my knees, finally understanding the phrase “bring me to my knees.”
“I’m going to die. I’m not ready. I have so much more to do, to give, to love. I can’t bear the thought of not having Rowan, or him not having me.” I don’t bother trying to stop the stream of tears landing heavy on my thighs. “I want more time. Please give me … us … more time,” I beg, my voice becoming strained as I try to talk over the lump in my throat. The desperation’s clear, so I pray harder.
“Keep me strong for Rowan, God. Don’t let him see me weak. I can’t change Your plans, but I can plead for the strength and guidance to keep my family strong and knowledgeable. I have to be there for them, God.”
The man walking out of the confessional catches my attention when he pauses at my aisle. I look up, taking in his tattered work boots, paint-covered jeans, and dingy tee shirt—he’s obviously coming or going to work. He’s a beautiful man—stunning green eyes, features that scream “man”, with a matching build and more facial hair than I’d prefer on my own husband, but oddly enough, I can’t imagine this man looking attractive without it—almost like it’s a part of him and his persona.
“God bless you,” he offers with a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. “Your husband’s a very lucky man.”
“What?” I ask, confused. I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me, yet here he is telling me how lucky Rowan is?
“I didn’t mean to listen in on your prayer, but you sounded so sad—a sadness only people like us know about. What are your chances of survival?”
It’s then I notice the slight tinge of bleakness lurking in his green depths. He’s missing a part of his soul, and for a minute, Rowan’s aqua replaces the emerald and I’m staring into my husband’s eyes—our future—lying beyond the vivid beauty of his irises.
“It’s not good. Actually, it’s terrible. The worst,” I answer honestly.
“And here you are, praying for strength to keep your husband strong … he’s a blessed man.”
“Who did you lose?”
“My fiancée, Teresa. Six months ago. I won’t lie to you, ma’am, your husband’s going to be facing a pain so deep, but with your prayers, hopefully, that pain subsides to remember your life together. That’s what gets me through.”
My throat tightens and I swallow hard. I promised in my hand-written vows to never hurt Rowan, and soon, I’ll be causing him the worst kind of hurt and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” God, that’s a stupid-ass thing to say. I really hope nobody says that to Rowan.
“I appreciate it,” he responds, seemingly honest, though I still want to kick myself. “It will get easier as the days pass. Teresa had a bone marrow transplant. She was supposed to get better and she did … until she didn’t. Thank the Lord, she went peacefully in her sleep, but because it was so fast, she couldn’t have prayed for my peace and strength, and I really think it would’ve helped.”
“Sir, I didn’t know your fiancée, but being a woman in love, I think I can speak for her in this very emotional, raw moment.” I rise to my feet and take the handsome stranger’s hand between mine.
I have no idea what I’m doing or why I’m doing it, but the need to help him heal is so strong, I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. He obviously stopped because he needed some kind of reassurance, and I need all the good vibes I can bring in right now.
“When women are so deeply in love, the first prayer we say is always for the men we adore. She may have never told you she prayed for strength for either of you, but I can assure you it happened.”
“There’s no way you can know that for sure.” The man wipes away a few tears with his free hand while gripping tighter onto mine with the other.
“But I can.” I smile sweetly, hoping he’s going to understand what I’m going to say to him. “Call it women’s intuition, call it what you want, but here’s the biggest thing you should remember. When I leave here today, I’m going to go home and crawl into my husband’s lap and pray to not fall apart in his arms. I will not, however, be telling him about my trip to church. It’ll be just another Thursday night in our house, and I’ll be strong so he stays strong because us women … we’re pros at walking by faith.”
His tears fall faster and I pull him into a hug, doing everything I can in my power to ease his hurt.
“You’re an angel,” he chokes out between hiccups.
“Not even close,” I chuckle. “Just a woman in love needing all the willpower to stand firm for her man.”
“God bless you,” he repeats and backs away. The bleakness—at least some of it—evaporates. He wipes his face and nods. “He’s a lucky man.”
“Wrong again. I’m a lucky woman.”
I don’t think to catch his name before he vanishes out the door, and I think it’s okay. I only hope he got what he came for. I finish my own prayer, thanking God for putting this stranger in my path. Bottom line, I’m going to die, but I’m doing to do it with faith, courage, and strength. And Rowan’s going to know—at all costs—how loved he truly is.
I make my way to the confession booth and pause outside the door. I glance over my shoulder and see another woman, different from the one lighting candles, sitting in her seat, guilt and a need for penance written all over her face. When her eyes meet mine, she sheepishly smiles, and I nod. Whatever the reason, she needs this booth and the resolve more than I do. Maybe today’s just my day of good deeds. Church has a way of doing that to a person, and I’m ashamed I waited until I was in a time of need to walk through the doors—I should have been here all along.
I step back and move to exit the church. The confessional and I no longer have unfinished business. God and I had our little chat. I do, however, stop in my tracks and spin around to go to the altar. I light a candle before I leave—for Teresa. The stranger was young and I’d bet his fiancée was around the same age.
Close to my age.
Mine and Rowan’s age.
If God’s taking me before I’m ready, I’m already on borrowed time. And if I’m going, it’ll be with a bang—me leaving my mark on this world in the most impactful way possible with the little time I have left.
“God,” I whisper as I put the long match, already aflame, at the wick of the votive. “Hold Teresa and send her fiancé strength and eventual peace. They both deserve it.”
I blow out the match and leave the church with renewed purpose. A woman on a mission, if you will.
I might not be able to fight the cancer, but I’m in control of not letting it beat me in the process.
I walk down the street toward where I had to park, nearly a block away. I pass by a convenience store, and for whatever reason—probably a sign if I were a sign-believing gal—I notice the headline printed on the newspaper.
“Youngest Patient in Oregon History Passed Yesterday at Age 40 Exercising the Death with Dignity Act.”
This is it. This is my future. I could regain some control the cancer stole from me and refuses to give back. I’m going to get a lot worse as this disease eats away at my body. What better way to save my husband from the horror of my final weeks?
If I could lay in my bed with my husband and pass peacefully into the night, in his arms, why wouldn’t I choose that? Why would I choose hospitals and tubes and machines when I could have comfort and happiness and memories?
I’ll have to talk to Rowan, and he won’t be happy at first, but he’ll get it. He’s a smart man. He’ll know this is as much for him as it is me. I don’t want him to be my caretaker or nurse—because God knows he wouldn’t let a stranger care for me, he’d be determined to do it himself. I don’t want the fun, happy, and sexy memories I have to be replaced with pain and strife.
This is my sign. I am a sign gal today.
This is how I’ll leave my mark on this world. This is how I’ll go out on my own terms. And I don’t believe God would be disappointed. I’m going to die anyway, and this isn’t a selfish suicide—this is a means to an end that’s inevitable. This is selfless. This is saving everyone from the pain of watching me suffer.
This is our future.
Rowan’s the best kind of husband a girl could have. Even if he doesn’t agree, he knows how dire our situation is and knows I wouldn’t consider this unless it were necessary. He’ll hold my hand and stick by my side.
He’s my perfect.