It began in March with a phone call home. “I've got great news,” I told my wife. Then I read from the front page of the newspaper: “The gene that causes Huntington's disease has been discovered after a decade-long search, sparking hope a cure can be found for the deadly neurological disorder.” Ramona listened, her heart pounding.
As a young teen she learned that Huntington's was in her family and there was a 50-50 chance she would eventually die from it. During the next 20 years, she watched three siblings — all in their 30s — contract the disease, one making the slow and humiliating journey to a nursing home.
And now Ramona had resigned herself to the fact that she had it too. The symptoms were there: depression, lack of sleep, loss of memory, irritability, occasional clumsiness — even a craving for sweets. I kept telling her that each of these could be traced to living with me. This she found amusing for awhile, but every time she stumbled, every time she arrived at the fridge and forgot why she was there, she knew she had Huntington's. So each time I stubbed my toe, I told her about it. Each time I arrived at the fridge and stared blankly at the salad dressing (a daily occurrence), I would inform her. And we would laugh. And sometimes we'd cry.
With the morning paper came the realization that for the first time in history those who were at risk could know their future with a simple blood test. So two months later Ramona was tested. “There's no chance of the tubes getting mixed up, is there?” I asked the nurse. She smiled at my worry, then showed us how the tubes were labelled. I appreciated the method. But I had no idea that limited public interest and even less government funding would make us wait 10 months for the results.
During those months we were surprised by the comfort of God's promises. On the countless nights when we lay in bed, unable to sleep, Bible verses hidden away in my childhood came back to comfort us. “God is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.” (Psalm 46:1) “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to give you hope and a future.” (2 Jeremiah 29:11)
In early January the phone call came. The waiting was over. The verdict was in. We would hear it — on February 14. Was this someone's idea of a cruel joke? I wondered. This was a day for cupids and hearts … not final verdicts.
We followed a doctor down a corridor and into a dimly lit office. Beside an oak desk sat another doctor. Both looked grim. We exchanged nervous greetings. The doctor opened an envelope, examined its contents and kindly said, “Ramona, you have the normal gene.”
“You mean I don't have it?” Ramona was on the edge of her chair.
“You don't have it.”
“I don't?” She was standing now.
When I think of happiness, I think of that moment. I realized that I'd been in the company of something even greater during those 10 months in the valley. You see, during those months, I was often short of happiness, but never joy. Joy doesn't depend on happy endings. On good news or sunny circumstances. Joy comes from knowing that whatever happens, God is good. Whatever happens, God loves me. Whatever happens, we can live forever when we place our trust in Him.
Oh yes, you're wondering about Ramona's symptoms. Well, the doctors attribute them to depression, but she's smiling a little more lately. And she finally admits that most of them can be traced to living with me. I'm wondering though about the craving for pickles and ice cream.
