Chapter 20
“Today we’re going to be doing something different,” Doctor Simpson, our group therapist, declares.
It’s followed by a collective groan and I shift anxiously in my seat.
Every time I’ve come to therapy, it’s been the same.
We go around the circle and she asks each of us various questions, which we can answer if we feel comfortable or pass if we don’t want to talk about it.
I’m not sure I like different. Plus, this is probably one of my last sessions since Doctor Barker called yesterday to say that my lymph nodes were benign.
“I’m going to split you up into pairs and you’ll be talking with each other today.
” Doctor Simpson gives us all an encouraging grin.
“Obviously, you’re not trained therapists, so I’ll be moving from group to group if anyone needs extra help.
The point of this exercise is to get talking and to listen to your partner.
Sometimes, simply talking to someone who’s going through something similar to you can be helpful. ”
My stomach flips. I glance around the group and everyone seems to look as nervous as I feel. This isn’t exactly what we signed up for .
“Could I use the bathroom before we get started?” I ask as Doctor Simpson starts putting people in pairs.
“Of course, but hurry back.”
I nod, feeling better almost as soon as I’m out of the room. I don’t like talking about feelings, especially not with someone I only see every few weeks.
I stand by the bathroom sink for as long as I risk it before heading back; the giant clock at the edge of the room says that I was gone for less than five minutes.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. I’m still going to have to partner up with someone.
“Rosie, you’ll be with Lucy today,” Doctor Simpson waves me over to where she’s sitting with Lucy. The tightness in my chest lessens slightly. I can talk to Lucy.
“Sorry I ran off there,” I say lightly. “I don’t like things like this.”
“It’s okay,” Lucy says. “There's always a few who run out whenever Doctor Simpson changes things up. I told her I didn’t mind waiting for you. I thought you’d be more comfortable since you know me and all. I hope that’s okay.”
I relax at her words. “Yes, totally okay. Thank you so much.”
“I can start if you want,” Lucy volunteers.
“That’d be great.”
“Okay.” She clasps her hands together in her lap, but I know they won’t last there—she talks with her hands, and it’s one of the things I love about her.
There’s a lump in my throat at the thought.
I’m two weeks post-op, which means she is, too.
I can tell she’s tired and she came here in a wheelchair, but she’s still here.
I’m glad she’s still here. It’s hard to swallow the lump.
“I feel like talking about God today,” Lucy says.
I blink at her. “Um, okay.” I move my hands so I’m sitting on my fingers. I didn’t grow up in a religious home. I know my dad prays sometimes, but it’s not something we ever really talk about. I know a lot of people believe in God, but I’ve never really thought about it.
“I was so mad at Him when I first got cancer,” she says, and I nod, because I understand that. I was mad, too, when my new tumor grew. “I didn’t understand why this was happening to me, you know? I still have so much of my life ahead of me, why was this happening? Why now?
“I’ve spent a lot of time yelling at God the past few years. Literally yelling. Maybe He doesn’t appreciate that, but sometimes you just gotta yell.” She smiles a little, as if she finds this humorous.
I close my eyes, trying to picture Lucy yelling, and I cannot do it. She doesn’t seem like a person that would ever yell.
“But then, as more time passed, the yelling stopped, and something changed.”
“What changed?” I find myself asking.
“I wasn’t so angry anymore.”
I meet Lucy’s eyes at this—how is she not still angry? If I were her, I think I’d still be angry.
“I woke up one day and I thought, ‘Wow, I’m so grateful to be alive. I’m so grateful that I have amazing nurses and doctors. I finally see God’s hand in this.’ And after that, the anger was just gone.”
Now I’m skeptical. “Just like that?” That seems too easy. Like some magical thinking can make everything better.
“Just like that.” Lucy smiles. “I mean, I don’t think it actually happened just like that. Most things that happen don’t just happen, it’s usually a long build-up of smaller moments that lead up to that big moment, the one people say changes everything.”
I’m still not sure I believe her.
“I realized that even though cancer sucks, and it’s really, really hard to have a brain tumor, God is still here. He’s still in the details and he’s still with me.”
“Even though He won’t take the cancer away?” From what I understood, isn’t God supposed to perform lots of miracles, including healing the sick?
“Sometimes He doesn’t take the hard things away.” Lucy says it like it’s no big deal, like she’s gonna keep trusting God anyway, even though He’s essentially letting her suffer.
“But why not?” I ask, suddenly desperate for the answer, when Doctor Simpson calls us back together. How can she believe in something that doesn’t make her better?
“I’ll tell you later,” Lucy says, as we move back into our semicircle and do a shorter version of our usual therapy session.
I can’t focus for the rest of the session.
I don’t really listen as Don talks about losing his wife to cancer, and how he now has a tumor on his liver.
Or when Beth talks about how she’s dealing with her diagnosis.
I mean, I hear their words, but none of it makes sense.
The only thing running through my head is that I need to talk to Lucy as soon as this is done, and she needs to explain.
As soon as our session is over, I can tell that Lucy is in no shape to talk; her eyes are droopy as her nurse starts to push her wheelchair. “We’ll talk soon,” she promises, as I’m left standing there with a thousand questions burning in my mind.
I’m quiet on the car ride home. How can there be a God when so many bad things are happening in the world?
Why doesn’t He stop any of it? Why would anyone choose to believe in a being or person or whatever God is, when He doesn’t take away the hurt, when there are still starving people in the world, and evil people running the world? Doesn’t He care?
He has a weird way of showing it, if He does. I fold my arms over my chest. I will not cry, even though I kind of want to. Even though I already had questions about my own cancer, Lucy’s confession today did nothing to soothe them; if anything, it made the gnawing in my chest even worse.
It isn’t supposed to be like this. Life isn’t supposed to be like this. I’m not as far gone as Grace and Tucker to really believe in a happily ever after for everyone, and I know that bad things happen, but this? I just don’t get it. I don’t get it at all.
“You okay, Rosebud?” Dad asks quietly, interrupting my spiral.
“I’m fine,” I say, because I don’t know how to actually say what I’m thinking and feeling.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says as we pull off the freeway, but instead of turning left to go home, he turns right, toward the beach. Toward the water. “I know that when I get really quiet, it means there’s something on my mind that I probably should talk about, but don’t quite know how.”
I’m quiet for a moment. First I’m annoyed that I’m so much like him, he knows almost exactly what’s happening inside my brain, and then, I’m grateful that he understands me in this small way.
“I just don’t get it,” I finally say.
We pull into the parking lot by the pier; it’s a Thursday afternoon in February, so the lot, and the beach, are nearly empty.
“What don’t you get?” Dad asks and I look out at the sparkling water over the hood of the dashboard.
I watch the waves for a long time, and he doesn’t push. It’s as if he knows I’ll talk when I’m ready and he’s fine waiting. We can simply watch the ocean together until then.
The waves slow my heart, but don’t clear my head. Maybe talking, like Doctor Simpson said earlier, will help.
“I was almost nine years clear,” I whisper.
“Why this? Why now?” I look at Dad then, and he’s watching me, waiting for me to say more.
When I open my mouth again, I’m nearly yelling.
“Why does Lucy, who is so good and so happy, have that stupid tumor that they’ll never be able to fully remove?
She’s just gonna keep having surgeries until she dies.
How is that fair? How is she so freaking happy?
How does she still believe in God when He’s obviously not helping her? ”
Dad lets out a slow breath and looks out at the water.
“I need answers, Dad.” My voice cracks in the middle and the tears that were threatening to spill begin to slide down my face.
“I know, bud.” He’s still looking out at the water. “But sometimes we don’t get all the answers.”
“Seriously?” I choke on a sob. “That’s all you’ve got for me?
” Without thinking, I push open the door and I’m running toward the beach.
The frigid water splashes up to my ankles when I finally stop, registering the pain in my right side.
Running may not have been the smartest idea so soon after my surgery.
“Rosie.” Dad’s right next to me, standing in the freezing water. “I don’t have all the answers, but I will say this.”
I look at him, the wind whipping my hair across my face, but I don’t care. What’s the point of any of this, if at the end of the day, there’s just so much pain and suffering for everyone?
“I know we never really raised you to believe in God, and it was just one of those things where we wanted you to find answers for yourself. But maybe I should have said something more. Do you know why I love the ocean so much?”
I shake my head no, because even though I’ve heard him talk about the water nearly every day of my life, I get the feeling that what he’s about to say is going to be different this time.
“When I stand here and look out at the water, I feel so, so small,” he says, and I nod. I feel that way right now; the ocean goes on forever. I’m just a tiny spec against the vast blue in front of me. “But at the same time, I also feel so big and so significant.”
I blink. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that way. “Why?”
“I believe that God made the earth and the ocean, and that He also made you and me,” he says, and it’s not the first time I’m hearing the words, but it’s the first time I’m hearing it from him and I’m not sure what that means yet.
“He made this beautiful ocean, this huge part of the world that holds so many wonders, so many things that we don’t even know about.
There’s beauty in it, and it just leaves me in awe. ”
I look at him again as he continues. “And then I look at you, my only little girl, and even though you’re eighteen, you’re always gonna be my baby girl.
” He’s got tears in his eyes now. “And I look at you, and I think all those same things that I do about the ocean. That there’s still so much to know about you, that from the moment we met you, we thought you were perfect, and holding you in my arms that first time, I was in awe.
Because here I was, still a fairly new dad who went from no kids to two, and now one of them was a girl and one was a boy, and how was I supposed to raise the two of you? What was I supposed to do?”
His eyes never leave mine. “Yet, I just knew that there was something greater out there, bigger than you and me. That we get to take part in a tiny little bit of the beauty that He created. I’m so grateful.”
“But what about the hard stuff?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“Remember when you first got cancer?” I nod—of course I remember. Chemo made me so sick. “I got down on my knees that night and begged God to take it from you, to make you well. I said I’d do anything, give anything to free you from that pain and everything you had to go through.
“But that’s not how God works.” Dad steps closer to me, pulling me into a hug. “It’s not how parenting works. You don’t want your kids to go through hard things, but sometimes you can’t change it, sometimes you can’t take away their pain.”
“I thought God was supposed to be all powerful or whatever, and could do anything.”
“You know, He probably can,” Dad says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“But I imagine that sometimes He doesn’t, because maybe we need to go through it.
Just like sometimes when a kid crashes on his bike, the parents can’t run to him right away, they need to see if he’ll get up on his own to prove to himself that he is strong, that he’s okay. ”
I don’t want to have to prove that I’m strong.
“But there’s just so much bad… so many hard things… it doesn’t make sense,” I say into his chest.
“Well, I guess that’s something you need to think about, and maybe ask Him about,” he says, letting go of me.
“I don’t exactly know how to pray,” I admit. “Or even know if I actually want to.”
“Well, just think about it then; you’d be surprised by what happens when you just take some time to think.”
I nod. “Can we go now? I think my toes are frozen.”
Dad laughs. “Sure kiddo, let’s go home.”
I follow him back up the beach, toward his car.
Pausing only once to look out at the bright blue ocean, and I feel a little lighter.
I’m still confused, but maybe we really aren’t supposed to have all the answers.
That doesn’t mean I’ll stop thinking about the things that don’t make sense to me.
Maybe bad things will always still happen, and maybe there isn’t always some greater reason for it, maybe it’s just the way life is. Maybe someday, I can be okay with that.