Fly a Little Higher

by Laura Sobiech

  I reached up and grabbed Rob’s arm. “Look. He’s running,” I said with a sound of wonder in my voice that is normally reserved for parents who see their child do something amazing for the first time.

  Rob stopped for a moment and watched with me. I grabbed his hand and looked up at his face, sure that I would see the same joy on his face as I felt on mine. My heart sank as I saw instead a look of utter sadness that bordered on anger.

  “Too bad he’ll never be able to play sports again,” he said. I dropped his hand as he turned to continue the walk around the track.

  As quickly as the joy filled me, it drained away. I stood there on the track, feet planted, as I watched Rob walk away. Why couldn’t he be happy with this moment? Why wouldn’t he allow himself to be grateful for what was right in front of him? I was frustrated, disappointed, and angry, but I wasn’t completely surprised.

  When we were newly married, twenty-two years earlier, I learned quickly that Rob planned thoroughly before he did anything. No decision was made without first researching and accounting for all possible outcomes. He believed if he planned well, bad things would be avoided, and with enough research he could be armed and ready for anything. There should be no such thing as the unexpected to catch one off guard. This was especially true when it came to protecting his family. His greatest fear was to have tragedy strike with no preparation.

  He was also a man who required structure. Every day there was a plan, and that plan was not to be altered unless fair warning had been given at least a day or two prior. Spontaneity was problematic; it was a thing left for those less responsible types. He operated at home much like he did at work, where he was employed, not surprisingly, as a planner.

  This planned and structured way of life served him well for years. Then I came along and threw a bit of a wrench into the works.

  I had a more carefree, let’s-dive-in-and-see-what-happens approach to life. I enjoyed the moments in life and the meaning that could be found within them. I was interested in what was around the next corner but not so much about the one after that. I wasn’t a reckless person, just more focused on what was directly in front of me rather than what lay far ahead. Something like balancing the checkbook was not terribly high on my priority list because it didn’t really affect the present, and it could always be dealt with later. I liked the idea of planning things out and living a structured life, but it just took so much time and thinking. It was a job left for someone more suited. Like Rob.

  For the most part, I was happy, and Rob and I worked well together. He was a good balance to my more spontaneous side and provided the stability I wanted and needed from a husband and the father of my children. Likewise, I softened Rob’s rougher edges by encouraging him to relax a little and experience the joy of the moment where he actually lived rather than spend it planning for a future that may never happen. We complemented each other, but there were times we drove each other crazy.

  I remember when I was due with our first child, Alli. It was a Saturday, and I’d started having contractions early in the morning, so we spent the day together and watched college football (a sport Rob adored but I couldn’t care less about). He had decided to keep track of each contraction by writing it down in a notebook so he would know when it was time to take me to the hospital. According to the child-birth class, we should go when the contractions were about three minutes apart and lasted around a minute.

  It became evident as the day wore on the contractions did not follow the pattern correctly. Frustrated, he brought his notebook to where I lay on the couch.

  “I thought the contractions were supposed to get longer and closer,” he said as he flipped through multiple pages. “You’re all over the place!”

  I glared at him as yet another contraction took hold. “I. Don’t. Care.”

  He let me be until I told him it was time to go.

  Later, in the hospital, as things got more intense and the contractions became nearly unbearable, I asked for something to help with the pain. As the medication took effect, I expressed my relief, to which Rob replied, “Yeah. But, you know, it’s going to get worse.”

  “Not. Helpful,” I said with a glare. When I questioned him later about the point of his less-than-encouraging words, he explained that he knew I had a long way to go and he didn’t want me to be caught off guard. He was trying to protect me.

  There were times my indecisive nature and lack of preparedness annoyed him too. Drive-thru windows at fast-food restaurants were a source of great tension in our marriage—still are, actually. All those choices would leave me in a bit of a quandary. It always took a couple of minutes to decide what I was in the mood for, and the moment could get very awkward for Rob, who of course knew what he wanted miles earlier. After telling the worker on the other end of the intercom for the second or third time he wasn’t ready to order yet, he would get a little cranky. Now he asks me what I want before we leave the house; if I’m not sure, he tosses the keys to me.

  We had our conflicts throughout the years, but we were steadfast in our vows and devoted to each other. We were also very committed to our faith. We understood marriage was more than just an arrangement for two people to hang out together and be happy until the happiness died. It was about changing ourselves to become better people and to grow in love and serve each other. In short, it was about being a reflection of Christ in the world.

  We had grown to respect each other as the years of living together had revealed our shortcomings and how they were balanced by the other’s strengths. We could see how God had brought us together because we were the perfect fit. Rob learned to go with the flow a little more, and I learned to run a tighter ship. We worked better together than apart.

  So when Zach was diagnosed with cancer, we started out on the right foot and managed the logistics as a team. We went to all Zach’s important appointments together. Rob would take diligent notes and research as I focused on the daily needs of the family, such as meals, housekeeping, and making sure the kids were all doing okay.

  But this was more than just another project or minor dilemma we needed to work through together. This was our child, and he was sick with a deadly disease. We each had our own agony as we battled with despair, and we chose the weapons we each knew best. I focused on what was right in front of me and searched for any joy that could be found, while Rob armed himself by planning for a future of grim possibilities.

  As the two of us stood there that summer night and watched our son run barefoot across the green football field, we saw and felt two very different things.

  I saw triumph that filled me with joy.

  Rob saw loss that filled him with sadness.

  I decided then that I needed to keep those precious moments of joy to myself. I couldn’t share them with Rob anymore because his heart was so burdened by what he knew was coming and his sadness was so deep for what was lost and would be lost, he had no room for an intrusion of joy. He seemed so heavy with the burden, I didn’t know how to talk to him anymore and couldn’t trust that he would be able to hold me up should I need to lean on him.

  I lived one day at a time, unable to take on more. I didn’t want to be reminded of a future I knew we would likely have to face soon enough and couldn’t understand why Rob seemed to want to live there. We still had time, precious time right now, and I didn’t want to waste it by living in that lonely place where Zach was no more. It was too awful.

  So I lived several months by a subconscious rule to keep the joys and heartaches to myself—both potential burdens to Rob. I was afraid that if I leaned on him, the weight would cause him to sink into total despair, and if I shared those pearls of joy with him, the contrast of their beauty to the darkness he suffered would be too much. And I needed those little pearls to stay pure, unmarred by that darkness, because sometimes they were all I had to get me through the days.

  As I pulled away, Rob closed in on himself. We lived together and slept in the same bed, but we were in different worlds. Th
e most important part of our lives at that time was off-limits to discuss, so we spoke of nothing deep, only of those things that were neutral and mundane. I would ask, “How was work today?” and he would answer, “Okay.” It was the same day after day until I finally quit asking, and he didn’t notice.

  I started to become angry. I knew this wasn’t how I wanted our marriage to be—it wasn’t how it should be. I began to think that it would be so much easier if Rob wasn’t there, if I didn’t have to think about him too. I didn’t know how to make things better and wasn’t sure I had the energy to try. I would play out different conversations in my head trying to figure out a way to make things better, but they all led to the same problem: we simply dealt with things differently, and there seemed no way of getting around it. I felt like I was walking through quicksand; each attempt in my mind to step forward just seemed to drag me down further. I didn’t have the energy to deal with a dying son and a dying marriage.

  The night of the benefit I finally reached my limit. As Zach got up on the stage to play a song with Sammy, I looked across the room to where Rob stood talking with some coworkers. We hadn’t spent any time together that evening; he’d gone his way, and I went mine. In the midst of all these people who loved and cared for us, I realized the one I wanted to be closest to was the one who was farthest away. I wanted Rob to be standing next to me laughing and talking like he was across the room. I wanted him by my side to cheer Zach on as he got up on that stage and played for the biggest crowd, at that point, he’d ever played for. If we couldn’t come together now, how would we manage when things got worse? I began to pray fervently that God would somehow bring us together. I knew God wanted our marriage to be more than this emptiness.

  After the party, I did some research and found a marriage counselor who came recommended, and I found a marriage retreat that focused on communication skills for couples who were struggling. The thought of either one scared me. I didn’t like the idea of laying out all the emotional baggage and trudging through it when we were already so emotionally fragile. But I realized this thing was bigger than the two of us, and the usual methods weren’t going to cut it. We needed help.

  A few weeks later, a couple of weeks before our anniversary, Rob came into the living room and sat down on the couch across from me.

  “Do you want to get away for a couple of nights for our anniversary?” he asked.

  I set the book down that I was reading and thought for a moment. “No,” I finally replied. “We haven’t talked in months. I can’t imagine spending a whole weekend together.” He didn’t say anything and looked a bit stunned. “I think we should get counseling or go on a marriage retreat. I’m worried if we don’t work on things now, we aren’t going to have anything left when we really need it.”

  Rob sat quietly for a moment, looking out the window into the darkness.

  “I don’t want to go to a counselor,” he said. “I think the experience would rely too heavily on the quality of the counselor. But I’m willing to do the retreat. Do you have the website address? I’ll sign us up.”

  I felt as though a weight had been lifted. I hadn’t been sure how Rob would respond, but I didn’t expect him to be as willing and open as he was. I was so relieved because in my mind his response was the make-or-break point of our lives together. It was the point where we would decide whether we would live separate lives under the same roof or would come together and build a relationship that was stronger than it ever had been.

  A floodgate was opened and we began talking again. I told him how much I had wanted him by my side at the benefit and that I missed him. He told me that he thought I wanted to be left alone and that he didn’t want to burden me with his fears and struggles. We both recognized the need for something better, and while Rob wasn’t thrilled about going on the retreat (what guy is?), he knew I needed it, and that was enough.

  We spent a whole weekend together at the retreat. It was the first time in several months that the two of us spent more than just a few minutes together in the same room. And we were learning how to communicate again without fear of being misunderstood. We were given the tools to rebuild our relationship and make our marriage a safe haven from the storm that brewed around us.

  The emotional work of learning to communicate again was hard. Rather than go our separate ways after dinner, we made time each night to talk about the hard stuff, the scary stuff.

  “I need to see the joy in our lives if I’m going to get through this thing,” I told him one night, “but I can’t share those moments with you because they just seem to make you angry.”

  He thought a moment and then spoke. “I’ve spent my life trying to do things right. I’ve lived a moral life. I pray every morning on the way to work. I beg God to cure Zach. But He doesn’t. Zach just keeps getting sicker,” he opened up. “I try to see the joy in life, but every time I do, it just reminds me of what we are losing if Zach dies, and I’m filled with sadness. Then I get angry at God because I see so many people who don’t live faithful lives who have it much better than we do. I just don’t get it and sometimes I wonder, what’s the point?”

  There was a time when this revelation would have scared me. I would have thought I could somehow make things better. But now, after more than twenty years of marriage and years of intense suffering under our belts, I had finally learned that no pep talk was going to help the matter. I couldn’t wipe Rob’s sadness away. But I could simply love him.

  “I get it,” I said. He was a man who believed in order, and there was nothing orderly about our son dying from cancer. God made Rob that way, and He was the only one who could help Rob. I silently begged God to pour out His grace on my husband who would gladly have given his own life ten times over to save the life of his son.

  As we peeled away the layers of callousness we’d built up over the years, and especially the last few months, it left us both feeling a little raw. But as we continued to make ourselves vulnerable to each other, a whole new level of love began to grow. I didn’t resent Rob for how he struggled; I fell deeper in love with him because of it. We learned how to lay out our sadness and grief in a way that didn’t burden each other, but rather drew us together. Our marriage became a safe place to settle in when the storm of life got too scary to face alone. And it became a source of grace that fueled us and kept us strong so that we could step back into that storm together.

  Fourteen

  January 2012

  DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GO TO PARIS?” I ASKED ZACH AS I SAT ON the hotel bed with my laptop while he and Rob watched a football game on the television.

  “Yeah. I think Paris would be cool. Who wouldn’t want to go to Paris?” he responded.

  It was two months after the benefit. We had traveled to MD Anderson Hospital in Houston, Texas, to get a second opinion on Zach’s course of treatment. It was from a Houston hotel room that I started planning the Europe trip. Planning for our trip was a nice distraction from the future the doctors were painting for us, but frankly, the closer our departure date came, the more I dreaded the decision to go.

  The last two and a half years had left me drained, and the thought of being “Julie, your cruise director” for the travel group left me feeling a bit weary. But I knew Zach needed this trip. Like many teenagers, he craved to be part of a bigger world than the confines of his sheltered life. For Zach, the yearning to bust free for a little while was probably stronger because he’d spent much of his teen years cooped up in a hospital room. And there was the added urgency, knowing that cancer would pounce at any moment. The dream needed to be realized before it was too late. We had no idea how much time we had left. But God knew.

  We wanted the whole family to go and any other friends or relatives who wanted to join us. In the end, eleven of us made the trip: Rob, Sam, Zach, Grace, and me; Mitch; my mother, Nancy; my sisters, Amy and Lee; Lee’s husband, Jon; and my travel-loving friend Stephanie. Alli was heartbroken she couldn’t make the trip with us, but she had some big things
brewing in her life.

  She had been asked to go on a cruise with her boyfriend Collin’s family. She and Collin had been close friends in high school. After a year of college, Collin decided to enlist in the navy and, just days before leaving for boot camp, called Alli to reveal that he had secretly loved her for years. Based on years of friendship, she knew that Collin was the kind of guy she could spend the rest of her life with, and the switch from friendship to romance was an easy transition. Now, after a year apart and seeing each other only on a computer screen, he’d asked her to join him on the cruise. She couldn’t wait to see him and suspected he had a big question he wanted to ask her.

  March 2012

  AFTER THREE MONTHS OF RESEARCHING AND PLOTTING OUT OUR trip, we were finally off! We gathered in the driveway and said our good-byes to Alli as she headed off to meet up with Collin’s family. We hopped on our plane and eight hours later landed in a whole other world. Rome.

  Rome had a way of making us feel like we could link hands with the ancients. It inspired a broader perspective of time. It also gave us a sense that we belonged to something greater than ourselves. A legacy. I wondered if Zach thought about leaving a legacy and what it might be.

  We spent three days in Rome. Zach, Mitch, and Sam shared a room at the monastery where we stayed, which meant mischief was to be had. One evening, after a long day of sightseeing, the adults all gathered in Rob’s and my room. We bought a bottle of wine that we shared on the balcony that overlooked the monastery’s courtyard. Walls divided our balcony from the adjoining room, so we couldn’t see what was going on next door. As we hashed out our adventures, we all lifted our glasses in a toast to the success of the day. As we put our plastic cups to our lips, a hand reached around the dividing wall with a paper cup filled with red wine. Mitch peeked around the wall with a huge grin on his face.