Michael Gingerich’s story called “Fear” from Chicken Soup: The Cancer Book

Fear is a part of the human condition.  We all have fears about something.  The diagnosis of a debilitating illness, a terrible challenge, loss, sharing our inadequacies, the future.  Here is a story Michael Gingerich wrote a few years ago about his own sense of fear.

Fear

I had to get out of the house.  My wife, Kathy, wasn’t feeling well – again.  Our son, Matthew, who is mentally retarded and autistic, was acting out – again – hitting, pulling Kathy’s hair, throwing anything not secured, and banging his head violently.  Tempers flared.  Frustration was boiling over.  I needed some distance.  I could tell that Kathy needed it too.  After realizing that a relaxing Saturday at home was never going to happen – again – I snapped.  I gathered up Matthew and his wheelchair and rushed out the door.

“Where are you going?” asked Kathy.

“I don’t know,” I shot back brusquely.

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

Cold.

I hurried Matthew out the door and into our minivan and sped away.

I drove with no real plan in mind.  I didn’t even know why I was driving.  I only knew that something was bothering me.  Something was making me incredibly angry.  I needed to be alone to sort it out.  But I knew that Kathy needed to be without Matthew for a while.  He was safe to bring along for the ride.  He can’t speak, so I’d be free from interruptions and arguments.

Five hours later I was still driving, still trying to figure out what was wrong.

Three years earlier, Kathy had been diagnosed with breast cancer, followed by a partial mastectomy and seven weeks of radiation.  She had other ailments (diabetes, high blood pressure and high cholesterol) which only compounded her problems.  Subsequent tests showed no new signs of cancer, but for the rest of her life there would be invasive tests, careful watching and anxious waiting.

            Matthew was born almost twenty years ago and hasn’t developed the same as our other sons.  His disabilities and Kathy’s cancer have profoundly affected our family and changed the course of our lives.

            As I drove through town after town, I could barely begin to sort out my feelings as they collided with each other.  Part of the time, I didn’t even know if I would go back home.  Of course, I had no reasonable idea what I’d do if I didn’t.  But at that point, thinking clearly was impossible.

A few hours later, Kathy called my cell phone.  When I saw it was her, I didn’t answer.  I just wasn’t ready.  She called again.  And again.  Each time I was still too angry and confused to know what to say.

            Some time later another call came and I thought I should take it.

            “How are you doing?” she asked hesitantly.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Where are you?”

            “Driving.”  I still wasn’t ready for conversation or disclosure.

            “When are you coming back?”

            “I don’t know.”
“Are you coming back?”

            “I don’t know.”

            A long silence followed, both of us not knowing what to say but not wanting to break the connection we had finally established again.  We remained like that, on the phone but not talking, for close to forty-five minutes.  In that long silence, I turned the car toward home.

            When we arrived, I brought Matthew into the house and got him settled.  I still didn’t know what to say to Kathy.  I went straight to the walk-in closet in our bedroom and stood inside, not certain what to do next.  Do I stay?  Do I drive some more?  I realized why I had gone to my closet.  It was the only place in the entire world that was entirely mine to control.

            Kathy came to the door and stood looking at me.

            “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

            Without thinking, the words shot out.

            “I’m afraid.”

“I know you are,” she wisely replied.

            It all began to become clear.

            “I’m afraid that you’ll get sick again.  I’m tired of all the tests.  I’m frustrated that there’s always something wrong with your health.  I’m afraid that I’m going to have to raise Matthew on my own and when I think about that, I don’t know if I can do it.  Sometimes, when I look ahead, it is just too much.  So I’m afraid.”

            There it was.  Fear.  I had finally recognized it.  I had finally understood where the anger and frustration was coming from.  And finally we could talk about it, and we did.

            As Kathy and I put Matthew to bed, the rest of the evening was spent opening our hearts, sharing our most painful fears and helping each other keep the darkness at bay.