An October Rewrite

Twenty-four years ago—and long before I drank coffee—my youngest son, Sam, entered the world in the wee hours of October 16th. He missed his Granddad’s 50th birthday by less than a day and kept me from the celebration. 

But that mattered little. His presence completed our family.

His first few birthdays passed as normally as they could, considering doctors deemed his father, Jason, terminal when he was just seven months old. By his third birthday, however, the brain-stem tumor ruled and reigned.

A few months before, continued neurological decline forced Jason and I to consider last ditch medical options. One thing led to another and a local oncologist encouraged Jason to undergo a biopsy of the tumor. An Emory neurosurgeon insisted it be done as minor brain surgery instead of a stereo-tactic procedure. When a scheduler called, we took the first available surgical appointment: October 16th.

Instead of waking to celebrate our son’s birthday, we woke to a home void of children at 4 am, and prepped for the long drive across town. I wept bitter tears. Sang a lot of worship songs. And finally calmed down when we got to the hospital.

Jason survived the surgery, but symptoms soon intensified. He entered heaven’s doors a few weeks later, on All Saints Day, November 3rd, 1996. While I always anticipated strong emotion during the week of his passing, the tears that often fell on Sam’s birthday surprised me. At first.

But when Sam turned five and the tears burst forth again, I finally understood the connection. When I visited Jason in ICU the night of his surgery, we shared a sweet, almost normal interaction. He was funny, used big words, surprised the nurses, and begged me to go to the cafeteria to get him some food. When I found it closed, crackers had to suffice. 

After a sweet kiss goodnight, I curled up in a recliner right outside his room and slept till morning. When we woke, the numbness in his limbs had spread and fear crept in. From that moment on, he was never quite himself again. In a way, I said goodbye to him when I walked out of that ICU room on Sam’s third birthday. 

Time lessened the pain as celebrating Sam's life overshadowed the loss. So, when I stood outside the same hospital on October 16th, 2014, with a first time prescription for prism glasses, I pondered the irony. 

Why that date? Of all the days of the year, why was I back at Emory, facing my own neuro-muscular decline, on such a momentous date?

I never got an answer. But fast forward another 365 days and on October 16th, 2015, Sam, Courtney, Nathan, and I were in Wilmington, NC, helping Sam prep for the Iron Man he completed the next day. 

And that was an awesome weekend.

Our Iron Man!

But it gets better.

We celebrated Sam's birthday early this year, along with mine and my dad's. So, when October 16th dawned, I woke without plans to see my son. But that changed at 7:30 pm, when I got the text that said, "Courtney's water broke. She's in labor."

Within a few hours I learned her contractions were coming two minutes apart and had to go to the hospital. If there was any chance Elijah would make his entrance in the wee hours of October 16th, I wanted to be in the building.

In the end, he arrived around 3:30 am on October 17th. But the rewrite still mattered. Life entered the world at the same time I once faced losing it. And I just really like that.

A friend recently asked, "How do you remember all those dates? I don't even remember the date my mother died."

"I don't know," I replied. "My memory is a blessing and a curse. Not everyone thinks this way. But it's just the way I am. And just the way my life goes."

I've taken so long to finish this that November 3rd has begun. When I said goodbye to the father of my boys twenty-one years ago today, I could never have imagined the countless ways God would hold my family together through the coming years.

But he has. Countless times. And while fear still grips me if I'm not careful, I have the most recent October rewrite to savor. His name is Elijah, which means, "My God is Yahweh."




All photos (without family) courtesy pixabay.com