Hope for Eternity

So here I am at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah waiting. My wife is undergoing yet another test to (hopefully) determine what has been the cause of so much abdominal pain and difficulty with eating. This is nothing new - we have been dealing with this since July, 2006. And yet, it is new - new doctor, new procedures and tests - new hope.

How many times can a person have their hopes dashed to pieces and still find something inside that whispers, "Someday... someday..."? It has been my experience that there is no end to being able to find hope and and peace - even in the most difficult of circumstances.

Probably the most difficult test of this resolve came when my father, only 66 years of age at the time was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme. Sounds dreadful doesn't it? Well, it is. It is a 100% fatal cancer of the brain. Unlike most cancers, which are caused by constant replication of malignant cells, this cancer mutates healthy cells instead.

The day that they diagnosed my father, I spent the evening reading all I could about the disease - did you notice that is is capitalized when spelled? Only the worst diseases get that. Every article I read and every story told seemed to be another brick in my spiritual backpack. Soon I felt the weight of what lay in store.

My parents, I don't think, had truly come to understand that he had only a few weeks - a couple of months at most. But I did. I shut down my computer, turned out the light to my office and walked into our bedroom. I quietly climbed into bed so as not to wake my wife and wept. It was like a dam burst inside my heart, and unable to control myself, I sobbed.

My dear, sweet wife woke up, turned on the lamp - somehow the light made it a little better - and held me. And I cried. I was 40 years old and I cried like I had never cried in my life. I thought I was going to suffocate because I was sobbing so deeply - but I couldn't stop.

The human body cannot sustain such emotion - it takes too much energy. Eventually, perhaps only a few minutes later, perhaps an hour later - I don't remember - I cried myself out. I had no more tears to shed. And then the miracle happened.

Somewhere, somehow, I began to think about my father's life. I began to think about all that he had taught me and all that he had done for me. He wasn't the perfect parent - far from it, in fact. Nevertheless, I realized that he had given me much upon which I had built my life and my attitudes to life.

Then I began to think about eternity. I realized that the human brain, because it is made up of finite material - material that will eventually decay and return to dust - cannot comprehend with much clarity, the concept of eternity. It is only in the imagination - the intangible part of your soul that you can comprehend. It was then that I realized that there must be more to life than this mortal existence. More than just faith or religious belief, I knew. Logic supported my knowledge.

Life, if anything is energy. First law of thermodynamics: Energy can never be destroyed. It can only be altered or redirected. Life can never be destroyed. Whether one believes in heaven or hell or anything in between is their decision. But no matter your belief, life does go on. I knew that with more certainty than I had ever known anything before. Three months later, my father died.

I was there. Right beside him, holding his hand when he gasped his final breath. I felt his soul leave - like a wind that brushed my mind, I felt it. I knew then that I was right - life is eternal. My mother, of course, broke down, as did my wife. I didn't. I was at peace. I wasn't happy, but I was at peace. The only negative feeling I had was one of regret. Regret that I hadn't asked him for his blessing before he left.

I suppose sitting in a hospital makes one think of mortality - and immortality. And I have hope. I hope that the doctor will be able to find something that can be corrected to give my wife relief. She deserves it. But if not, life goes on. We will continue to hope, to pray and to believe.