Dear Family and Friends,
I am overwhelmed with the outpouring of love that you’ve sent Nancy and our family. I don’t know if I could have survived these past few days without such unconditional support. Many of you have asked about our two children, Jaret and Jayna. Where are they? How are they coping? I will save Jaret for a future note, but tonight is a suitable occasion to address Jayna.
Two weeks ago today, Jayna called from Cusco, Peru, where she has just completed her Junior Year Abroad coursework toward a Latin American Studies degree from Vassar College. Her voice was full of excitement.
“I’m finished, Dadder. I learned so much.”
I can forever visualize my daughter’s always expressive face. Twinkling blue eyes above a warm, tooth-filled, disarming smile. A childlike excitement in the way her eyebrows lift as she speaks. A flip of her head to position her darkish-blonde bangs back across her forehead. She’s inherited so much from Nancy.
“What would you think of me staying awhile? I kind of met a guy I like . . .”
I hoped Jayna couldn’t hear what to me was a very loud swallow. I wanted to scream, “No way, Jayna! You are my little girl, and I don’t want you to be with any guy. South America is too far away from Utah. We were only able to visit you once last year, and it nearly killed your mother and me.”
Though those thoughts rattled in my head while I weighed an answer, I couldn’t ignore the fact that Jayna is, put simply, a fine young woman. She was valedictorian in high school. She is idealistic and wants to save the world. She is genuinely kind, warm, and loving.
To be fair, at times she was a challenge as a kid, but she was mischievous rather than troublesome. And yes, she loves to argue with me and point out when I am wrong or inconsistent—or both. But Jayna is so vibrant and full of life that she can melt me on the spot with a grab of my hand, a kiss on my cheek, or the “look” that reinforces what she often verbalizes.
“I do remember what you’ve taught me, Dadder. Friends and family are the most important things in life. And yes, Dadder. You are family.”
“Well, I guess staying a little longer would be OK,” I responded trying to mask my reluctance. “Do you need anything?”
“No, Dadder, I’ve already got a job. I’ll be home in a month.”
Did I mention that Jayna is independent and adventuresome?
“I do miss you both a lot. Thank goodness for mobile phones and the Internet.”
It was therefore with a considerable weight on my shoulder that felt like a full sack of stones that I finally picked up the phone this morning to inform Jayna about her mother’s illness.
Nancy, of course, urged me not to call.
“I really don’t want to ruin Jayna’s special time in a faraway country. She is too young to have to deal with something like this.”
Jayna and Nancy are as close as any mother and daughter. And I knew that Jayna would want to hear from me as strongly as Nancy didn’t want her to hear at all.
Over the years, due to caring for visiting tourists as part of my day job, I’ve gained experience in making difficult calls to faraway family members. But experience doesn’t help when calling your own faraway daughter. As I dialed the long international number, I had to concentrate on not spilling over with emotion.
“Jayna, it’s Dad.”
“Dadder, is something wrong?”
So much for my charade. Nancy often teases me about being transparent.
After trying to disguise my audible deep breath by momentarily putting my hand over the phone, I answered, “Yes, Jayna, there is . . . Mom is sick.”
Now it was Jayna’s voice that sounded distressed. She pleaded, “Sick? How sick, Dad?”
“Real sick. She has the blood cancer called acute myeloid leukemia.”
There was an uncomfortable delay not due to the connection. “Cancer? Mom has cancer? Do I need to come home?”
“Yes.” I had hoped to elaborate but could not find any words.
Jayna replied softly, “Dadder, I’ll make arrangements. I’ll call you back in a little while with details.”
“Thanks, Jayna.”
“Dadder? Tell Mom I love her. And that I’ll be there soon.”
Jayna called me back within the hour. She had already packed her things, said good-bye to her friends, and made a reservation to be on the next plane to Utah that had space, leaving the next night and arriving (with connections and such) the following day.
She ended our call with, “We can do this, Dadder. I’m ready.” There had been no second thoughts about coming and no doubts about her role.
How many twenty-two-year-olds are willing to put their lives on hold instantaneously? (I know at least one.)
When Jayna called initially, Nancy had been asleep. When she awakened about an hour later, I told her the news. She scrunched her eyebrows toward her nose, thrust her lower lip forward, and waved her index finger at me. The feigned anger morphed into the largest smile I have ever seen on my bride’s face. Shortly thereafter, tears were streaming down Nancy’s cheeks. It was the first time she had cried (unlike me).
“Tomorrow?” she asked, not needing an answer. I hugged Nancy tightly. Surprisingly, though Nancy has been weakened by her ordeal, her return hug rivaled mine in strength.
Lastly, tonight before I tucked Nancy between the starchy white hospital sheets and under the lime-green hospital blanket, she looked at me with those big sky-blue eyes of hers, and with a new bounce in her voice, she directed, “Can you add . . .” and gave me three new names to put on my update list.
I guess I’ll have a lot of catch-up reading to do so that Nancy will know how thoughtful all of you have been.
We’ve come a long, long way.
On the other hand, Nancy is still adjusting to hospital life.
Most of you can probably imagine her telling the nurse or aide that he or she doesn’t need to “make an extra trip” and me interrupting with, “Thank you. If you would bring that cold washcloth for Nancy’s forehead it would be wonderful!”
I have such an incredible soul mate. Between naps this afternoon, she even helped Jaret with the final paper for his spring semester at Westminster College.
Summary: Jayna will arrive home from Peru the day after tomorrow to be with her mom and support her dad. None too soon.
Much love,
Winnie