Sane Faith, Part 2

by David Powlison

In the first article of this series, I introduced you to four people who struggle with typical "problems." If you haven't read that article, do go back and start there. This article builds on what was said earlier.

Each of the four lifestyles earned a label for a person: addictive personality, eating disorder, OCD, and so forth. But we saw how each one of us can identify with the things they do, think and feel. You and I might be different in degree from Garrett and Sarah, but we aren't different in kind. Lise and Chandra are fellow strugglers, not bizarre aliens. We noticed how the Bible "normalizes" the seemingly abnormal, reinforcing awareness of our common humanity.

And, finally, we took Psalm 23 and turned it upside down. The "antipsalm" mapped into the four lifestyles – and captured the madness in each of us. But the real Psalm takes us by the hand and walks with us into sanity.

The Awkward Problem of Evil

If you've followed me so far, you might feel a question nagging at the back of your mind. Why don't we hear more of this refreshing and realistic way to think about people? What's the purpose of tagging people with diagnostic labels, of piling on the heavy freight of "disease" and "syndrome"?

Why doesn't the therapeutic establishment use human and humane terms to describe Garrett and the rest of our friends? Their stories describe things we can all understand and identify with. Why does God explain behavior, emotion and the human heart in such a different way from the labels? And why do the therapeutic answers never offer anything remotely like the intimacy of Psalm 23?

The answer to these questions is complicated. But it boils down to two things.

First, if you face our problems for what they actually are, then you have to acknowledge the problem of evil. What's wrong is much more serious than a sickness or syndrome. Evil operates on the inside – bad zeal and selfish ambition. And evils come at us from the outside: betrayal, false values, poor role models, shallow relationships, a body going out of sync, injury, aging, death. Both sin and suffering characterize the problem of evil.

But the diagnostic labels (and street wisdom, and even our four friends) never mention the E-word: evil. What distorts our lives? Evil. What breaks our lives. Evils, both inside and out. Something very dark and very complex is going on. Bad stuff comes at you, and bad stuff is an operating system inside you.

No one can fail to see evidence of evil. You feel it. You participate. But people don't want to name it for what it is. We might admit the evil of a Hitler or a suicide bomber killing innocent children. We fail to see the evils operating in normal problems.

Second, if you acknowledge the scope of the problem of evil, then you realize you need a Savior. If evil infects us all, then someone not under the power of evil must bring light and life from outside the system of darkness and death. That person is Jesus Christ.

Garrett's consuming "I insist on my way" is a sin of the heart against God, who alone is King, whose will is that we love Him utterly. Garrett needs what only Jesus can give, comprehensive forgiveness and a complete turnaround. Sarah's endless striving up the ladder of idolatrous slenderness is a sin of the heart against God, who calls her to love Him with all her heart. She needs powerful mercy. And so it is with Lise and Chandra, each putting their own spin on our need for God.

Like all human beings, they are by nature lost in the antipsalm. We need Him to save us from the inner logic of our hearts. We need Him to save us from suffering and death.

If Garrett manages his temper a little better, if Sarah eats a bit more healthily, they've barely dented the surface of their problems and their need. They need mercies. They need a change of heart, a different Savior, a different Lord. They need Psalm 23. We all do.

But if you don't want to need Jesus Christ, then you must deny the depth and scope of the problem of evil.

The Relevance of Christ

We sought to make sense of these four stories through God's eyes. We approached people with troubles in the light of God's mercies and power in Christ. His love is candid, patient, and effective. He intends that we each know our need, and find Him true. Then we, too, grow more candid, patient and effective in our love for other strugglers.

The persuasive voices in modern culture look through different eyes. The diagnostic system now in vogue makes problems seem smaller and solutions seem easier. It explains problems as genetics plus the social environment, with a nod in the direction of how you talk to yourself: "nature + nurture + self-talk." It sounds so appealing. With just the right medication, the right kind of friends and the right affirmations to boost your self-confidence, you can fix your kind of syndrome. The Savior of the world plays no part in the solution, because alienation from God plays no part in the problem.

There's a wide gap between medical-sounding labels and the Bible's straightforward teaching. There's a wide gap between therapeutic solutions and self-sacrificing love. Why the gap?

It's hard to face reality.

In T.S. Eliot's words, "Human kind cannot bear very much reality." Here's a longer answer, again in T. S. Eliot's words. When the Church tells of Jesus, she tells people

... of Life and Death, and of all that they would forget.
She is tender where they would be hard, and hard where they like to be soft.
She tells them of Evil and Sin, and other unpleasant facts.
They constantly try to escape
From the darkness outside and within
By dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.
But the man that is will shadow
The man that pretends to be.
         – "Choruses from 'The Rock,'" part VI

The man that is shadows every pretense. Goodness is our greatest need. There is darkness both outside and within. There is tender mercy where we least expect it. And there is the hard reality that without such mercy, you die. Jesus calls for change of heart.

How much the perfect systems would like to forget all that.

Sane Faith, Part 1

by David Powlison

We've invited Dr. David Powlison to begin a discussion on counseling from a biblical perspective by writing a series of articles for Boundless. This is a conversation starter: We believe that thoughtful discussion of significant issues is crucial to the flourishing of the body of Christ. Focus on the Family does not promote one particular model of Christian counseling, but earnestly seeks that we all grow in wisdom together. As with any article on Boundless, publication is not meant to be taken as an endorsement of its content. It is our hope that you are challenged to consider the relevance of Scripture, the importance of balance in the counseling process, and to better understand the Lord's concern and power when it comes to understanding the real life problems that we all struggle with. * * * Garrett, 23, is a recent college grad. When some little thing frustrates him or he doesn't get his way, he explodes in anger. It goes way over the top. In college he was an episodic binge drinker, but he's started to drink regularly and heavily over the past year. The effects of alcohol in him are unpredictable. Sometimes booze mellows Garrett out, but most times it lowers his threshold for volatile hostility. In addition to his growing drinking problem, he routinely turns to online pornography for a "fix." His friends don't know about that, but they fear for his future, wondering if he will self-destruct with his drinking and violent temper. Official diagnosis and current street wisdom? "Garrett suffers from intermittent explosive disorder (IED) and is an addictive personality — and Garrett is all about Garrett, and has control issues, big-time." Sarah, a 29-year-old single woman, has become increasingly preoccupied with her looks, her calorie intake, and her exercise regime. She often "feels fat," at 5'9" tall and weighing only 103 pounds, She's relentless in her activities and self-care, competitive, always trying to prove herself. Her roommates and family have become more and more concerned. Sarah seems joyless, and has been detaching herself from normal social interactions. She seems nervously self-preoccupied most of the time, so she has little time, energy, or attention for anything or anyone besides herself. Diagnosis and current wisdom? "Sarah has anorexia — and she's a perfectionist with low self-esteem." Lise, 32 and married, with a toddler, has felt down ever since she had the baby. Lise has had a tendency to wallow in self-reproach ever since childhood, but lately it's gotten worse. She's mired in loops of self-condemning thoughts, endlessly rehearsing and bemoaning her faults, both real and imaginary. She has developed elaborate "quiet time" rituals that help her feel some sense that her life is OK. She never feels like God loves her. Her husband worries that Lise's ritualistic habits and "sticky thoughts" about personal failings interfere with her ability to raise their child. Her brooding casts a pall over their relationship, too. The simplest question — "How was your day?" — often turns into a dark spiral of complaint and despair. He walks on eggshells: "What can I do? What can I say?" Diagnosis and current wisdom? "Lise has a case of clinical depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) — and she sets impossible standards for herself." Chandra, 21, a senior in college, has battled intense anxiety feelings ever since adolescence. She gets tongue-tied if she's put on the spot in a social interaction. She increasingly avoids social situations, and only goes to gatherings or events if she has a friend with her to run interference and carry the ball conversationally. She hasn't been out on a date since a couple of ill-fated attempts in high school when she "almost had a panic attack" trying to figure out what to talk about. Chandra medicates her anxiety with daytime TV, Netflix and chocolate ice cream. Diagnosis and current wisdom? "Chandra suffers from social anxiety disorder — and she's shy, gets glued to the tube, and needs her chocolate fix." Do you recognize any of your friends in these people? I do. Do you recognize something of yourself in any of their problems? I do, too. And do you also notice how each diagnostic label simply takes what we already know and then restates it in quasi-medical-sounding language? The actual experiences of life-lived get turned into a depersonalized "condition." Problems get viewed exclusively as something a person "has," rather than the array of things a person feels, thinks and does. It's curious. The labels don't actually add any information to what we already know. Yet they somehow alter the entire way we perceive a person. They even alter how people perceive themselves. The story and the struggle get lost in translation. Hold onto that thought, and we'll come back to it later. First we're going to climb into the story and the struggle. We're all in these stories Let's start with the common ground we feel with other people's stories. These problems are garden-variety human struggles ... amped up to very destructive levels. They beset each one of us to a greater or lesser degree. Of course, for the four people described, these tendencies have taken on life-dominating power. Perhaps you can't identify with just how badly another person flounders. But can you identify with worry? Getting angry? Overindulging in food or drink? Immoral thoughts? Self-preoccupation? Feeling guilty and despondent? Breeding unrealistic hopes? Escape into TV or music or web surfing? Bickering and gossip? Feeling anxious around people? Blanking out on God? All the different ways of being loveless, and joyless, and restless? We can each identify with aspects of what these people do. Each of these four stories describes a person who needs help in order to face up, to deal, to change. But these people aren't in a completely different category from the rest of us. They aren't weird, as if the rest of us were normal. Think about it this way. They dial up the volume, but we all play the same kinds of music. These are our friends ... and ourselves. It's no surprise, then, that the Bible engages the varieties of chaos, confusion and trouble that mere humans experience. Our stories interweave with God's story at every point. God intends that we understand what exactly goes wrong — and how exactly he goes about making it right. In his letter to people who know Jesus, James alerted us to something about personal and interpersonal chaos. Wherever you find "confusion and bad stuff" (James 3:16 paraphrase), you'll find two underlying problems. First, "bad zeal" wants the wrong things too much. Second, "selfish ambition" organizes life around all-about-Me. James is unblinking about what's wrong, but he never gives the mess last say: "God gives more grace" (4:6). More than what? His goodness is more than all that goes wrong inside us. Confusion and bad stuff is exactly what he goes to work on. Of course, the particular details of our four friends' stories have a 21st century flavor. But once you scratch the surface, they simply give new spin to old problems. These struggles are variants on the typical confusion and bad stuff of people everywhere. Almost 2000 years ago, Paul said "the works of the flesh are obvious." He gave fifteen examples: "sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these" (Galatians 5:19-21). Anyone can see that this is not the way life is meant to be. All forms of self-preoccupation are the opposite of love, joy, and peace. Paul rounded off his list by pointing far beyond the examples he chose to mention. "Things like these" include the 21st century problems of our four friends and people like us. So our friends' chaotic ways of living fit the category "works of the flesh." These lifestyles show up on the MRI of Scripture. God sees them for what they are, and he teaches us how to see through his eyes. God also looks behind the externals into the inner reasons. Galatians 5:16-17 names the motor for a destructive lifestyle: the "desires of the flesh." That's Paul's phrase for bad zeal and selfish ambition. The things people want seem so instinctive and plausible. But our desires become monsters and dictators. We want the wrong things too much, and approach life as if it's all-about-Me. Garrett's way of life is "my way or the highway." No wonder he gets so angry. Sarah worships an ideal of thinness that even supermodels can't attain. No wonder she's so unhappy. Lise lives by a principle of self-attained standards of performance, and goes snow-blind to the mercies of God towards her. No surprise, she has no sense of peace. Chandra craves approval (and panics about possible rejection). She's so worried about how other people treat her that she has no thoughtful kindness to give to them. God sees what's operating on the inside, as well as what's oozing out for all to see. He sizes it up for what it is, and then helps us to understand life the same way he does. These patterns of inner motivation are what the Bible calls your "heart." We generate substitutes for God. The false masters are "little gods" that become I GOTTA HAVE THAT! Our blind, misplaced devotion enslaves us. We express our submission to little gods by destructive lifestyles, by our emotions, thoughts, words, and choices that the Bible calls foolish. God wants us to see our hearts the way he sees us. Inside and out, this is exactly what Jesus came to forgive and aims to transform. Jesus died to overthrow the dictatorship of the flesh Jesus died so that you won't die clinging tight to your idols Jesus died so you won't waste your life massaging and refining self-preoccupation Jesus lives to become your true Master Here's the whole message in a sound bite: "He died for all, that those who live might no longer live for themselves but for Him who for their sake died and was raised" (2 Corinthians 5:15). Jesus can liberate Garrett from the stranglehold of self-will, so he actually begins to care about other people. Jesus can bring Sarah to her senses, so that she comes to love the beauty of Jesus rather than obsessing over an impossible and empty ideal. Lise can rebuild her life on a new foundation. Chandra can find safe refuge and the courage to reach out. Christ overthrows dictatorial desires. The fruit of His Holy Spirit — Galatians 5:22-23 — makes for a life worth living. Of course, the freedom is never all-at-once, one-and-done. But Jesus creates new conditions for life. In our lives now, He begins to make right all that goes so wrong. He sets about the long, hard answering of the complex questions. He begins a lifelong freeing process. Two ways of doing life From Jesus' point of view, there are two fundamentally different ways of doing life. One way, you're connected to a God who's involved in your life. Psalm 23 is all about this: "The Lord is my shepherd ... and his goodness and mercy surely follow me all the days of my life." The other way, you're pretty much on your own and disconnected. Let's call this the antipsalm 23: "I'm on my own ... and disappointment follows me all the days of my life." We'll look first at the antipsalm way of doing life. Antipsalm 23 I'm on my own. No one looks out for me or protects me. I experience a continual sense of need. Nothing's quite right. I'm always restless. I'm easily frustrated and often disappointed. It's a jungle — I feel overwhelmed. It's a desert — I'm thirsty. My soul feels broken, twisted, and stuck. I can't fix myself. I stumble down some dark paths. Still, I insist: I want to do what I want, when I want, how I want. But life's confusing. Why don't things ever really work out? I'm haunted by emptiness and futility — shadows of death. I fear the big hurt and final loss. Death is waiting for me at the end of every road,          but I'd rather not think about that. I spend my life protecting myself. Bad things can happen. I find no lasting comfort. I'm alone ... facing everything that could hurt me. Are my friends really friends? Other people use me for their own ends. I can't really trust anyone. No one has my back. No one is really for me — except me. And I'm so much all about ME, sometimes it's sickening. I belong to no one except myself. My cup is never quite full enough. I'm left empty. Disappointment follows me all the days of my life. Will I just be obliterated into nothingness? Will I be alone forever, homeless, free-falling into void? Sartre said, "Hell is other people." I have to add, "Hell is also myself." It's a living death,          and then I die. The antipsalm tells what life feels like and looks like whenever God vanishes from sight. As we hear about Garrett and the others, each story lives too much inside the antipsalm. The "I'm-all-alone-in-the-universe" experience maps onto each one of them. The antipsalm captures the driven-ness and pointlessness of life-purposes that are petty and self-defeating. It expresses the fears and silent despair that cannot find a voice because there's no one to really talk to. Our four friends are spinning out of control. They might implode. Something bad gets last say when whatever you live for is not God. And when you're caught up in the antipsalm, it doesn't help when you're labeled a "disorder," a "syndrome" or a "case." The problem is much more serious: The disorder is "my life." The syndrome is "I'm on my own." The case is "Who am I and what am I living for?" when too clearly I am the center of my story. But the antipsalm doesn't need to tell the final story. It only becomes your reality when you construct your reality from a lie. In reality, someone else is the center of the story. Nobody can make Jesus go away. The I AM was, is and will be, whether or not people acknowledge that. When you awaken, when you see who Jesus actually is, everything changes. You see the Person whose care and ability you can trust. You experience His care. You see the Person whose glory you are meant to worship. You love Him who loves you. The real Psalm 23 captures what life feels like and looks like when Jesus Christ puts his hand on your shoulder. Psalm 23 The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Can you taste the difference? You might want to read both antipsalm and psalm again, slowly. Maybe even read out loud. The psalm is sweet, not bitter. It's full, not empty. You aren't trying to grab the wind with your bare hands. Someone else takes you in His hands. You are not alone. Jesus Christ actually plays two roles in this most tender psalm. First, He walked this Himself. He is a man who looked to the Lord. He said these very words, and means what He says. He entered our predicament. He walked the valley of the shadow of death. He faced every evil. He felt the threat of the antipsalm, of our soul's need to be restored. He looked to his Father's care when He was cast down — for us — into the darkest shadow of death. And God's goodness and mercy followed Him and carried Him. Life won. Second, Jesus is also this Lord to whom we look. He is the living shepherd to whom we call. He restores your soul. He leads you in paths of righteousness. Why? Because of who He is: "for His name's sake." You, too, can walk Psalm 23. You can say these words and mean what you say. God's goodness and mercy is true, and all He promises will come true. The King is at home in his universe. Jesus puts it this way, "It is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom" (Luke 12:32). He delights to walk with you.

from fatcyclist.com

"How’s Susan Doing?"

05.21.2008 | 10:40 pm

Ever since Susan’s cancer came back a little over a year ago (was it really that recently? Seems like we’ve been living with it much, much longer.), the simplest question in the world has threatened to trip me up: "How’re you doing?"

I remember, in particular, one event. It was right after we had got the bad news: the cancer was back and it was in her bones, her lungs, her spine. Everywhere. I couldn’t even process it. But I was coping in the way I cope: running errands, getting things done, making lists and checking them off. So I was at the grocery store, picking up prescriptions and groceries. The woman at the checkout counter asked, as she always does, "How’re you doing?"

And I very nearly told her.

I sometimes think about where the conversation would have gone from there.

Of course, it’s not always so obvious that "How’re you doing?" simply means "Hi." There are people who know about what’s going on, and I figure that sometimes — but certainly not always — they really want to know how I’m doing when they ask.

So, since the honest answer to how I’m doing is no longer ever "fine," I’ve instituted an "OK to lie" rule. No matter how things are actually going, my first response to this question is now always, "Good. And yourself?" Because people who are really just saying "Hi" don’t need to hear the jumble of exhaustion and terror I’d have to give them if I answered honestly. And frankly, I don’t have the energy to answer that question honestly more than once or twice per day anyway.

If people really want to know how I’m doing, I leave it up to them to ask, "No, seriously. How are you doing?"

And How’s Your Wife?
When people ask how I’m doing, there’s at least a decent chance they’re just greeting me, or are expressing interest in seeing me run a self-diagnostic. When they ask how Susan’s doing, though, I honestly don’t know how to answer.

I know everybody is asking because they really care about her. But I don’t know for sure whether:

• They want to know how she’s doing today
• They want to know whether she’s improving since she started radiation
• They want to be reassured
• They want to know the long-term prognosis
• They don’t know anything about what we’ve found in the past three weeks and are just calling to chat. You’d be surprised at how many "real-life" friends and neighbors don’t have any idea that I have this blog (or, having heard that I have a blog, have never checked it out).

So, if I don’t know the depth of answer someone’s looking for, I’ve got a lie prepared for them, too: "She’s hanging in there." Again, it’s up to them to ask for details.

OK, Seriously. How’s Your Wife?
But you, of course, know what’s going on. And you’ve somehow managed to plod through what I originally intended to be a short two-paragraph introduction into the actual substance of today’s entry. Which is: how Susan is really doing right now.

First off, the radiation and steroid combination is helping. A lot. To understand how much, I need to give you a little more detail into how bad Susan had gotten before she started the radiation.

• She had completely lost the ability to sleep. She would toss and turn and shake and sit up and rock in bed. The whole night. Several nights in a row.
• She couldn’t sit still. Whatever wouldn’t let Susan sleep also wouldn’t let her even rest. And remember, she’s still recovering from a hip replacement last November, so being compelled to keep moving around was painful.
• She had lost most of her dexterity. She couldn’t tie a knot. She couldn’t fasten her seatbelt.
• She had lost her sense of space. I had to help her into bed, into the car, onto the toilet, and onto chairs, because turning around to sit down on something had stopped making sense to her.
• She had lost her ability to hold the thread of a conversation. She was still herself, but she couldn’t track long conversations, and if multiple people were in a room talking — it didn’t even need to be talking to her — she couldn’t track it at all.
• She was lost. A moment I will never forget is when I was sitting at the kitchen table and Susan caught my eye. She looked scared. I went up to her and she said to me, embarrassed, "Can you help me find the bathroom?"

We’re three weeks into five weeks of radiation therapy now, and none of the above problems exist anymore. Susan’s sleeping right now, she sat and enjoyed a movie with the family earlier tonight, and she’s able to handle normal tasks again — she doesn’t have her gifted-level of dexterity back (yet), but she’s able to do everything I can.

I have no illusions about this being anything more than a reprieve, but my family and I (and many friends, family members, and readers) pray for a miracle. Remission’s unlikely, but it’s not unheard of, after all.

Acceptable Tradeoffs
Like every cancer-fighting treatment that I know of, the radiation comes with serious side effects.

The one that bothers Susan most right now is a scalded feel on the inside of her mouth and throat. You know how your tongue and the roof of your mouth feel when you drink something too hot? That’s how Susan’s whole mouth and throat feel, all the time.

The only kind of food she really enjoys is cold stuff. Milkshakes, smoothies (but not acidic ones), ice cream. Crunchy stuff (like Cap’n Crunch or Fritos) are horrible. I think the moment Susan looks forward to most each day is that on the way home from Radiation, she always gets whoever is driving her to stop and get an orange creamsicle smoothie at the Sonic Drivethrough. Nothing in the world tastes better right now.

Also, exactly as predicted, Susan’s hair started falling out as we began the third week of radiation. By now, though, we’re old hands at this. As soon as she noticed strands of hair on her shoulders, Susan told me it was time to shave her head.

I shaved it expertly and unsentimentally. Expertly, because I use the same electric razor to shave my own head three times per week now. Unsentimentally, because this is the third time I’ve shaved Susan’s head: twice because of starting chemo, this time for radiation.

I thought back to the first time I shaved Susan’s head and how traumatic we all thought it was. This time I just thought, "If this is the tradeoff for Susan getting so much of herself back, this is a bargain." Besides, she looks good this way.

The doctors say Susan’s likely to become more tired and weak as the radiation goes on. I haven’t noticed this happening yet, but we’ve got lots of help lined up for when (if?) it does. One sister just stayed a week with us, taking care of the family. Another sister’s coming at the end of this week. Then my mom’s taking a turn. Then yet another sister. And then yet still another sister.

I have never been so grateful to have so many hyper-competent and caring women in my family.

A couple of days ago, Susan mentioned she wishes the radiation was over and done with. I think I surprised her by disagreeing. "I wish it could go on indefinitely," I said. "Because it’s helping."

from fatcyclist.com

Apologies

05.7.2008 | 8:35 am

Susan’s been apologizing to me a lot lately.

She apologizes that I have to take care of all her physical needs — I need to help her stand up, keep her steady, make sure she eats, takes her meds, keep her clean, get her comfortable in bed, dress her, and other things.

I’ve told her dozens of times that she shouldn’t apologize for this, and I’m indescribably relieved that I really mean it. You see, one of my secret fears when I was younger was that when Susan and I got old, I’d have to take care of her physical needs–that I’d be a nurse. At the time, I pictured it as frustrating, inconvenient, and undignified.

The reality is a lot different.

Being able to take care of my wife right now means that I am doing something, and as long as I’m doing something I’m generally OK. More importantly, it means that I’m doing something for her and with her, and there’s nothing I like better.

Plus, even though we have family and friends staying with and helping Susan full-time now, I like to think that nobody else is as good at taking care of her as I am. Susan tells me that’s true, and I’m not asking her if she says that just to make me feel good.

Still, she says she’s sorry I have to take care of her. I’ve asked her if the situation were reversed, would I need to apologize to her for taking care of me? No, she says, meaning it.

Well, OK then, I say. You would take care of me if you could, and I’m taking care of you because I can. Fair’s fair.

But still, she apologizes. She says she’s sorry that I’m not getting out on rides right now. I haven’t told her (and she won’t find out from this blog, because she doesn’t read it anymore, although I often read the comments to her) that a couple times this week, I’ve left work to go on a ride and then have skipped it so I could get home a little sooner.

I’ll ride more later.

She apologizes for having to leave me. This is a much harder apology to hear, because often I do feel like I ought to be getting an apology for having my wife taken from me. I mean, how many really good marriages are out there in the world? Shouldn’t someone apologize for splitting us up?

But it’s cancer that owes me an apology, not Susan. I tell her this over and over. She didn’t invite this cancer. It attacked her — us — without provocation, and she has nothing to apologize for.

Really, this is Susan in a nutshell. Even though she’s been dealing with cancer for four years now, even though she’s walking on an artificial hip, even though she’s been robbed of her talents and pleasures, even though she can only sleep with the aid of a cocktail of powerful drugs, even though she has to be literally bolted to a table and radiated daily, even though she’s dying, she worries about and apologizes to me.