It’s still difficult for me to talk about Jan’s sickness and dying.
She texted the family as soon as she was told she had breast cancer. I immediately called her. As Jan writes early in her book, I remarked that she was entering “the fellowship of suffering.” When I said that, I had no idea how much all we who loved her would also be immersed in that fellowship.
Since childhood, whenever Janet hurt, I hurt. I was determined to become one of her greatest helpers, both with her writing and her emotions. We talked daily, finishing each other’s sentences as always, weeping, praying, and still laughing together. I visited her as often as I could; she lived over five hours away. My dear Jim was wonderful, always driving me there.
Jan’s trips to our beach town became more precious, especially when our two older siblings, Carol and George, joined us for one last joyful family reunion in August 2019, during her brief recovery. We went to Rehoboth Beach, ate crabs, and celebrated Carol’s birthday with cake and dancing to her 1950s music. We also celebrated our mother’s 100th birthday in absentia, sharing fun memories from a lifetime of rich family experiences. Jan and Jim stayed another week, and we lounged on the sandy beach as if we would have forever together. In between, always Jan was writing her column, we were discussing it, and she was getting treatments.
The treatments were hard on Jan. Once, during her initial chemo, I was traveling in New York state, and called my twin. I wanted to share my delight in our lovely summer trip, but she was in too much physical distress to talk. I felt helpless to even comfort her as I rode through the rolling countryside. All I could do was pray for her. That felt inadequate. I needed hope. Where was God at such a time as this? Suddenly, we rounded a long curve and came upon a small town, with a sign on the outskirts that read “Welcome to Hope.” Despite everything—Jan’s suffering, our distance from each other, my helplessness—God was with us. Eventually, as Jan promised, “All will be well.”
I was with Jan for ten days in February 2020, after she broke her hip. She remained quite optimistic. It was wonderful to be a practical help. But her cancer spread voraciously. My husband and I returned in May for five days, our last real visit with Twinny. Jan watched one TV show, America’s Got Talent. Together we cheered on the finalist who sang a song about heaven, “I Can Only Imagine.” We sang along and then talked about her dying and heaven. Jan said she could not quite imagine what it would be like. I shared an idea with her, about sailing from this side of existence to the other. On this side we are mourning her, but in heaven a crowd is cheering her on. She elaborated on that vision in her last newspaper column. Faithful to the end, Jan added that Jesus would be rowing her boat and pressing her close on her journey.
Jan’s dying will remain for now a private experience. Jim and I were allowed to be there. Once I was alone with her except for her “adopted” Kenyan granddaughter, Melody. Thinking of Jan’s last column, I quietly sang a song from our youth and that Methodist Youth Fellowship retreat where we sang songs on the lake: “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore.” Melody noticed that although she seemed unconscious, Jan turned her head toward me and hummed along. She was on her way to that other shore. I know I will see her again in the “twinkling of an eye” (1 Cor. 15:52).
Marilyn Watrous Emmanuel is the twin sister of Jan Woodard, author of Texting Through Cancer.
Read more about Jan Woodard:
What Jan Woodard Was Like (Part 1)
Loading more...