I'm Having the Cake

I’ve come to the sobering realization that death is a part of middle age. People with whom I have shared laughter and meals and intimate experiences are dying or have already passed away. On Mothers’ Day, I saw a teenage boy walking down the aisle at church, his mother’s arm draped lovingly around his shoulders. From a distance, it appeared to be a sweet, yet ordinary Mother’s Day moment. That is, unless you realize that the boy’s father had died less than two weeks ago. He was in his forties and was a heavy smoker, which inevitably led to lung cancer. He was a good man who taught High School Christian Education with us on Sundays. One might say he paid the ultimate price for his addiction. Seeing his young son for the first time since the funeral, I realized it is his family who faces an ongoing toll.
A friend just said good-bye to his wife after she endured a ten-year battle with breast cancer. A decade ago, they thought they had less than a year to spend together and they took an extended vacation, something they had long dreamed about. Medicine, therapy, prayer and courage kept her around until her youngest child reached 14. He will remember his mother, but his perception of her is tainted by her devastating illness. His older brother and sisters have the advantage of recalling their mother as a person with physical beauty, emotional vitality and remarkable athleticism. Collectively, they perceive her as a warrior who valiantly endured relentless suffering. In the days after her death, her husband’s face was etched with grief, but his eyes shone with relief. His wife’s arduous, exhausting battle had finally drawn to a close.
A man I knew well died three weeks ago. We worked in the same room for fifteen years. Two years ago, at age 44, he was discovered to be suffering from some form of dementia. His ability to speak slowly eroded. The last time I saw him, he could muster just one syllable at a time. All who spent time with him believed that he was fully aware of his surroundings, but he simply unable to speak or put thoughts into words in any form. Ultimately, he communicated only with his eyes. He was completely ambulatory, but his disease began to take its toll on him physically. Pneumonia set in, and he was placed into a long-term acute care facility. Less than twelve hours after he arrived, he died. Those closest to him believe he simply resigned from life. His disease created an emotional vacuum for him. There simply was no joy left for him.
Now, a physician my wife and I have come to know well over the course of our marriage has been diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. He will die soon. When your doctor is facing death, particularly if he is in roughly your age range, it can be alarming. Since we know him and like him, and since we have trusted him for two decades with our family’s health, the news is profoundly sad.
I’ve been to more funerals than your average middle-aged man, a dubious distinction to be sure. This has colored my outlook on things. I’m an advocate of living life for the little things when I can.
A couple of years ago, I was having lunch with an acquaintance. She was in her late thirties, beautiful, outgoing and ambitious. She had two young children and came from a family which enjoyed a certain financial security. Things were going her way. I had a piece of German Chocolate cake, and she said that it looked delicious. I assured her that it was, indeed, enjoyable and urged her to get some for herself. She said she would love to, but she was trying to watch her weight.
The following weekend, her husband went insane and shot her to death, then turned the gun on himself. Just like that, two lives were ended and two young children were orphaned. I remember thinking, “she should have had the cake.”
I may be a few pounds overweight, but I’m living for today. There’s too much uncertainty in life. I’m planning to have the cake.

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