Without a Word: How a Boy’s Unspoken Love Changed Everything Read online

  With Hunterboy not expected to live very long, we knew this meant his needs would intensify as his illness progressed. Though I wasn’t very optimistic that Jim would drop everything to be by his side, I continued to hope that he would. All the while, I was consumed with caring for Hunter. Emotionally and physically I felt drained with nothing left to give. What little energy I had in reserve was spent on Hunter’s older sister, Erin. There was no time for Jim. And to be frank, I didn’t care. The seed of resentment was well rooted in our marriage by this point, so any desire to respond to him as a wife was gone.

  It didn’t matter to me that Jim needed to go to this appearance or that event, or that our relationship was in serious trouble; at this point in our lives, all that mattered was our family. We’d been told that our son would probably not live to see his second birthday, and I wanted to spend every minute with him. Why didn’t Jim feel the same way? I needed him desperately. I needed him to help me. Hunter and Erin needed their daddy. Hunter especially deserved to have his dad there, and I was furious that Jim wasn’t around.

  More fire was added to the negativity I already felt toward Jim, and without even realizing it, I grew to despise him.

  Our relationship had already taken such a hit before Hunter was even born, and our communication skills were lacking from the beginning, so you can imagine how they deteriorated as time went on. We didn’t have much to talk about, ever. Jim’s life was drastically different from mine. I was focused on what medicine or treatment Hunter needed, while things that just didn’t seem to matter constantly distracted Jim.

  We were heading in opposite directions, drifting farther and farther from any semblance of a relationship. Eventually, I didn’t care how often Jim was gone or when he was coming home. In fact, I ran such a tight ship that he just messed everything up when he was home anyway. He was out of sight, out of mind as far as I was concerned, and his absence only made my heart grow harder rather than fonder.

  To complicate matters even more, we didn’t share the same bed because Hunter’s medical needs necessitated that someone sleep with him. For the most part, that responsibility became mine, but I occasionally took turns with my mother (and we had a night nurse for a little while, too). But even on those nights when I wasn’t taking care of Hunter, I slept alone, away from Jim. The farther away I got from him, literally and figuratively, the more isolated I felt. Help surrounded me—parents, friends, nurses, therapists—and yet the only help I desperately wanted and needed was Jim’s. Even when Jim gave his best efforts, though, they just never seemed good enough.

  I didn’t like the way I was treating Jim, and yet I was just so angry that I didn’t know how to act or feel. There was so much confusion and pain in my mind and heart. I wanted Jim to take care of me. I needed him to hold me and tell me that everything was going to be okay, even though we both knew it wouldn’t be. There’s no shame in saying, I needed my man! We had made this beautiful child together, and the longing to share in this journey with my son’s father was excruciatingly intense.

  Jim did spend time with Hunter, but I wanted him to walk in my shoes for just one hour and really take care of Hunter—to know him as intimately as I did and spend the kind of quality time with him that caring for his physical needs demanded. Of course, I knew that when Jim was with Hunter, he loved it. And HB loved every minute with his dad—especially when they got to watch football together. It was just that I was so wrapped up in my own pain, I couldn’t see that Jim had deep pain of his own. Eventually I think he got to the point where he didn’t even want to try anymore; it was just too hard to please me. I was looking for him to fill a void in my life and Hunter’s that he simply could not fill. And while my expectations of Jim felt reasonable to me at the time, I now realize how unrealistic they really were.

  Not only was Jim incapable of filling the abyss my heart was quickly becoming, I would eventually learn that he was never meant to fill it in the first place.

  He and I would need to search beyond each other to find the hope we desperately craved. We would need to find a love that would fill our unmet expectations and conquer our fears. And when we did, it would end up saving our marriage and our love.

  As a young girl, I sat in a creaky old pew every Sunday in the back of St. Vincent’s Church on East Avenue. Tucked into the little prison town of Attica, New York, it was a beautiful, modest white church right down the street from my Catholic elementary school. This is the church where I was baptized as an infant and where I had my first Communion and Confirmation. It was the church where I grew up, and where my parents and grandparents grew up as well. As a young girl, it was the church where I imagined getting married someday. In fact, during mass, when I was supposed to be reciting the responsorial psalm, I would often daydream about how the pews would be decorated.

  The Stations of the Cross were on the walls in between breathtaking stained-glass windows. Whenever I looked up at them, which wasn’t often, the words that came to mind were “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” I hated shouting those words when we did the Stations before Easter every year. A shiny statue of Mary, the mother of Jesus, was located to the right of the altar near the side entrance of the church. She looked so beautiful and gentle. I can’t remember what the statue to the left of the altar looked like, but I remember the cross that hung above the altar. It was massive, and I didn’t want to look at it because it made me sad. Jesus’ face was heartrending and His body was naked except for the loincloth around His waist. He looked horrible.

  I never understood the cross or why Jesus was nailed there to die. And we never talked about Him. Never. The Bible stories taught during Sunday school classes were fun, but I didn’t learn anything about Jesus or His sacrifice—the crux of which would’ve been crucial for me to comprehend if I was ever to have a relationship with Him. I don’t remember praying to Him either, but I prayed to Mary a lot. I liked her. I didn’t know anything about Mary except that she was the mother of Jesus and she was good. So as I was taught to do from the time I was a little girl, I prayed the Hail Mary: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  I didn’t understand what sin was either, or that I was a sinner… but I prayed about that, too—when I had to. Especially after confession. I couldn’t wait to get out of that musty, gloomy cubicle so that I could finish my ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys and be on my way.

  I was always scared to go behind the curtain into that little confessional booth. You had to whisper so that the other people waiting to go in after you wouldn’t hear all your sins. And even worse, I was worried that the priest on the other side of the dense screen might figure out who I was and tell my parents!

  What was a kid to do? I tried to sound as unlike me as I could. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…” Unfortunately, I could never remember when my last confession was, so on top of all the other sins I confessed, I had to acknowledge that I’d lied about the date of my last confession.

  I thought I was a good girl most of the time anyway, so during a few confessions I even made up some of my sins. I had to say something! It was all so stressful.

  As much as I dreaded confession, though, church itself was just a part of life. Going to church was what we did. It didn’t matter if my brother, Jack, and I were tired or sick, we had to go. Every Sunday. And we had to look good.

  We had our church clothes, our school clothes, and our play clothes. We dressed especially nice on Easter and Christmas. I wasn’t much for dresses and skirts, but getting decked out for Easter mass was a must every year. However, as soon as I got home, those clothes were instantly replaced with play clothes. After all, I had to be in something more comfortable before digging through my Easter basket full of goodies.

  For me, Easter was about finding where my mother hid my basket of candy. Even as an adult, I seldom tho
ught about the death of Jesus or the historical reality of His glorious resurrection. But after Hunter got sick, my search for God intensified as if my very life, and Hunter’s, depended on it.

  I wanted and needed to know more about God. I was consumed with difficult questions that begged for answers, and I figured that He just might have them. Admittedly, I went about my quest for very selfish reasons. Somehow, I was convinced that Hunter would go to heaven when he died, and although I knew nothing about heaven or how to get there, I was determined that if Hunter was going, I wanted to go, too.

  My mother was diligently searching as well, but unlike me, she sought to know God so Hunter could be healed.

  She was convinced that God would heal Hunter. I wasn’t.

  She prayed for him to be healed. I didn’t.

  It’s not that I never asked God to heal my son. I did. I desperately wanted Hunter to be healthy like the other boys his age, roughhousing and throwing the football in the backyard. I just didn’t think it would happen.

  My mom wanted healing and I wanted heaven. We were quite the team.

  With no stone left unturned, we charted our course and pursued our goal with different motives but the same passion. We would have done anything and everything to help Hunter. And we did, much to our dismay at times.

  When Hunter was six months old, we heard about something called a “healing mass” hosted by a Roman Catholic church near our home. I was overly protective of Hunter and typically only took him out of the house for doctor’s appointments and family gatherings at my parents’ house. However, Hunter needed to be healed, and we were desperate, so off to the church we went. With much anticipation and hope, five of us piled in the van and headed to church: Hunter; my mother and I; my close friend Mary; and my best friend from high school, Karyn, who was in town, and who, as Hunter’s godmother, wanted to do whatever she could to help.

  The church was packed but we managed to squeeze into a pew in the back. As I looked around, I was amazed. Where did all of these people come from, and why are they here? I wondered. A few familiar hymns were sung and then such a grandiose introduction was made, you would’ve thought the pope had come to Western New York. The majestic ovation the holy man received when he walked out onto the altar was fit for a king. I don’t remember if he was a priest, a bishop, or a member of some other pontifical rank. I do remember, however, that he was dressed in what looked like a royal robe, he was from Ireland, and from what they said, he had the power to heal.

  Because none of us had ever been to a healing mass, we had no idea what to expect. I glanced over at Karyn a few times during the service and the look on her face expressed exactly how I felt. I wanted to leave. But it wasn’t about me; Hunter needed to be healed, so we stayed.

  After an hour had passed, Hunter started to fuss and cry, so rather than disturb the people around us, we snuck into the quiet room at the back of the church. It was impossible to concentrate on what the holy healer from Ireland was saying, so we just focused on trying to calm Hunter down.

  “Mom, let’s just go,” I pleaded. “Hunter doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t know what else to do.”

  “We can’t leave now….” my mother began. Then a kind but strange woman interrupted her: “Give the baby to me. I’ll calm the child down.”

  Before I could respond, the woman scooped Hunter out of my arms. My mother and I looked at each other in shock. I glanced over at Karyn and Mary, and they, too, were wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

  Agitated, I moved to grab Hunter out of the stranger’s arms, but my mother beat me to it. Very graciously and politely she took Hunter from the woman. “Thank you for your help, but I’ll take him now,” my mother said with authority in her voice.

  We were all distraught and completely disillusioned with everything by this point. “Jill, let’s get out of here,” Karyn insisted.

  Suddenly I glanced up and noticed that people were starting to congregate around the altar. Lines had formed down every aisle as men, women, and children waited patiently for the priestly man to lay hands on them and pray over them.

  “Now what are we supposed to do?” I asked as my mother gently laid my crying son in my arms.

  “We’ve stayed this long—you’ve got to take Hunter up there,” my mother urged.

  Despite everything, I was still hopeful that maybe, just maybe, Hunter had a chance, so I carried him toward the altar. What else could I do? I was his mother.

  As we apprehensively made our way to the front of the church, I looked around, hoping to spot someone who could point me in the right direction. I noticed people approaching a particular woman to the far left of the altar. She looked as if she was giving instructions, so I went up to her.

  At this point Hunter’s crying had intensified, and I was doing everything I could to hold back my own tears. “Can you please tell me where I’m supposed to take my son? He is very sick and needs prayer.”

  With a look of frustration, the woman brazenly responded, “Go to the back of the line. You’ll have to wait.”

  Without hesitation I turned around and headed to the back of the church—I couldn’t get away from that woman quickly enough. Didn’t she hear Hunter crying and see the look on his little face? The lump in my throat became unbearable, and I was finding it difficult to breathe.

  When I finally made my way over to where my mother and friends were standing, I completely broke down.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” my mother asked. I could barely talk through the sobs but managed to repeat what the woman said. Determined and angry like a mother bear, my mom made her way back up to the altar, found an usher, and explained to him what had happened. “My infant grandson has been crying for the last two hours,” she declared. “He’s very sick and can’t wait any longer, so can you please take him now?”

  Before I knew it, my mother and I were headed back up to the front of the church with Hunter. We followed the usher through the crowd to the left end of the building where fewer people had gathered. I wanted to run out of there as fast as I could, but Hunter needed to be healed, so we stayed. Eventually the healer from Ireland prayed his way toward us. He was old and scruffy and in a peculiar way reminded me of Santa. He didn’t ask any questions or talk to us; he just reached out his wrinkled hands, laid them on Hunter’s head, and started praying. I don’t remember anything he said, but I do remember this: nothing happened. Hunter continued to cry inconsolably, and so did I.

  We headed out the door as fast as we could. No one said a word until Karyn eventually spoke: “Those people are a bunch of freaks. We should’ve never stayed in there as long as we did. Hunter, you’re going to be just fine, little buddy.”

  We all laughed and cried together.

  Upon reaching the van, a woman carrying a five-foot crucifix approached us, nearly frightening us half to death. “They sent me out here to pray for the child. They think he can be healed.”

  Once again, we were astonished and speechless. The woman leaned her enormous cross up against the van and motioned for me to hand Hunter to her. And I did. As I write this, I still can’t believe I let her hold Hunter. But I was desperate.

  As she prayed over Hunter, I just stood there. I looked at the golf ball–sized rosary beads around her neck and the five-foot crucifix leaning against my van and thought to myself, Is she nuts? What in the—are we doing here? (I used to swear every now and then.) Why am I letting this strange woman hold my son? I felt so trapped in the weirdness of everything and just wanted this crazy escapade to be over. We didn’t pray along because we didn’t know what to do, but as soon as the woman was finished, I snatched Hunter away and got in the van.

  After we were safely headed home, far away from all the healers, I burst out crying and protested, “What if that woman was one of God’s angels and she really did want to heal Hunter? What if God sent her? I had to let her hold him.”

  Many tears were shed, and a lot of hope faded that night. No one said much on the way home; I’
m sure we were all trying to process everything. The last thing I remember that evening was what my dear friend Mary said as she hugged me good-bye: “At least we tried, Jill, right? And now we know.”

  Know what? I thought. Know that people go to crazy extremes out of desperation? Know that however well meaning these people might be, they didn’t have a clue about what was best for me and my son? Know that my son is suffering from a disease I’ve never heard of and there’s no cure? My heart and mind were inundated with questions.

  Thankfully, in spite of my confusion, my search for hope and for God continued. I pressed on for Hunter’s sake and never gave up. And then, miraculously, in the very midst of Hunter’s suffering, the indescribable joy his life brought our family began to overshadow my desire for his healing. Of course I wanted his struggles to end and longed for him to be a healthy, growing boy. However, his life was about so much more than his health. I didn’t let God’s decision to heal him or not consume me. No, I didn’t give up… I gave in. I gave in to a better plan and purpose for Hunter’s life. I surrendered my hopes and dreams for Hunter to the God who was weaving a more beautiful tapestry both behind the scenes and before our very eyes for our entire family.

  A few months after our healing mass experience, my mother’s younger brother, Mark, came over to visit us. He was a born-again Christian. I only knew a few Christians at the time who called themselves “born again,” and for some reason, I always felt uncomfortable around them; I just never felt I measured up to their standards. Even though I didn’t know what those standards were, I was convinced I was way off, so I tried to avoid them as much as possible.

  My understanding of what it meant to be a Christ-follower was jaded and far from accurate. I assumed the pious types were judgmental without realizing I was just as guilty of judging them. Like most unbelievers, I also thought Christians spent all their time walled up in a steeple-topped building singing hymns and beating their Bibles. As horrible as it sounds, I imagined that people serious about God were terribly boring because they had nowhere else to turn for enjoyment in life. There was no way that God could be remotely exciting—at least not according to my definition of excitement at the time.