My uncle Dan and Aunt Jan have lived in Florida most of my life. Three of their four kids live in Florida, one in Tennessee, and all of them have beautiful families with strong ties to one another.
Growing up, our annual visits were what I looked forward to the most. I thought Florida was the most exotic, exciting place on Earth and they were so lucky to live there! My cousins were so connected with my brothers and me, we’d pick up exactly where we left off the prior visit every time.
Throughout my incarceration, our relationships have deepened and matured. Dan and Jan are two of my strongest advocates; they’ve continuously given loving support and wise counsel. We’ve shared countless letters and phone calls, many visits, and they always include me in the Florida family functions via 30-second videograms.
At the beginning of October, Dan went into the hospital for tests. He and Jan love to travel, but he wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as usual from a trip out west. He was tired and thought maybe he’d become anemic or something. After a tense week and a confusing battery of tests, the diagnosis came: terminal blood leukemia with a life expectancy of two weeks. Our entire family was rocked to its core.
When I was told, I almost dropped the phone receiver. (Good thing prison phones are 50 years old, made of steel, and permanently attached to the wall.) My thoughts raced: How can he have blood cancer? He’s younger than Dad; how can he only have two weeks to live? God, what happened to Unkie Dan? It was simply unbelievable, yet, oh so true.
Dan and Jan’s kids descended on the hospital for an emergency family meeting. Dan decided he wanted to go into hospice care and die at home so they could all spend as much time together in the most comfortable environment possible. Thus began a 10-day span to be titled The Frenzy. Everybody leapt into action — rearranging furniture, grocery shopping for a lot of people, making care plans and, sadly, funeral Mass arrangements. There was an underlying urgency in everything, fueled by a timeline no one could guess.
My parents needed to get to Florida as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Hurricane Milton was going to get there first, so Mom and Dad had to delay their trip by three days. The weight of the wait was agonizing. Would they be too late? No one knew. Milton passed through just enough to the north to blessedly spare Dan and Jan’s neighborhood. When Mom and Dad finally arrived, the reunion between the two brothers was deeply poignant.
Obviously, I couldn’t go to Florida, so I did the next best thing — I went to the chaplain’s office to arrange a bedside video visit ASAP. Chaplain Buss was wonderful, and even gave permission for me to bring Simon (my cat) for therapy and to meet the family.
When our video connected, I visited with my cousins and Jan before she turned the laptop toward Dan. Simon charmed everyone, giving us some much-needed levity. Then Unkie Dan and I shared memories, stories and Bible verses as well as more personal philosophical and introspective matters.
When I asked him, “What’s your favorite hymn?” he got choked up and had to take a minute before answering. With tears in his eyes, he said, “Be Not Afraid.” That got me choked up as I said I’d sing it for him at our next prison Mass. To end our visit with “Goodbye and I love you” was almost too much to bear.
Suddenly, my heart was like a metronome, swaying between grief and gratitude. Grief for our impending loss; gratitude for having one more chance to visit. Grief for my aunt and cousins enduring Dan’s inevitable decline and death; gratitude for their strength and faith.
That night, in the silence of my cell, laying on the top bunk with Simon curled up at my feet, I wept. I felt so very confined and guilty for still being in this place. The failure of my last parole hearing reared its ugly head to raise the misery index a few more notches. I begged God for pardon and peace of mind, but especially a hug — because I really needed one! Simon chose that moment to crawl up and put his head under my chin. All I could think was thank you, God, for my hug!
I did follow through on my promise to sing “Be Not Afraid” at Mass two days later. It was for the Offertory and I sang solo and a Cappella. I wanted him to hear the purity of the words from 1,000 miles away: “Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come follow me, and I will give you rest.” It was my best offering, my best gift to Unkie Dan. There wasn’t a dry eye in the chapel.
The Frenzy was replaced with The Calm, which was defined by miraculous peace, love and a “one day at a time” mindset. Dan would have good days, walking around the house with his walker or sitting on the porch swing with his “sweet Jan,” and eating pretzels. He would have bad days with brain fog and zero energy. There was no predictability to the ups or downs. There was just acceptance and gratitude for another day of being with family.
As we enter into the fifth week of The Calm, every phone call I make is initially wrought with anxiety and preparedness for bad news. Both are eclipsed by relief and thankfulness at the sound of Unkie’s voice. Aunt Jan’s daily mantra is “Our faith is strong. Our family is strong. God loves us.” I’ve adopted it too, because in the jumbled mess of my heart and prayers, it simply makes sense. Plus, it’s easy to remember when I’m overwhelmed!
Unkie Dan has taught me many things in my life. The importance of love, honesty and forgiveness are among the top five. During this tragic ordeal, though, I learned what it looks like to completely surrender to God’s will with vulnerability, dignity and trust. What a beautiful lesson. Amen.
Michele Williams is an inmate at the Ohio Reformatory for Women.