The bustle of the hospital was a welcome distraction as I opened my new patient's chart. My son had brought home a disappointing report card, and my daughter and I had argued about her driver's license. For the next eight hours, I wanted to lose myself in helping people who had more to worry about than I did.
Rebekah was 32, admitted for chemotherapy after breast-cancer surgery. When I entered her room, it took a moment to spot her amid three giggling little girls. She introduced her husband, Warren, and their daughters: six-year-old Ruthie, four-year-old Hannah, and two-year-old Molly.
As I prepared her arm for the IV, Rebekah laughed nervously. "I'm terrified of needles." "It'll be over quickly," I reassured her. She shut her eyes, murmured a prayer, and then smiled, squeezing my hand. She asked for her Bible and inquired about my favorite verse. "Jesus wept. John 11:35," I said. "It makes me feel closer to Jesus, knowing he also experienced human sorrow." She nodded thoughtfully as I left.
Over the following months, I watched Rebekah struggle with chemotherapy. Her stays became frequent, and she worried about her children. I, meanwhile, contended with my own teenagers, who seemed distant. I missed the days when they were as attached to me as Rebekah's girls were to her.
One day, I found her speaking into a tape recorder. "I'm making tapes for my daughters," she said, showing me a list on a yellow pad: starting school, confirmation, turning 16, first date, graduation. While I worried about helping her face death, she was planning for her children's future. I often wondered what I would say in her place. My constant questions made my kids joke I was like an FBI agent. Where were my words of love?
After a period of hope, doctors found another malignant lump. The cancer spread to her lungs; it was terminal. Rebekah recorded the tapes in the early morning hours, filling them with family stories and advice, trying to cram a lifetime of love into a few hours. Finally, she entrusted the completed tapes to her husband.
One afternoon, I received an urgent call. Rebekah needed me to bring a blank tape immediately. She was flushed and breathing hard when I arrived. I slipped the tape in and held the microphone to her lips.
"Ruthie, Hannah, Molly—this is the most important tape," she began, holding my hand. "Someday your daddy will bring home a new mommy. Please make her feel special. Show her how to take care of you. Ruthie, help her get your Brownie uniform ready each Tuesday. Hannah, tell her you don't want meat sauce on your spaghetti; she won't know you like it separate. Molly, don't get mad if there's no apple juice; drink something else. It's okay to be sad, sweeties. Jesus cried too. He knows about sadness and will help you be happy again. Remember, I'll always love you."
I shut off the recorder. Rebekah sighed deeply. "Thank you," she said with a weak smile. "You'll give this one to them, won't you?" she murmured, sliding into sleep.
A time would come for the tape to be played. But right then, after smoothing her blanket, I hurried home. I thought of how my daughter Shannon also liked her sauce on the side—a quirk that had often annoyed me but now made her seem precious. That night, my kids didn't go out. Long after the spaghetti sauce had dried on the dishes, we sat and talked—without interrogations, without complaints—late into the night.