John 2:1-5    On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there.  Now both Jesus and His disciples were invited to the wedding.  And when they ran out of wine, the mother of Jesus said to Him, "They have no wine."  Jesus said to her,"Woman, what does your concern have to do with Me?  My hour has not yet come."  His mother said to the servants,"Whatever He says to you, do it." 

Hiyam was in her forties, married, with two sons and one daughter.  She fought breast cancer with everything the medical model had to offer and the cancer slunk away.  She was a survivor for seven wonderful years.

But the dragon once again reared its fiery head, breathing devastating ruin on that sweet spell of remission.  This time, cancer invaded the spine, liver, and bone.  Surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and total disruption of the normal order of family life became the new norm.  Hiyam fought to continue the daily privileges healthy women complain about:  driving kids to school, attending school meetings and teacher conferences, buying groceries, cooking dinner.

But by Thanksgiving 2004 Hiyam hovered on the brink of death, suffering a full-blown medical crisis.  Her extended family gathered around.

All the signs that Hiyam was dying were there. Her complexion was ghastly. Her abdomen protruded. She was swollen everywhere. She had painful edema in her legs, making it nearly impossible for her to walk.  Her breathing was labored, loud, and inefficient.  She came to Judy Ghazoul Hilow’s house because she stubbornly refused to admit that she was dying and because she held tightly to a tradition of celebrating Thanksgiving with her husband’s cousins and their families.  She could hear the noisy festivities surrounding her this Thanksgiving Day as her children, husband, and extended family attempted their best rendition of cheery normalcy.  They had perched her in the wingback in the library, gluing her in place with pillows.  She looked like a well-loved doll propped at a tea party table.  Her eyes were closed much of the day.

Well-loved, indeed, was Hiyam.  Walid had fallen irrevocably in love with Hiyam many years ago in Safita, Syria.  They were teens and their lives seemed to stretch endlessly before them.  Hiyam went off to college and Walid nurtured his career faraway in America but he never stopped thinking of her.  Fifteen years later a chance remark made by a mutual acquaintance set Walid’s heart aflame.  “Hey, Walid, did you know that Hiyam is still available?”  Walid immediately set off for Syria to woo his future bride.  He was successful.  They were married in Jordan. 

Walid never lost his enthrallment with Hiyam.  They led a life devoted to one another as well as to their three children.  Then she got breast cancer. And they were forced to stare straight into an abyss. 

This long, tense Thanksgiving Day, Walid’s heart was heavy.  It was frightening to think of a world without his life-long love.  His cousin, Kathy Ghazoul Nemeh, assumed the role of Hiyam’s mentor.  She lightened the mood with breezy humor.  “Just pretend you’re eating,” she told Hiyam, putting little morsels upto her mouth.  Hiyam, so quick to laugh all throughout her life, could manage only a weak smile. 

Kathy was confused by her husband’s detachment.  Why doesn’t Issam do something? she wondered.  He seemed unperturbed, the picture of equanimity.  She knew better than to approach him.  I know he knows when the right time is, and I sometimes don’t know the exact right moment.  Of course he can tell with a glance how desperate is Hiyam’s condition.  But why is he not helping her?  When is he going to come over to Hiyam?  As the day wore on, Kathy agonized in turbulent silence.

Kathy bustled back and forth between the propped doll and the busy kitchen.  For years Kathy and Hiyam had operated as convivial sink partners, talking and laughing their way through the dishwashing duties.  This year Judy stepped in to fill Hiyam’s role, which gave the sisters a chance to talk alone in the kitchen.  Judy spoke in low tones.  

“Kathy, she’s gasping for air.  She needs to go to the hospital.”  

Kathy felt frustrated with Issam’s lack of involvement but nevertheless began to lay the necessary groundwork so that, when the time came, he could intervene.  She told her cousin, Walid, "Do whatever he tells you," nodding her head in Issam’s direction.

Several times as Kathy fussed over Hiyam, Issam orbited the library.  He circled, circled, circled.  Kathy thought she’d burst with the anxiety she was holding in check. 

Evening came.  Judy’s feast was being carried to the tables, many hands helping, many mouths watering.  Hiyam just watched the dinner from her perch in the library.  Kathy did a worried dance from the tables, where she circulated the food, to the kitchen, where she washed dishes, to the library, where she conducted Hiyam’s pretense of eating.  Issam sure is taking his good old time, she fumed.  

Meanwhile, Issam completed another orbit.  He was holding a small dessert plate.  Kathy, sitting at Hiyam’s side, looked at him innocently. Who me?  I’m just helping her was the expression she plastered on her face.  She was unwilling to challenge him.  Nevertheless, she felt raw, undone, and panic stampeded her eyes.  Help her, please help her, she beseeched with those big brown eyes.  Issam met her gaze but continued munching his dessert.  Thanksgiving dinner was over.  Everyone had been at Judy’s since four o’clock in the afternoon.  By now, it was going on nine in the evening and Hiyam just could not sit any longer.  Strong arms helped Hiyam to a kitchen chair near the back door while Walid went for the car.                                    

Issam began to feel a familiar pull:  an unmistakable burning sensation that meant, for him, the healing fire of the Holy Spirit.  He felt himself being drawn toward the sick woman.  At first it was a little glowing ember.  Then the ember stoked into a flickering flame.  The flame quickly fanned into a compelling fire.  Hiyam’s three sisters-in-law, Kathy, Judy and Debbie, stood in sad, dejected silence next to Hiyam as they listened for the car.  

Suddenly, noiselessly, Issam was there.  He bent over Hiyam and began to pray.  His hands went first to her abdomen, then moved of their own accord as he pressed and prayed.  Within minutes the yellow pallor was replaced by a pink glow.  Encouraged at the immediate improvement in Hiyam’s complexion, Issam eyes fluttered and then closed.  He went into his ‘zone.’  Hiyam’s fish-out-of-water gasping softened.  She dove into a deeply cleansing breath, releasing it with a huge sigh of contentment.  Sweet relief.  A smile lit her face.  She could breathe.  She murmured in Arabic, “Praise God!  Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

Issam prayed for perhaps ten minutes.  When he was finished, he realized the family had slowly gathered around in edgy silence.  They encircled doctor and patient, safeguarding the prayerful vignette as if they were gargoyles.  Issam knew the Holy Spirit had finished when Hiyam announced, somewhat quizzically, “I’m hungry.  I think I can eat something.”  And then she added firmly,  “Praise Jesus.” 

The gargoyles cheered.

Having arrived home just after her Thanksgiving prayer, Walid and Hiyam agreed that the crisis had passed.  Her breathing was normal.  Her energy was restored.  Kathy called to check on her.  Walid told her, “She’s better.  She’s much better.”  They slept in their own bed.  There would be no hospital for Hiyam, not tonight.  First thing the next day, Hiyam called Kathy.  “God bless him, God bless him, ” she repeated, first in Arabic and then in English.  Hiyam had great news:  “I’m so hungry, I’ve been eating all morning.”  When Kathy relayed the news Issam just nodded.  He was not surprised.

Those who were present at Judy’s Thanksgiving Day dinner have a profound belief that Issam’s ten minutes of prayer yielded a big return.  They think that the Holy Spirit rustled up a little miracle in that busy kitchen.  For Hiyam lived until February 20, 2007.  It was long enough to get her spiritual life in order and long enough to make arrangements with Kathy to have five final wishes carried out.

Escort Service

 By January 2007 Hiyam’s health had declined so drastically she spent her days stretched out on the couch.  Kathy walked to Hiyam’s house almost every day just to check on her.  She spent a few minutes talking with her and performed little tasks that would make Hiyam feel less anxious.  Their friendship was growing, sadly, at the same time as the cancer was spreading.  Their conversations began to reach into canyons of intimacy as Hiyam sank more deeply into physical deterioration.  Kathy was at turns sensitive to her morbid introspection and lightly dismissive when humor seemed the right tool to use.  She brought with her e-mail testimonials written by Issam’s patients.“Okay, it’s Story Time,” she would say.  With Hiyam curled up on the couch, Kathy read the testimonials and thank you letters aloud.  These true stories of amazing healings were tools Kathy used to raise Hiyam's hopes.  Kathy often visited so that she was with Hiyam at three o’clock in the afternoon.  She explained, “If you pray at three o’clock, the time Jesus died on the cross, your prayers are answered.  If you die at that time you go right to heaven.”  Hiyam laughed and said, “You watch, I’m going to die right at three o’clock, just to bug you.”  Kathy scoffed.  “Oh, knock it off, you’re not going to die.”

One day early in February Hiyam was in a reflective mood.  The women were alone and the house was quiet.  It was a perfect opportunity to talk.  Hiyam said, “If I die, I want you to do certain things for me.”

“What do you mean, ‘if I die’?  You have to raise these three kids of yours.  What’s this ‘if I die’ talk?”

 Hiyam persisted.  She focused on five worries. 

“Kathy, I want you to pick out the dress that I’ll be buried in.  Will you do that?” Kathy realized Hiyam had entered new emotional territory.

“Yes, Hiyam.”  

“And I want you to do my funeral.  Will you do that for me?”  

“Yes, Hiyam, I will do that for you.” 

Hiyam sank into a reverie.  Her eyes softened.  Finally, she spoke.  

“And when Lara gets married, I want you to promise to do her wedding.  I know you will do it just as beautifully as you will for your own girls.  Please.  Promise me.”

Kathy’s head was beginning to swim.  Hiyam plowed on, knowing she had Kathy right where she needed her.  

“And promise you’ll be with me when I die.  Remember - I’m going to die precisely at three o’clock.”  

Kathy had heard this many times before but Hiyam was always laughing when she said it before.  Today, Hiyam’s words were more a vow than a tease.

There was one final request.  

“Promise you’ll gather the kids and have them around me when I die.  Promise me that, Kathy.”  

So those were Hiyam’s five final wishes.  All five delegated to Kathy.  This was a considerable responsibility.  Kathy continued to visit Hiyam throughout her sickness.  One day, Hiyam told Kathy of a little girl, a stranger, whom she had recently seen.  This same little girl returned during one of Kathy’s visits.  Hiyam cried, “Look at that little girl with the blonde hair.  She’s soooo beautiful...”  Her voice trailed off, lost in awe at her splendid, private vision.  

Hiyam also spoke softly of her husband.  “He has always been wonderful to me.  He spoiled me.  Tell him that after I die.”  

And, another day, “I don’t want to leave my kids.”  Her consolation was Kathy’s promise to uphold Hiyam’s five wishes.  Hiyam held on to that as she swayed over the abyss.  “Promise me you’ll be there when I die,” she reminded Kathy, over and over.       

Monday night, February 19, 2007 there were perhaps twenty people surrounding Hiyam in her bed.  Hiyam’s last coherent words to Kathy were, “You promised the BEST wedding for Lara!”  Kathy, trying to encourage her, said,  “I have my own three girls. Come on, Hiyam, you can’t give up.”  

The following day at about 12:30, Kathy was hosting another office luncheon for the people who volunteer at Dr. Nemeh's healing services when Walid telephoned.  

“Hiyam’s breathing has changed.  Can you come?”  He paused, took a deep breath and added, “You’d better hurry.”  

Kathy’s first panicked thought, as always, was to turn to the Blessed Mother.  

“Yahdra.  This is your daughter.  Help me help her.”  

Her second thought was of the five promises.  She must keep them.  

She turned to the volunteers and said, “I have to leave.  Hiyam is bad.”  

Off she sped.  As she drove, she called her daughters, telling them to stay put wherever they were.  She deliberately assigned Ashley the task of picking up Wadi from school because she didn’t want her girls to have to go through what was ahead.  

Hiyam’s rented hospital bed was set up in the family room.  Above the headboard hung a wall clock.  Kathy took a position at her feet.  She looked at Hiyam’s ghastly coloring, listened to her labored breathing, and knew that her suffering was nearly over.  Kathy could see that she had inched further into that secret world that sick people enter at the end of their illness.  She rubbed Hiyam’s feet and put lotion on her dry arms.  She murmured prayers aloud.  She hoped Hiyam could hear the prayers. 

At 2:15, Kathy had the insight:  it is time to get everyone together.  Hiyam’s teasing promise to “die at three o’clock just to bug you,” echoed in her mind.  Oh my God, Kathy thought, she’s really going to do it.  She rode the crest of white anxiety, powering up to get her job of assembling Hiyam’s family there. 

First, she woke Lara.  “Lara…honey…you need to wake up.”  Kathy shook her gently.  

Lara woke with a start, crying out in fear.  She babbled.  “Why, Aunt Kathy?  Why?  What’s happening, Aunt Kathy?”  

“Your mother needs you.”  

The nineteen-year-old wrapped her arms around Kathy and began rocking like a little child.  She mindlessly repeated questions that made no sense--they were just words, just sound.  They were the sound of her heart breaking. 

“Aunt Kathy, oh Aunt Kathy.  What’s going to happen?  Oh no, Aunt Kathy, this can’t be happening.”  Kathy held Lara in her arms, swaying back and forth.  She eyed the clock.  She knew that she had to call Brian, who was upstairs.

“Brian, your mother needs you.  Come here right away.”  Twenty-year-old Brian came bounding from his room.  

“Aunt Kathy!  What’s wrong?”  

He rushed to his mother’s bedside.  He took her hand and began stroking it.  Her rosary was entwined in her fingers.  

“What do I do, Aunt Kathy?”  

“Just pray.”  

Lara and Brian began reciting the rosary, prayers and sobs blending in a hybrid petition.  

Kathy went outside.  Walid was smoking a cigarette.  He was leaning against the house with one leg bent up behind him, his foot resting on the wall.  Kathy interrupted his reverie. 

“Where’s Robby?”  

“He’s going for Subway and ice cream.” 

“Are you crazy?  Get him here--now.” 

En route from Westlake High in a friend’s car, Kathy called seventeen-year-old Robby and told him to skip Subway and come home straightaway because his mother needed him.  Then she went back inside, taking Walid with her.  The sound of Our Fathers and Hail Marys drifted through the house.  They were the soundtrack to this runaway scene.  Robby lost it.  He exploded into racking sobs.  

Kathy, impervious to the bedlam, began coaching the kids:  “Tell your mother you are here.”  

At that moment, Fadia, Kathy and Issam's firstborn daughter, arrived.   Fadia carried with her a lifelong burden.  She had an overpowering fear of death--not her personal death, but fear that she would witness the premature death of her parents or siblings.  If she had known that Hiyam was dying, she would not have come.  All she knew was that Hiyam was "bad.”  But Hiyam had been “bad” for months.  So she came to the house despite her mother’s cell phone warning to stay away.  Certainly, she reasoned, there would be something she could do to help.  Like Robby, she was unprepared for what she would see when she stepped into the doorway of the sick room.  The dolorous scene instantly overwhelmed her. 

Week-kneed, she crossed to her mother’s side.  She began to tremble.  Unconsciously, she began to imitate Kathy, who was rubbing Hiyam’s feet.  She needed something to hold on to.  What she saw would haunt her for a long time.  Hiyam’s coloring was like nothing Fadia had ever seen before.  It was a strange shade of green.  She looked frail.  Emaciated.  Fadia blinked at Hiyam’s thin hands, with the rosary winding through her bony fingers.  Fadia suddenly felt like she was standing in the eye of a tornado.  Death was whirling all around her.  She began to sob.  Kathy did her best to shush her, but there was a lot going on that tore her attention from her distraught daughter.  Kathy massaged Hiyam’s feet and began talking directly to the unresponsive woman.  “Okay, now  they’re all here.  Everyone’s here, Hiyam.”  Kathy coached the family,  “Tell your Mom you’re here.  Go on, tell her."

This woman’s blood-life and legacy, infusing all the love they could muster in their voices, recited the most important roll call of her existence.  

“Mom, it’s Brian.  I’m here.”  

“Mom, it’s Lara, and I’m here, too.”  

Robby, sobbing, choked out, “I’m here, Mom.”  

Walid spoke to the sweetheart who was leaving him, “I’m here, Hiyam, I’m here.” 

Time was at once crashing and suspended.  Grains of sand were pouring ever-relentlessly downward.  Incongruously, it also seemed the moments were endless.  Kathy glanced up at the wall.  One minute to three.  She put her hands on Hiyam’s thin legs.   The room faded away and she conducted what seemed a private conversation.  This was between friends. 

“Hiyam, they’re all here.  Walid, Brian, Lara, Robby.  Everyone’s here.”  

Hiyam was still.  Brian leaned over, taking his mother’s tiny wrist in his hand.  The faintest pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. 

“I can just feel a pulse,” he said. 

“Hiyam,” Kathy commanded.  “Just walk into the arms of Jesus.  Go ahead, Hiyam.  Just walk into the arms of Jesus.” 

Hiyam drew one final, ragged breath.  Brian tipped his head a little, eyes fixed on his mother’s face, thumb on his mother’s wrist. 

“Her pulse is gone.”  

Kathy looked up.  It was precisely three o’clock.  A tear glistened high on Hiyam’s cheekbone.  Brian took a tissue from a nearby box and dabbed his mother’s face.  He regarded the tissue and said, “I have my Mom’s last tear.” 

Crying.  Everyone was crying.  They embraced one another.  Fadia turned to her mother, tears streaming, and said, “I think I’m over my fear now.”  Kathy’s brown eyes filled, knowing the grief her firstborn had suffered from this terrible phobia, and she enveloped her daughter in a compassionate embrace.   They rocked and hugged and wept for fifteen drowning minutes. 

Then a weird metamorphosis took place.  Kathy started them all remembering Hiyam’s life. One memory cascaded into another.  Soon, they were laughing about Hiyam’s endearing qualities.  With the children beginning to recuperate, Kathy slipped to another room to call the funeral home.    

When the funeral director and his assistants arrived they set about unhooking intravenous tubing.  Then they moved Hiyam’s body from the bed to a gurney.  Legal requirements necessitated they place her body into a bag:  a disturbing sight.  The men wheeled the gurney into the kitchen.  This family suddenly looked infinitely smaller.  Sweetheart, lover, wife.  Mother.  All those people in one.  Gone. 

The attendants wheeled the gurney from the kitchen, through the hallway, and into the living room.  Everyone watched in uncomprehending disbelief. But it is true the Lord giveth even as He taketh away. 

The painful emotions with which Hiyam’s family were struggling were softened by an unforgettable tableau, one which infused grace into an otherwise graceless moment.  When the gurney bearing his mother reached the front door, Brian spoke.  

“Wait.” 

He took halting steps toward the gurney.  He opened the bag, pulling the zipper down to his mother’s frail, bony shoulders.  He leaned over and gave his mother one final kiss. 

“Goodbye,Mom.”  

And then Hiyam left her home one final time.  Hiyam’s family watched as the hearse rolled down the street and out of sight.

A dangerous silence hung in the air.  Kathy shot a look all around.  The empty hospital bed stood gaping at them like a mouth missing a tooth.  She knew she had to get that symbol of illness out of the house.  

“Hey, guys, people are going to start coming over here from all over.  How about we get this house cleaned up?”  

Feeling like she was on an unchecked roller-coaster, Fadia was astonished to find herself and the others working under her mother’s direction, taking apart the bed and putting it in the garage.  Then they were dusting, cleaning, and Windex-ing.  

As she worked, Fadia reflected that life was so brief.  She understood in a real way now a heretofore-inconceivable concept:  we are here; then we are gone.  In the blink of an eye we are forever gone from this earth.  It was a stunning insight.  She resolved to live every moment to its fullest.  

Later, when she had time to think, Kathy grappled with what must have been God’s purpose. 

God had put her there so that she would experience the dying of someone close to her.  It was humbling to accompany someone you love through the dying process.  Undoubtedly, this would help her in Issam’s ministry.  

Death brought that truth to life.