In the midst of aftermath...

There is this great scene in one of my favorite movies, "Twister" in which, in the midst of tornado aftermath, the protagonist, Jo, finally confronts her "issues" with tornados.

"You've never seen it miss this house, and miss that house, and come after you!" (Hint: it's not about the house, it's really all about her father).


I feel that way about Cancer. (Hint: it all started with my father, too).


Jo devoted her entire life to chasing and, essentially, fighting tornados.


In truth, I, myself, am much better at running away, getting distracted--avoiding real problems and issues. But in my other life--the imaginary one in which I, too, am a protagonist, and I spend my days being really, really good at something significant--I am a storm chaser. At least I like to think I would be.


I watched Cancer take my Dad before we even knew he had it. Before I ever got to say goodbye. And a woman who was at that time the same age I am now found herself wondering how in the world she was going to raise and support six kids--four of them boys--all by herself.


I watched it take this friend and that friend. Or that friend's baby.


Tayson. His family had just moved into our neighborhood only months before. I remember meeting Alice and thinking what great friends we could be. I really, really liked her. I remember seeing her walking Tayson down the road in his stroller. She told me he wasn't feeling too well. I noticed he had a bad bruise on his face. We talked about the usual things one discusses over childhood illness. Maybe he had an ear infection. Who was her pediatrician. I hoped he felt better soon.

Later that day another woman from the neighborhood me asked how everything was. "Fine," I said. "You haven't heard?" she asked. Turned out Tayson didn't have an ear infection. He had leukemia. L-E-U-K-E-M-I-A. My world stopped still. And I couldn't even begin to imagine.

They had hardly even moved in, didn't really know a lot of people. And now they were practically living at Primary Children's Hospital. I remember one night we drove up to Salt Lake to see them. I had the hardest time walking through the halls at PCMC. I still can hardly make myself walk through those halls (don't get me wrong--PCMC is a wonderful place and we are so blessed to have it. I just can't handle thinking about the anguish of those kids--their mothers, their fathers, their entire families--must go through with whatever it is that brings them there. I know miracles happen there. But I also know there is a great deal of pain). Somehow at the end of the visit, we ended up with tickets to the ball game. Alice and Barry were glad someone could use them. We had a great time; but somehow it seemed wrong to be having a good time while they were left behind to witness the constant suffering of their son.

I remember the day Tayson died. I tried to imagine my friend rocking her baby in her arms while the people in the mortuary were waiting for her to release him. How does one ever let go?

I remember the night of the viewing. I had to make myself go. I didn't think I could go in. But I made myself go in. I was blessed to understand that the too-small body lying in the casket wasn't Tayson anymore and that Tayson was OK now.

I remember serving in the kitchen on the day of Tayson's funeral. Alice came in to say goodbye. She hugged me long and hard. I didn't want to let her go. I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. But mothers with empty arms are alone.


Another Alice. When I was just starting out, I used to call her and seek her advice for a number of homemaking and cooking and baking issues. She helped me sew something for one of my kids once. She had the best laugh and was so much fun at girls' camp. I will never forget the night at some Stake RS dinner when we sat together and she was telling us about her back pain and how frustrated she was that no one could seem to help her. She wasn't complaining. She was explaining.

Within about a month she was dead from bone cancer.

She had two girls still home.

Who do they talk to about their hopes, their fears, their broken hearts? Who will help them with their hair and their dresses on their wedding days?


Meridith. You may have read about her. She was diagnosed with leukemia on Valentine's Day. The gift of marrow from the bones of her twin sister saved her eventually, but did Cancer really spare her? No. The radiation used to beat it back broke her body and her mind. She suffers still. "I'll just turn it over to God," she says as she wears herself out serving her husband, her family and her every neighbor.


Sue. I don't even know how to describe Sue. My favorite picture of her is one in which she is wearing sunglasses and holding some great big novel in her hands. I think she has a beach hat on, too, maybe. She was likely wearing a bathing suit and sitting lakeside or poolside somewhere or on a boat. Sue had a hard life. But she was frank and real. I liked that about her. She helped me refine my pie-baking skills and gave me the recipe for the best sour cherry pie ever. When life gives you sour cherries by all means make a dessert out of them.

Breast Cancer. I remember her stopping her car to talk to me as I walked down her street and she was returning from yet another round of chemo. She looked great, but she felt like hell. I will never forget how her co-workers at NuSkin worked her shifts for her so she could keep her medical insurance.

Sue finally found peace at the end. Her funeral--mere days before Christmas--remains one of the best I ever attended.


Adrienne. It always seemed to me as if Adrienne and her three beautiful girls had stepped right out of a Jane Austin novel and right into our little old neighborhood.

No one kept Christmas like Adrienne. She kept it the whole year through. Her house was decorated for it for months before and after. But it wasn't mere decoration. She emodied the Spirit of Christmas. It was said of her at her funeral something to the effect that she and her equally amazing husband must've had input into the creation of the Garden of Eden for it to have truly been as lovely as it was. Adrienne made the world a more beautiful place.

Ovarian Cancer. I remember trying to help her during her last months. I never had any trouble finding women willing to come to clean her lovely home. The problem was more Adrienne wearing herself out trying to clean it before we came to clean.

I remember sitting by her bedside sometime during her last couple of weeks. I hugged her and held her hand. She was in so much pain. But so gracious and loving. My memory of these moments is kind of blurry. I think it's both too beautiful and too painful to recall in sharp focus.

I have never known--nor will I ever--anyone quite like her.


The list goes on: My Aunt Pat: She survived breast Cancer some 20 years ago, but another one eventually took her. She'd been widowed from my uncle since I was a baby. Now my cousins have no parents.

My Grandma Jacobs: Breast Cancer. My Aunt Darlene: Breast Cancer. My friend Laurie: Thyroid Cancer. Just to name a few. They are survivors. Cancer didn't miss them entirely, but it didn't take them away, either.


And now I just learned that Cancer has chosen to go after my neighbor through the back fence: Stage three testicular cancer.

A good man. A husband and father. With kids the age I remember being when it went after my dad.

I am trying to imagine being this family. Being the wife who must be sore afraid. Being the four kids who probably have no idea what this all really means for them. Being the provider of a family and wondering not only what lies ahead for you, but what will happen to your family? Feeling alone because although we may offer prayers and sympathy, no one really knows what it's like to be them right now.

I want to help. But what can I do? What can I say?

There are no words for this.

I know.





update: Cory has finished chemo and has tested clear of cancer. We hope and pray his remission continues.

Just like at the end of the movie, sometimes the twister will pass by your house and leave you all still standing.