Free Marrow by Elizabeth Lesser Page B

on earth, with us. To experience the softness of another spring, the humid heat of summer, the winter’s shocking cold, the joy of love, the sadness of loss, the beauty, the pain, the mess. And then, the other pull—the pull to die, to surrender, to say no to more chemotherapy and radiation and transplant and months of drug-induced nausea and isolation and the unrelenting anxiety that the cancer may return. To say good-bye now, to leave with some dignity while she still can. I don’t know which path I would choose or she should choose. I reach over, stroke her arm, and silently pray.
    I say “silently” because prayer is not something Maggie relates to; that’s putting it mildly. Last week, our born-again cousin e-mailed and pronounced she was praying for Maggie’s health. This infuriated Maggie, as if without asking our cousin had conscripted her into the faith. Maggie called me immediately to rail against the stupidity of religion. I proposed that our cousin’s beliefs might not be what she imagines them to be—that intelligence and spirituality are not diametrically opposed. That you can be a legitimate, thinking person and still listen to Christian music on the radio.
    â€œThis is why I’m surprised you and I are a perfect geneticmatch,” Maggie replied. “What if I become more spiritual if we do the transplant? If my blood is your blood?”
    â€œYup. Before you know it, you’ll be speaking in tongues,” I say.
    â€œNo, really, Liz. Will I suddenly believe in God? That might not be a bad thing at this moment. What do you believe in anyway? Maybe I should know this before I sign on the dotted line.” She’s never asked me this before. It’s not an easy question to answer, but this would be a good time to try.
    I tell her what I don’t believe first. I don’t believe our brains can fully fathom God, or come up with iron-clad answers to the big questions—like who we are and why we are and where did we come from and where do we go? We can’t think our way through any of those questions. We can try. I love the way we try—science, art, religion, wine, mountain climbing, whatever. But so far, no one has definitively answered anything. So I say to Maggie, “When I pray, I pray to just settle down and trust the mystery. Prayer for me is relaxing into the mystery.”
    â€œReally? That’s what prayer is?”
    â€œWell, maybe not for everybody, but it’s not my business how other people pray. To me, prayer is letting go of fear and relaxing into the vast, eternal mystery. I don’t care what you call that mystery—God, consciousness, universe, spirit. Those are all made-up names for the unnamable. All I know is there’s nothing better than that wide-open, opinion-busting, all-things-are-possible, everything’s-OK feeling of prayer.”
    What I want to say but I don’t, because it’s probably not the right time, is this: “Who knows, Maggie, if you decide to forgo the transplant, maybe you’re the lucky one—maybe you’re being called out of this world for glorious reasons, leaving us fools behind to slog our way through another day. Maybe it’s not a tragedy foryour kids. Maybe they’ll spin their grief into strength, maybe you will help them flourish from the other world. Or maybe you’ll choose to go ahead with the transplant and you’ll outlive us all and prove that miracles are possible. Maybe this is all happening for you to finally stop doubting yourself and to step boldly into who you always were meant to be. Maybe you’ll become a world-renowned artist, or you’ll wander away and become a monk. We just don’t know. That’s what I believe. I believe we dwell in mystery, and although that mystery often seems to suck, when I pray, I wake up, and I know that it’s all for something, that nothing is wasted, and it’s all