Journal of Sacred Work

The summer after college graduation found me nestled back in Vermont, visiting family and friends. Soon I would begin my nursing career in California. It was a vibrant time of both anticipation and joy, especially with my best friend Susan’s wedding fast approaching in New York, and I was thrilled to be her maid of honor. The evening before I was to depart my eldest brother Philip, and I slipped into town for some quality time at the Mole’s Eye Café.

Philip rarely spoke of the Vietnam war but that night he did. He recounted a harrowing ordeal just days before he was scheduled to return home, where his jeep and army buddies were ambushed and caught in heavy gunfire. They miraculously escaped unscathed. I was astounded and immensely grateful that he’d survived such a close call. That evening, our conversation deepened as he opened up about his experiences.  A conversation that I cherished.

A few days later, while at my brother Johnny’s apt in New York, an early morning phone call brought devastating news: Philip had been killed in a car accident the night before. He was only 29. I was in utter shock and disbelief. Once composed, I called Susan to tell her about Philip-on her wedding day- and my need to return to Vermont. A little while later Susan called me after talking with her mom who suggested that, “Maybe Liz will still be in your wedding.” Oh, I had not considered this, and so I attended the wedding and instead planned to return home the following morning. The day felt surreal, a bit of an out of body experience. I moved through the day detached from my emotions and the crushing reality of his death.

 Back at my parent’s home there was unimaginable grief and a flurry of funeral arrangements consumed the week.  I was scheduled to start my nursing job at St Joseph hospital the day after the funeral. I felt conflicted and considered declining the job and was at a loss over what to do. My parents were too grief stricken and I did not wish to burden them with my dilemma. I felt utterly overwhelmed and too shaken to make any clear decision. It was my youngest brother Tom, who encouraged me to go, saying “you seem to like CA.” Still indecisive, I took my brothers advice and left for CA.

The journey was a chaotic whirlwind. A ride down to NY, then two friends drove me to La Guardia airport, only for me to realize my flight was out of Kennedy. Yikes! I was really not functioning well. In a frantic rush they dropped me off at Kennedy. I ran to the counter bypassing lines (This was before modern security), and the stewardess called and incredibly asked the plane to wait. I made the flight just as the door was about to close.  

I sat next to an older man and we talked the entire flight. I can’t tell you how much his companionship meant, as I felt like a lost soul.  Looking back, I wonder how I ever managed to navigate it all.

Once in CA, I stayed with a friend. I recall four of us friends sitting on the living room floor, their quiet presence creating a remarkably tender and safe space. No one asked questions, no words were needed, their silent presence was profoundly touching. I remember finally breaking open and I cried while being held ever so gently.

I began working on the oncology unit, learning a new complex job and meeting new people. No one knew my history, so I kept my brother’s death private. Oh my gosh! I had never lost a close family member and being so far from home and my family, I did not know how to grieve. Through the years I have come to understand the paramount importance of the grieving process.

I poured my heart and soul into caring for patients and mastering the procedures on this high-tech floor. Back then a cancer diagnosis did not offer great odds. Fortunately, there have been many significant advances in treatments over the past 45 years.  

Caring for people with a serious illness has been a true privilege, one that has immeasurably enriched my life. The patients and families have taught me so much about little kindnesses and loving gestures. When someone is given a cancer diagnosis it is a wake-up call for the person as well as their loved ones. Suddenly, you are shaken from complacency and your priorities shift to what really matters. All the extraneous falls away, the little annoyances no longer hold sway. You appreciate each day more deeply and are grateful for the people in your life in a more profound and meaningful way. You realize, at the core of your being, it is all about love.

Liz Sorensen Wessel
Above Photos of Philip