NOTE: this is part of an ongoing series of posts about my journey with prostate cancer. So far the posts include:
1. January 30: “When Cancer Comes Calling”
2. February 16 – “Waiting in Mutual Ambush”
3. March 11 – “My Prostate is History” (on the surgery)
4. March 13 – “Letters Before Surgery” (saying goodbyes)
5. March 14 – “Cancer Prognosis: Uncertain Grace”
6. March 22 – “Post-Surgery Incontinence”

Letters Before Surgery: My Healing Began … with Goodbye
David R. Weiss – March 13, 2025

I spent last Tuesday (the day before my cancer surgery) getting ready. Running a few last errands, packing my overnight bag, and reviewing my surgery prep list and the “what to expect” handouts. And—entertaining the possibility that something could go badly wrong.

This was not doom and gloom on my part. It was simple and merciful realism. Things could go badly wrong. From the discovery of more extensive cancer than indicated by scans to a bad reaction to the anesthesia, from tragic surgical mishap to massive bodily crisis (heart attack or stroke), things go wrong. For no good (or bad) reason. They just do. And as I considered these assorted very small but very real possibilities, I was less fretting about me than those who would be dealing with my absence.

And so, on Tuesday afternoon, alongside my busyness, I paused to write letters. Eleven of them. Ten went out by mail; the last one I placed with my morning clothes, so that when I got dressed at 5am on Wednesday after my shower, I could nestle it on Margaret’s pillow. For her to find at the end of her very long day at the hospital.

Each letter began, “By the time you are reading this, hopefully …” And then acknowledged, “But just in case …” And then briefly named some truth about my unique appreciation for them. And concluded with words like these, “So, if anything goes awry during my surgery, I want my last message to you to say …  And I love you.”

Eleven. To Margaret. My dad. My two sisters. My six children. And Tachianna. I could’ve written many more; there is no shortage of people for whom I care dearly! But it was a busy day. And these were the eleven persons I was determined to ensure that they heard my love at the last—no matter what.

I drove them over to the Post Office before supper. Bathed in calm. So much of the next 24 hours would lie outside my control. But these envelopes carried my “just-in-case” Goodbye—and that was enough for me to feel ready.

Of course, as we all know now, I am recovering on the far side of surgery. I came home as planned on Thursday. Our supper table was filled, every night for the next five days, with meals brought in by friends. (No small feat given that we’re both vegetarian and Margaret is additionally gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free!) And sufficient leftovers for lunches. We received countless messages of care from near and far. We felt ourselves—both of us—very well-wrapped in love. My healing cradled by an entire community.

But that healing began on Tuesday afternoon, when I chose to decide that even if the worst came true, the last word would belong to love.

It’s true, countless occasions in all our lives, present the possibility of our unexpected demise. And I don’t see myself writing “just-in-case” letters again anytime soon. But I’m glad I honored the impulse last week. Speaking of gladness, I’ll be oh so glad when my catheter comes out tomorrow, and I expect my urologist will offer me a few words about my prognosis. That’s for another day.

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David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.