A Story with an Unknown Ending

in a world where we usually know everything

I met Bill and Anna in the Neuroscience/Neurosurgery Unit of the Foothills Medical Centre in Calgary, Alberta while mom was recovering from brain surgery to remove a cancerous tumor.

Mom's room was at the end of the hall, but to get into it, we had to walk through one of the makeshift rooms set up to accommodate the overflow of patients. Made of portable dividers, these tiny rooms hardly housed a bed and offered no privacy. When we walked through, we easily could've touched the bed or the chair.

Anna lay in the bed and Bill sat in the chair. They were strangers to us, but my heart hurt for them anyway. Their presence at the hospital told me they too were facing something hard.

I walked past a time or so trying to mind my business, pretending I didn't see them, and they didn't see me. But then, it felt appropriate to pause and apologize for the constant intrusion into their space.

Along with my apology, I introduced myself and quickly fell into comfortable conversation with Bill. Anna's blue eyes stared unseeing as Bill and I spoke, and her facial expression portrayed the pain she was experiencing. Anna didn't say much but seemed interested in the conversation. She tried to look at me, but later told me she didn’t know what I looked like.

This was the first of many interactions with Bill and Anna. Each time I'd learn a bit more of her story. Last fall, Anna began experiencing temporary visual blackouts. Over the next six months her eyesight steadily declined and severe headaches began to assault her.

Bill's love for his wife was obvious. Emotion choked his voice as he told me how she loved to bake with their young daughter, but how it became too dangerous as her eyesight failed her. His own agony was visible as he described a painful spinal procedure Anna had earlier endured in an attempt to drain the fluid and relieve the pressure in her brain. He lovingly gazed at her through his teary eyes as he told me she was his life, and he hadn't left her side during the two weeks she'd been hospitalized.

She now awaited surgery to create a drain from her head to her abdomen to remove the mysterious fluid. Bill said her surgery had been put off in favor of others who faced a more life-threatening condition. When they'd ask about mom, I eagerly shared the details of her surgery and offered hope that Anna's would be successful too and that soon she'd be at home. Brain surgery sounded scary, but they knew it was necessary. Without it Anna wasn't living, she was enduring.

Bill and Anna became our friends there in the hospital. We'd offer to get Bill a coffee when we'd get coffee for ourselves. Bill helped mom get the packaging off her breakfast one morning when we weren't there to help her. One day I walked to a small auxiliary shop and purchased a handmade dishrag from one of the elderly volunteers. I didn't know why until I thought of Anna. I gave it to her as a token of hope that she'd soon be using it in her own kitchen, at home with her beloved family. That week, we shared stories, encouragement, and a common faith, but we neglected to share our phone numbers. We walked out of their lives not knowing the end of her story, not knowing if we'd ever see them again, not even having their last name.

Sometimes I think about Anna when I'm working in my own kitchen. Is she doing the same things I'm doing? Is she baking cookies with her daughter, washing dishes with her handmade dishrag, setting supper on the table for her family? Is she well? Can she see?

I want to believe that Bill and Anna are home basking in the normal moments of being a family. But I have no way to know. I've tried to find them with the limited information I have, but without success. I'm trying to rest with not knowing the ending of this story. I know Bill and Anna know Jesus. And I know that He is with them. That is enough. I don't need to know more. Maybe it's okay for life to have some unfinished stories, some questions, and some mysteries.

Maybe someday I'll get to hear the ending. Maybe someday, instead of swapping stories in a crowded hospital hall, we'll get to swap stories while strolling streets of gold.