Find out what her dreams are and help her fulfill them.
Wow. So oddly simple yet profound. This was something that I could imagine Jesus saying. It was the opposite of the way I had been trained. It was usually about being nice to somebody and bringing them to church. Then eventually having them join our vision for how we can change the city and the world. But this approach with Marina was all about love. It was about her dreams, not mine.
Months later, Marina and I were praying together. She had held her hands, praying every word with sincerity and urgency. After the prayer, Marina exclaimed, “I’ve never felt an energy like that before.” I said, “Yes, there’s no one like Jesus.” He is the energy above all other energies.
This encounter and my relationship with Marina over the next few years changed me probably more than it changed her. I now saw that the work I was called to do was beyond a uniform or occupational title of pastor or trader or senior adviser. I was called to be a lover and one who authentically serves people. There was no need for me to be point or lead. I needed to be myself. An introvert who, if necessary, could be an extrovert. But no need to sell, or be what some call a “hypepriest.”
All through my life, I realized it was other people who had helped me see who I was, from my mom and sister to my close friendships and now Marina Abramović. My life was beyond Sunday. It was beyond a job title. Jobs are like uniforms or fashion that can help express who we are, but the clothing doesn’t make us. Fashion changes. Jobs change. What I now realized was that the uniform I wear is not my identity. My identity was around something more transcendent, purposeful, significant, and spiritual but not religious. I was called to love others without any ulterior motives or strings attached.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE One Last Kiss
While I was still living in Bangkok, I got a call that shook me.
“Dave, it’s Dad. I’m in the hospital.”
He didn’t sound well. His strong voice, usually brimming with confidence, was noticeably weaker, worn by hardships and choices that he regretted. He paused for a long time, catching his breath, even as he tried to sound normal.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“Son, I got leukemia.”
My father had just turned sixty-five. This was the moment he had been waiting for—he was excited about finally retiring. But now, just when it was his time, he was diagnosed with leukemia.
I felt something grip my heart as I stopped breathing for a moment, trying to fathom what was happening. At this point in our relationship, the past wounds were healing. There was a scar, but no more stinging or pain. The memories of the hurt remained, but I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. I was even connecting with his wife, Carolyn, regularly. She had started treating me like her own son, sometimes even better. I know my mom would have been shocked by how far we’d come. She would have been delighted that my relationship with my father was restored.
I sprang into action mode and created a plan.
“Dad, I’ll fly back home. I’ll stop in California for a moment to see the staff I work with but then hop on over to Arizona to see you in the hospital. I have a close friend named Larry Kwak, who works at MD Anderson. I’ll give him a call. He’s a specialist in lymphoma. But he has connections. He’s like a brother to me. He’s one of Time magazine’s ‘100 Most Influential People.’ I know he can help us.”
“All right, son. Love you, Dave.”
“Hey, Dad, we got this. I’ll be there soon. I love you, Dad.”
On my long flight across the Pacific Ocean, moving from the humid heat of Bangkok to the dry heat of Phoenix, I wondered if my dad was feeling regret. Retirement was within reach, and now he might die the year his retirement was going to kick in.
He and Carolyn had accumulated a couple of houses, a condo in Northern Phoenix, and a beautiful cabin in Strawberry, Arizona. They’d made some modest investments that were paying off. My dad had learned how to save, probably from my mom. He was frugal and never extravagant. His early years living in poverty made him careful with his expenditures. His only real personal splurging was with new cars. He had always loved his cars.
About twenty hours later, I landed in Phoenix, got my rental car, and hustled to the hospital. When I saw Dad, he looked despondent, underneath the white sheets, IV bottle hanging near him on a long pole. He’d already resigned himself to the fact that he might die soon, especially if his body didn’t respond to the radiation and chemo treatments.
I approached him with a smile, standing close to him as he sat up in his bed. I tried to be as positive as I could, hoping that the retirement he’d dreamed of was still possible for him.
“Hey, Dad, we can beat this thing. Don’t give up. I’m sure my friend can help us. He’s been a friend for a long time. I already talked to him and he’s checking on some possible treatment options and doctors that can treat your leukemia. He used to be considered a quack with his immunotherapy experiments, but now he’s considered to be at the forefront of cancer research. People are actually getting healed of their cancer. He’s one of those guys that may win a Nobel Prize someday.”
“That’s great, son.”
Larry came through for us. Larry got my dad into one of the treatment programs at MD Anderson in Houston, a world-renowned cancer treatment center. Dad would have some of the leading physicians in the world caring for him. Dad and Carolyn started making regular trips to Houston, and Dad’s health improved dramatically. We were all hopeful. After he had a bone marrow transplant, we continued to see success. He was going to beat this thing.
Then I got a surprising call from Dad after several months of positive news.
“Dave, I’m going to stop going to Houston.”
“What? Why? Dad—you’re getting better. The treatment is working.”
“Carolyn doesn’t want to keep making trips to Houston,” he said as his voice grew quieter. “It’s hard for her.”
Hard for her? Are you serious? I said to myself.
She must have been near him listening to the conversation. This didn’t make sense, so I tried to talk some reason into him. I was thinking that was awfully selfish of Carolyn.
“Dad—it’s up to you. The plan is working. You can’t just stop after you’ve gotten this far.”
“I know, but it’s just too much for Carolyn. She wants to be home. I can continue some treatment at the Mayo Clinic near me… In fact, it’s what we want.”
I didn’t believe it. Dad wouldn’t want this. He just didn’t want Carolyn to feel uncomfortable.
I was upset with Carolyn.
I did all I could to hold back from saying how ridiculously selfish Carolyn sounded. All the negative feelings I’d had for her began to resurface. She started to complain about the cost of the hospital. It seemed her comfort and cost were the main issues, not Dad’s health.
This news was hard on my siblings, too. My brother, Doug, was Dad’s best friend. Dad and Doug shared a relationship that seemed more like brothers than father and son. They could just look at each other and read each other’s mind. I always felt good for Doug that he had this closeness. Doug was also most like Dad in personality. More serious, but a great sense of humor. Focused and determined. Doug was good-looking, tall, and athletic. Doug and Dad had taken up karate together and would often playfully practice moves whenever they were next to each other—in the car, the house, or outdoors as we were walking together. I know this decision prompted by Carolyn was especially hard on Doug. This would be extremely challenging for him when it came to his relationship with her.
Dad continued treatments at the local Mayo Clinic in Phoenix instead of going to Houston. He started to get worse. We naturally blamed Carolyn. She felt it, because she wasn’t able to look at us. She also was now dealing with the potential loss of her confidant and best friend. Dad was her security. She didn’t hang out with too many others, not even her own siblings and son from her first marriage. When we voiced our frustrations to our dad about how selfish we felt she was, he resolutely said:
“It’s not her fault. We both decided this,” reiterating what he had told us earlier.
I nodded my head but totally disagreed. In the back of my mind, I wondered if this was how Dad had interacted with Mom. Did he acquiesce without standing up for what he really believed? Did he suppress how he often felt, leading him to find someone with whom he could better connect?
Dad’s health continued to deteriorate. The doctors let us know that his white blood cell count was continuing to be very high. A typical white blood cell count is in the 4,000 to 11,000 range. For those with leukemia, it can get as high as 100,000 to 400,000. I flew back to see Dad multiple times over the course of the next year. After we moved back to California, it was easier to either drive six hours or take a quick flight to see him in Phoenix.
