When Your Friend is Dying - Christianity Today

Visiting a person who’s dying is rarely pleasant and never easy. Even pastors who’ve made hundreds of hospital calls wonder what to say to a patient who’s just received bad news from the biopsy.

But minister we must. One in four Americans now living will eventually have cancer, according to the American Cancer Society. Over the years, cancer will strike two of every three families.

In February, 1978, Betsy Burnham was healthy, the mother of two, happily active in the Presbyterian Church in Newton, Massachusetts, where her husband, Monty, was the new senior pastor.

In March, her happy life collapsed as emergency surgery revealed she had cancer.

Following that fateful diagnosis, Betsy found comfort and encouragement from the ministry of sensitive, caring friends. She also experienced the blundering and discomfort of those who wanted to help but didn’t know how.

“How does a person like me help someone with a malignancy?” a young woman asked Betsy.

In answer to that question, Betsy wrote the book from which this article is adapted.

When Your Friend Is Dying (Chosen) is the poignant, yet firmly unsentimental story of Betsy’s four-year battle with cancer. Out of her experiences, she shares how to, and how not to, offer help in a time of grief and distress. Her account is not only for pastors who want to know what happens in the heart and mind of a person who’s dying, but it can be passed along to lay helping groups in the church for discussion as they consider how to help those in the church who are suffering.

We had just moved east from California, and fall was settling in red and gold on the New England hardwoods. Monty had previously worked with Young Life, a ministry to teenagers, and then held an associate pastorate. Now he was responsible for leading a church, and I was eager to help. It was our ministry.

As I hung wallpaper in our new home, a heavy, lingering fatigue sank into my bones. My muscles ached as if I’d overstretched. Just three months earlier, my doctor had given me a clean bill of health, so I passed it off as the strain of moving.

Winter blew in. Suzanne and Marybeth, then twelve and ten, both loved the snow. We lugged our sleds up a steep hill nearby. But as I made my first run, bumping down the slope on my stomach, I felt an unusual discomfort.

By March, the tenderness and swelling could not be ignored. A series of x rays followed, and my doctor sent them to be read by a specialist, Dr. Peter Mozden. An appointment was scheduled.

When Monty and I read the plate on Dr. Mozden’s door, we were shocked. It read: “Surgeon, Gynecologist, Oncologist.” A cancer specialist!

In the waiting room, I glanced at the other patients, wondering which ones had “it.”

Dr. Mozden showed us the telltale x rays, pointing out the mass that appeared to fill my abdominal cavity. His face was grave.

“We must schedule surgery immediately. In fact, I’ll arrange it for next Monday,” he said firmly, and I knew I had little choice in the matter. “Possibly it’s an ovarian cyst. But the size indicates a probable malignancy.”

Malignancy! I tried to hurl that word away from me like a live grenade.

For the next few days, even as the pain grew, I struggled to believe the best. But Thursday night, the pain billowed unbearably. Monty dialed an emergency number. It was exactly the kind of scene I’d dreaded.

An ambulance pulled up with red lights flashing. Monty woke the girls, who sat sleepy-eyed and confused as a neighbor rushed in to stay with them. The last thing I saw as they slid my stretcher into the ambulance was Suzanne, wrapped in her favorite old quilt and watching me from Marybeth’s upstairs window.

All the rest was a blur of pain. I felt my life go spinning out of my control.

When Betsy awoke from surgery, it was her grief-stricken husband’s duty to tell her that the doctor had found a malignant mass attached to all her vital organs. It was worth fighting, the doctor had said, but Betsy’s condition was normally considered “incurable.”

She struggled with feelings of fear and disappointment, and with guilt at the thought of leaving her husband to raise their daughters alone. She was horrified by the very real possibility of becoming a burden to her family, causing them to “trek night after night to the hospital to watch me disintegrate.”

Inside, a wrestling match had started, and black depression settled over her like a cloak.

Fortunately, however, God had prepared some friends who knew exactly how to come and lighten her crushing load. It is from her experience both as one who had ministered in similar situations and as one who was ministered to that Betsy shares the following insights.

Helping a friend with cancer open up and talk about the illness is one of the greatest gifts you can give. Like lancing a boil, though, it takes directness and sensitivity. I learned this the hard way.

Several years before our family moved to Massachusetts, a young friend from our church in California was struck with Hodgkin’s disease, cancer of the lymph system. Of course the word cancer evoked in me a horror. Cancer meant Pam might die.

One evening, she and her five-year-old son came to our house to dinner. Seeing Pam’s little boy laughing and eating with my own children awakened something in me. Again and again, I thought of the fact that he might soon be motherless. Suddenly, I felt all the pain and fear Pam must have been suffering.

After we’d finished at the table, the children disappeared to a far corner of the house while Monty slipped away to make some necessary phone calls. Filling two mugs with steaming coffee, we settled comfortably in the living room.

Immediately, I set the conversation off on an ordinary, nonthreatening course. We both taught English, and I heard myself asking several innocuous questions about Pam’s experience in our mutual profession.

Eventually, the conversation turned to the joys of raising children and, finally, to some of the new classes being offered at our church.

But inside me, a pressure was mounting. Watching her, listening to her talk, the questions were pounding. I wanted, deeply wanted to ask, “Pam, what’s it really like—the chemotherapy, the life-and-death battle that’s being fought right in your own body?” But the words were aborted in my brain.

Soon the children popped back into the room, interrupting our quiet. Then Monty rejoined us. I had missed a God-given opportunity to help Pam work through some tough, personal struggles—to help her validate her personhood.

The opportunity never came again. And I have had to walk through her suffering to see my mistake. Now as a cancer victim myself, I am often faced with the difficult task of avoiding any talk about my illness in order to put others at ease when I ache for them to be real with me.

Some days I am eager to talk about my feelings, my treatments, the boredom of lying flat on my back in the hospital, my concern for Monty and the girls. Some days I am just tired of thinking about cancer at all. I never know which mood I’ll be in. But I would be delighted to have my friend ask me bluntly what I feel like talking about.

From all these experiences, I’ve learned that some preliminary work is necessary before you go to visit a sick friend.

In most cases, we have to learn how to say, out loud, the name of the illness. It’s harder than you think. In Pam’s case, I ought to have practiced saying the words cancer or Hodgkin’s disease. Forming these words beforehand would have kept them from sticking in my throat.

On the other hand, it’s best to avoid words like terminal, which leave no room for God’s possible intervention.

Fortunately for me, I have also been blessed with some friends whose gentleness and concern always open my heart.

Judy, for example, taught me that you don’t necessarily have to be a close friend before you reach out to someone who’s ill. She was living in Boston only temporarily while her husband finished his post-grad work in dentistry there. She had quickly involved herself in our church, and refused to be intimidated by the fact that we hardly knew each other.

Dropping in to visit one morning, she admitted, “I don’t know you very well. But I know that you must need a friend right now. I don’t have anything much to say, but at least I can listen.”

Those were just the right words, and she proved true to them. All through our talk, she gave me her undivided attention. I knew she really did want to know how things were going.

Another good listener and valuable friend is Dennis Doerr, the associate pastor of our church. In his many visits, he provided me with two keys.

The Art of Listening

Dennis came to my hospital room within days of my first operation, before my treatments began. His brows were knitted together slightly, his gentle smile overshadowed with genuine concern. He perched on the edge of the chair by my bed, and I knew, of course, that Monty had already told him about the doctor’s findings.

He squeezed my hand in a short, polite greeting. Then gently, directly, he got to the heart of things.

“Betsy, how are you accepting the surgical results?” he asked, leaning close to me.

My answer was a long time in coming. Dennis waited patiently, not hurrying on to another topic out of embarrassment. When my response did come, it took a long time to get out all that I needed to express— partly because I was tired, partly because I was sorting through so many thoughts.

Only when I had thoroughly explained my emotional sled-ride did he move on to another important topic.

“What lies ahead with the treatments?” he asked.

I was off again. Occasionally, he would stop me and ask a question as I explained, so unclearly at first, the process of chemotherapy. Even his questions showed me he was truly interested—that he was with me.

It was the first of many visits for Dennis. Each time, he came with real interest in what I had to say.

This is the first key to good listening: don’t go with a set agenda.

The second key I learned from Dennis is how to listen actively. This takes direct eye contact, real concentration. It means following your friend’s train of thought—even if it’s a bumpy one.

Emotions are an important area your friend may wish to talk about. Keep in mind that this is tender ground.

Sometimes people ask, “How does going through all this make you feel?” My response might be general:

“Miserable.”

At such a time, special friends will help to pinpoint the emotion as a first step in dealing with it. In the course of conversation, you might ask: “Does your illness make you angry?” “Are you lonely?” Questions that could open the door further might be: “What are you most worried about?” “What are your greatest needs?”

Of course, feelings are not just emotional. Your friend is quite likely experiencing genuine physical discomfort. Pain. Hearing about the physical details of illness might be tough, but I truly value my “unflinching” friends.

My friend Dierdre asked me one day, “What do you do with all those hours of being sick?” Perhaps she thought I’d talk about reading books, but I needed to answer on another level.

Very matter-of-factly, I looked at her. “Mostly, I crawl into bed exhausted. Sometimes I drop off to sleep.

More often I just lie there with thoughts running through my mind and”—my shoulders sagged with the unpleasantness of the truth—”then the next attack of vomiting hits me.”

Dierdre shook her head, hut she didn’t flinch. I felt she was actually trying to get inside my skin, to understand the intensity of my treatments. In some way, she was identifying with my weakness. Gently, she said, “It must be awful to feel like you’re turning inside out.”

After she left, I recognized that Dierdre might have chosen to shift the conversation to something more pleasant. It wouldn’t have been difficult. But she never inserted any self-centered comments, knowing there would be other times for light talk and pleasantries.

And it’s not unlikely that your sick friend may come up with a good day. Emotions come under control, spirits become vital and healthy again, some illnesses even go into remission as mine did for a time. Everyone is glad to hear a sick one say that he is truly feeling “fine.”

Again, this is not a signal to launch off on a long personal history. Don’t fill up the time with your plans and chatter. Get your friend to talk about his or her plans. Maybe it’s been a longing to visit the beauty parlor. Or it could be a desire to talk about how good it feels to be back in a normal family routine.

Or, you may discover still another possibility. Your friend may not want to talk about illness or deeply personal matters at all. Some people find it difficult to open up. Others share themselves only selectively. If this is the case, don’t force the issue.

One friend decided to question me until she forced an intimacy. I’m certain she meant well when she appointed herself to be my confidante. And in the beginning, when my thought life was consumed with accepting the reality of my illness, I appreciated her concern. But when I was released from the hospital and grew strong enough to get involved again in normal activities and routines, I did not want to go over the old ground.

Yet whenever this friend spotted me across a room, she’d make her way to my side, and inwardly I’d cringe because I knew what she was going to ask. In the midst of the happiest, lightest conversation about cooking or children or the church, she would pose the same gloomy questions: “How are you feeling? Is your illness progressing?”

I became annoyed. At that time, I needed people to treat me, as much as possible, like a person who had a normal, productive, creative life apart from the fact that I happened to be battling cancer. Unfortunately, I was no longer Betsy Burnham to this woman, I was “the lady who has cancer.” My sickness was the only thing on her agenda, even when it wasn’t on mine.

To sum it up, listening is one of the first, best steps in helping your friend to win the emotional, mental, and spiritual battles that accompany illness. A listening friend faces your inner struggles with you, bearing the burden at your side, leaving you with more energy to fight the battle for life.

A Time to Speak

In the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes, the most beautiful, uplifting, and most oft-quoted passage perhaps is the one that begins: “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Eccles. 3:1).

In that same passage, the author wisely tells us about “a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.”

Certainly, your time spent with a friend who is seriously ill will involve more than listening. Listening is the first step and tells you what need to address. It wins you the right and the “time to speak.”

The most meaningful and touching words are not the glib maxims: “Cheer up. Things will get better.” That just doesn’t do it. Some of my friends are gifted, not only with “active listening,” but they are able to speak from the heart, too.

Dorothy Jayne, a wise and longtime friend, taught me so much about blending these two necessary aspects of friendship.

When she received the news about my diagnosis, Dorothy boarded the first cross-country flight for Boston.

A psychiatric social worker and family counselor, Dorothy has been an emotional pillar of strength whom Monty and I have valued throughout our entire ministry.

She sat by my hospital bed for a few long evenings, and we talked. I was weak and could only share in brief snatches my feelings about my own future, my concern for Monty—and especially for Suzanne and Marybeth. I was too worn out physically and emotionally to grasp most of what she said at first.

But one relaxed afternoon, Dorothy sat by my bed reflecting on her own life. It had been tough, but the hard times built in her a strong Christian character and sensitivity that were always evident. Somehow she knew just what was on my mind at that moment.

“Betsy, I was thirteen years old when my mother died of cancer,” Dorothy reminded me. She reached over and slipped her warm hand into mine.

I had known about Dorothy’s mother once. How was it I’d forgotten?

This wise and wonderful woman had been nurtured through her teen years by the love of God himself. If the Lord could mold such a beautiful personality once by his love and presence and power—and without the aid of a mother—I knew he could lead my girls in his perfect way, too.

I was staring at our linked hands, and suddenly Dorothy’s strength and character seemed to fill me as if an electric current were passing through her fingers into mine. I knew that it wasn’t easy for her to visit me and dredge up the memories of her own mother’s illness and death.

My eyes brimmed over. Dorothy’s ministry to me on this trip was accomplished. My spirit rested, genuinely trusting God in that moment.

But it wasn’t only my close friends who touched me. In our mobile society, you may not have had years to build such a close friendship as I have with Dorothy. Even a new acquaintance can reach out to someone by saying the right word at the right moment.

Shortly after Dorothy’s visit, a nurse who was new on the floor came in to introduce herself. She was young, and smiled with an unusual radiance that was invigorating. Even though she could have read my chart and learned all that was professionally necessary to know about me, she deliberately took the time to ask about my family and my particular type of cancer.

Briefly, I told her about the doctor’s diagnosis and the projected treatments. Perhaps she noticed the catch in my voice when I mentioned my family and the ages of our daughters.

When I finished, her gentle eyes were still locked with mine. Then she spoke in a soft, unthreatening voice.

“When I was fifteen, Mom died. It was hard,” she confessed, “but we made it. The whole family had to pull together. We all shared the work load. And yet I think I maintained a normal teenage life.

“I’m married now, and have a child. I can see that those things I learned when Mom was sick—and after she’d gone—have made me a better mother, wife, and nurse.”

She didn’t have to say any more. I knew that what she said was true because she was demonstrating her strength and love. Again, I breathed a grateful, silent prayer to my heavenly Father for sending the person with the right words.

Both of these friends spoke to me from the heart, and that made all the difference. Carefully, they had picked up what was most on my mind at that moment—Suzanne and Marybeth and their future. But they didn’t preach or give me a pep talk. Delicately, by personal experience, they reminded me that even in illness and loss, bad can be turned into good under God’s watchful care.

But suppose you and your family have never experienced the drawn-out battle of life-threatening illness?

That doesn’t mean you have no common ground on which to relate to your sick friend. But it is best to find the level on which you can relate.

Remember that many feelings get wrapped into an illness: loneliness, fear, sadness, uselessness, guilt, anger, frustration. All of us have had these feelings at times, and with varying intensity. These are the areas of common ground to listen for.

Maybe your friend will let you know that he is fearful about an upcoming surgery or treatment. And perhaps you have felt an overpowering fear for a child, spouse, parent, or even for your own life. You might look for an opportunity to tell about that experience briefly. Be prepared to answer questions honestly, and remember not to keep the rest of the conversation focused on yourself.

I realize this level of communication is not easy for some people. I have often encountered real stiffness in this area of heart-to-heart sharing. Some folks are not used to showing their emotions. Others are afraid to be vulnerable, to appear weak, less than perfect, not in control.

The truth is, all of us are a combination of strengths and weaknesses. I am not suggesting that you have to have an all-out, towel-wringing cry to show your friend you truly care. But you can enter that deeper level of friendship some folks miss when they deny or suppress emotions.

Praying with Your Friend

While it’s vital to pray for people, you can reach a new depth of friendship and faith when you pray with them. I don’t intend to offer a formula, but I’ve come to realize that many Christians have difficulty with interpersonal prayer—so I’d like to give a few suggestions.

In a quiet room, take hold of your friend’s hand while you pray. Something unusual happens when you very gently hold someone’s hand in yours. Before the first word is spoken, a tremendous warmth, strength, assurance, affection, and faith are imparted. Touch breaks through the natural feelings of isolation that occur in sickness, and it does so in a way that goes deeper than words.

Most important, pray simply and specifically. Formal prayers that sound lofty but avoid the mundane, personal needs of a friend have a “tinny,” unnatural ring to my ear. Is your friend in pain? Or worried about his family, career, upcoming treatments or surgery, finances? Talk with God together in simple language about these specific issues. When you dare to be honest in your requests, you may be wonderfully surprised to find the Holy Spirit has soothed your friend’s aching spirit with your own words.

The Practical Side of Helping

The night of my ambulance ride to the hospital, our family faced another real problem besides my medical emergency.

Dimly, I recall my concern for Monty, the girls, and our home even through clouds of pain. I had prepared and frozen some meals beforehand, but there were a myriad of practical details we were not prepared to handle. Our dearest friends, those we knew we could count on for help, were thousands of miles away in California. At the hospital, my worries gave way temporarily to the doctor’s sedation.

Later, when I woke from surgery, I was tremendously grateful for the practical kind of love already flowing toward our family from brand-new friends in the Northeast.

One man from the church spent his day with Monty in the hospital waiting room during the long operation.

They talked in short, quiet spurts or sat in silence. They paced the floor together, eager for news from the surgical team. Since the findings were not good, I was thankful later that Monty had not been alone.

Likewise, Dennis Doerr spent the entire afternoon of my operation at our home with Suzanne and Marybeth, fixing meals and playing games.

Finding that my family was being cared for was important to me. Physically, I was in pain, and the diagnosis was emotionally numbing. But at least our practical needs were not adding to my worry bank.

Ground Rules for Helping

“What can I do to help?” Monty and I have heard that welcome question time after time. Not everyone knows, however, what to expect when they offer to help. It’s good to understand some ground rules.

If you plan to make a blanket offer like, “Call me anytime if you need anything,” think about it first. If you mean that, fine. But perhaps you need to be more realistic and honest. Put together a list of what you are able to do and the times you are available. Decide whether you are willing to give up personal plans should your friend really take you up on your offer. Second, be flexible.

One friend called shortly after I returned from the hospital. She wanted to bring a meal. My strength was returning, and I was eager to get reacquainted with my own kitchen. Puttering over the stove made me feel less helpless and more human again.

“Thanks very much,” I replied, stirring my kettle of steaming soup. “But I’ve got things under control for tonight.” Then I suggested she plan on another time if possible.

But her ideas were set. “Oh, please let me help you. I’ve already planned what I’m going to fix.” Her frustration boiled over. “People want to help you. You should give them a chance whether you need it or not!”

Another woman called with the offer of a meal. I thanked her for her thoughtfulness but again said we were fine in that regard.

Pausing for a moment, she offered a couple of other options and hit on one special area of need. “If you or the children need a ride anywhere, I could do that instead.”

This was an offer at which I jumped. Suzanne needed transportation to her weekly guitar lessons, and I was unable to drive.

I soon discovered that this woman’s mother had struggled with cancer thirty years earlier. She was sensitive to the innumerable needs a family experiences at such times.

Sensitivity to your friend is another ground rule—and a very important one.

For the first three weeks I was home, there was at least one other person in the house at all times. Including my stay in the hospital, it was six weeks since our family had had dinner and an evening alone.

Just when it looked as though we were going to have a little privacy, I was informed by friends that they were coming by to pick up Suzanne and Marybeth for the afternoon and evening. I knew they meant well; their idea was for Monty and me to have a few quiet hours together. At another time, I would have welcomed that offer. But just then, our family had other needs.

I wanted to spend that time with my girls. They wanted some family time alone, too. They had even marked the calendar with a star when it looked as though we might have a family dinner. We were hoping for a long afternoon of mother-daughter talk, and I wanted so badly to feel the comfort of their sitting beside me on the bed, filling me in on the details of their lives I was missing.

But no matter how politely or strenuously I refused, these friends were insistent. Plans were already made.

They would not take no for an answer.

Fortunately, I was able to control the feelings and words that boiled just under the surface. Why were people making decisions for me? How did they know what was best for my family? Why couldn’t they understand our need to be a family? Or my need to be a mother?

Far more people were very sensitive to our needs. They offered to do what they could, accepted alternative suggestions if necessary, and followed through with heart-warming consistency. There are several areas in which they served us.

First, there is so much that goes into the upkeep of a home. When someone is ill, there is little time for a family to stay on top of things.

Several men from our church volunteered to maintain the grounds outside our home. They mowed the lawn, pruned bushes, and raked. Even on the hottest days of summer, one or more of these men showed up to do yard work. Monty was freed up to have some extra time with the girls and me.

Indoors there is plenty of work, too. You might volunteer to clean your friend’s home one day a week.

Vacuuming, washing floors or windows, cleaning a garage or basement, moving heavy furniture to sweep— these are all things a sick person is incapable of doing and might not readily ask of a friend.

One group of friends knew we were in the midst of redecorating our new home when I was taken ill. I had started several major projects only to leave them half-done. True, they weren’t uppermost on my mind. But unfinished projects have a way of staring you in the face.

This team of workers checked with me in the hospital. Would I like them to go into the house and finish things off? Did I already have color schemes, fabrics, and paint picked out? Should they do it all or leave some for me to finish? Their thoughtful questions hit the spot, not presupposing that I would want everything bright and new when I walked back in the door. It was still my home, and they let me feel that it was.

Sometimes illness may require your friend and his family to travel. Quite often, there is the need to consult with a specialist or take treatments in a hospital or clinic out of town. In this case, your friend may welcome a “house sitter,” someone to live in and provide routine upkeep while they are away. Usually, single people are free from other responsibilities and able to serve in this way.

And of course, there are other needs. Laundry has to be done, dishes washed, as well as numerous other functions of daily living that must go on. These border on the second area where you can help your ill friend—that is, with his family.

First of all, be aware that in a crisis, family members need to know they are useful, too. Suzanne and Marybeth are responsible for certain household chores. During our crisis, they went about their normal duties—and some added ones—aware that they were needed and helpful. Happily, I saw my daughters maturing.

Nevertheless, in spite of these cautionary notes, there are so many ways that concerned friends can help.

One woman took on the responsibility of organizing meals. This was valuable during my hospitalizations and while I was weak at home.

A single organizer can schedule meals. On certain days or evenings, no one may be home at all. At other times, family from out-of-town may be visiting, in which case the head count for dinner will be higher than usual.

A coordinator can also be sure that the meals are varied. Your friends will enjoy the meals even more if they aren’t eating chicken six nights in a row.

One final tip in this regard. Beautiful serving dishes are nice and thoughtful, but I was always thankful for meals that came in containers we could throw away afterward.

If your ill friend is forced into a situation where his or her children are often left alone, your help will be truly welcome. One older couple came to our home every afternoon while I was in the hospital. I was so grateful that the girls did not arrive from school to an empty house.

You may also offer an occasional day at the park or zoo, or a trip to the beach. Opening up your family’s recreation time to include other children can teach your child the value of loving and sharing. If needed, you might consider allowing a child to live with your family if the parents have to travel for medical treatments.

Often, just knowing there is someone readily available—to help, to listen, to visit—can lift the spirits of the sick person tremendously.

Ground Rules for Visiting

The very heart of God is touched when you visit a sick friend, for he identifies with the afflicted. As Jesus said, “I was sick, and you visited me” (Matt. 25:36).

Visiting is something special you can do for a friend, but once again observance of a few ground rules will make your ministry more effective.

Arrange your visit ahead of time. Always make a telephone call to verify your get-together, even if you have scheduled your visit days before. At the last moment your friend may have to decline. I was often tired or sick from the cancer treatments. Sometimes we were in the midst of an unexpected special family time. I was glad for the friends who called first, and for their kind understanding when they found that a visit was inappropriate at that time.

Depending on your friend’s physical limitations, you might suggest a number of ways you can make your visit enjoyable and helpful.

Perhaps your friend is able to get around finally after a long convalescence. You might offer a shopping trip, lunch out, or an evening at the theater. The chance to get out of confines is most welcome, I assure you.

Offer to write letters and answer correspondence as your friend dictates. If your friend is as fortunate in receiving mail as I was, this kind of help may be needed. I knew that most of those who had written were not expecting me to reply, but I wanted so much for them to know about my condition and how they could pray.

You might even bring notepaper or cards with you for this purpose.

One pastime I enjoyed was having someone read to me. I was physically able to read to myself much of the time—but it was so relaxing to hear someone else’s voice. And many sick people are too weak to read themselves.

Helping over the Long Term

After a second round of chemotherapy lasting a year, Betsy was feeling healthy and was eager to discontinue the toxic treatments. The doctor scheduled “third-look” surgery to check her condition, and she confidently went along, sure that he would find she was completely well.

To her shock and grief, the malignancy had reoccurred. Therapy might help, she was told, but there could be no guarantee.

While I was working through my letdown, I wanted friends to surround me more than ever—to walk the path with me through hurt and despair. I knew they must be tired of praying, hoping, encouraging, keeping a smile on their faces while visiting me. But I was sure they would rally around us and help carry my emotional burden again.

My hopes were nearly shattered.

To be sure, there was no letup in cards, letters, people to clean house or carry in meals—and I was thankful for this kind of continued help. What changed—dramatically—was the attitude. Some hurried in and out with hardly a word spoken. Few asked about the surgery, and fewer wanted to know how I felt inside. I could hardly blame anyone, but I felt abandoned on a dark, drifting slab of emotions.

But I wasn’t abandoned totally.

A few weeks after my third-look surgery I was back in the hospital, undergoing tests to see if my body could stand more chemotherapy. Angry, tired, and confused, I was ready to forget the tests and have Monty take me home. I simply wanted to quit.

I was staring up at the dead-white, sterile ceiling when my friend Gretchen came in. I was miserable company—barely looking at her, no smile. And when she told me how sorry she was about the recent findings, I let loose a flood of tears and hurts all of which she’d been through before.

She listened until I was through, then tried to comfort me. I was so depressed I almost missed what she was saying. After all, I didn’t even want to be with me anymore, so why should she?

After our short visit, she rose to leave. Gently, she took my hand in hers. With that winsome, loving look in her eyes, she assured me, “Betsy, I’ll always be here if you need me. Just let me know what I can do.”

I watched her slip out through the door, and suddenly I heard another message in the words she’d spoken. A small voice was ringing in my ears, speaking directly to my heart. It said: “Fight it, Betsy! Don’t give up. You have friends who will stick it out with you—because you’re worth fighting for!”

Bodily I struggled and, gripping the side rail, sat up in bed. Floods of courage surged through me like fresh new life inside. I even felt physically stronger.

“I will take more chemotherapy. I’ll fight it!” Once again my spirit was renewed, soaring in the love of friends who cared enough to stand with me in the toughest times.

It is a rare friend who will draw close when the road gets long and rough. Perhaps your friend has been suffering for a long, long time with no end of illness in sight. Or perhaps the end is clear and it’s only a matter of weeks or months.

Paul speaks about a durable, steadfast love—not a feeling that is blown away by tough times, bad news, or inconvenience. His words remind me that I’m not fulfilling a one-time obligation or laying out one impressive pile of gifts, as on Christmas morning. The best gift I can give is to draw in close—and stay there.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Gal. 6:9).

Epilogue

Betsy’s third-look surgery was followed by three more aggressive rounds of chemotherapy, after which she made the brave decision to stop treatments.

She returned full stride to normal life and began writing the book that is excerpted in this article.

Two months later, a battery of tests at University Hospital showed the disease had spread from its original site. Cancer cells were found in her liver, pelvic bone, and a vertebra of the lower back.

Once again, aggressive chemotherapy was applied. But in November, 1981, the toxicity of the drugs and the spreading cancer proved to be too great, and treatments stopped.

On the evening of January 15, 1982, Betsy experienced God’s ultimate healing. She is at home now with him—and we await a joyful reunion.

—Monty Burnham

Betsy Burnham (1935-1982) was a pastor’s wife who wrote When Your Friend Is Dying during her final illness.