Just Live through the Night

by Steven R. Deam

What really scared me was the fact that even if I did wake up again, I might not remember anything—including my own parents.

“Okay, now what’s your name?”

“Steve Deam.”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m in the hospital.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I have cancer.”

“Okay, that’s good for now.”

Then another voice says, “Mr. and Mrs. Deam, your son has a very serious condition. We’re going to …” I stop listening for a while. Condition, what a funny word to use. My mind wanders back to the first time I heard it, about two months before.

“Mrs. Deam, and you too, Steve, I need you to listen very carefully. Steve, you have a condition known as acute myelocytic leukemia.” I couldn’t focus much on what Dr. Hill said after that. All I could think of was how this was going to affect my life. Leukemia. What exactly did that mean anyway?

The nurse interrupts my thoughts again. The questions come just as before.

“Okay, one more time, what’s your name?”

“Steve Deam.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the hospital.”

“Why are you here?”

“Leukemia.”

“Good. Now, Steve, we need to keep you awake. If you feel like you’re going to fall asleep, let somebody know. Now, what is it you’re going to do?”

“Let somebody know if I’m going to fall asleep.”

“That’s right. It’s very important that you don’t fall asleep, until we get some things figured out.”

I am lying on a hospital bed with IV poles all around me and more arriving by the second. The nurse scurries around the room trying to find something. I see the doctor who is talking to my parents. I can just barely make out what he’s saying.

“It is very serious,” he says. “Right now we are at a critical time. He is not getting the vital nutrients he needs to survive.”

My thoughts drift back to what I consider day one as he continues talking. Dr. Hill had just finished his technical description of leukemia. He said I would have to go to the hospital the next day. I was amazed that my mom could hold back the tears I knew were there.

“Wake up, Steve!”

The nurse blasts me out of my thoughts. I guess I fell asleep without even knowing it. “Listen, I know it’s going to be hard for you,” the nurse explains, “but you have to try. You’re going to be very tired, but staying awake might be the only thing that saves your life.”

“I’ll try harder.”

The doctor is still talking to my parents. “Well, what happens is that his organs will start to shut down one at a time as his body tries to redirect its limited resources to the most vital areas.”

I can see my mom fighting back the tears again as the doctor continues his explanation. “The biggest problem, though, is that he’s not getting enough oxygen to remain functional. Steve will be extremely tired, but we must keep him awake. If he falls asleep, his body will slow down even further. Most likely we will not be able to wake him up.”

I look over at my dad. He too is fighting back the tears. Again my thoughts go back to day one. My mom and I didn’t say much on the drive home. When we got home, we went inside to see my dad. For the first time in my life, I saw my dad cry. I remember feeling his strong embrace. Somehow, I knew everything would be okay.

“What is your name?”

“Steve Deam.”

“Where are you?”

“Yankee Stadium.” The nurse looks at me with alarm.

“And why are you here?”

“I’m the starting pitcher for the Yankees.”

“Steve, now is not the time for jokes. Now answer me seriously, do you know where you are?”

“Yes, I’m in the hospital.”

“Why?”

“So I can get better.”

As always, I try to see my parents through the crowd. The doctor is still talking to them. I can’t tell now if it has been all eternity or just five minutes.

“Right now your son is changing. He’s losing cognitive thought. We still haven’t been able to get his oxygen levels up high enough. It has been a long enough time that he is beginning to have brain damage. I need you to be prepared for tomorrow. Your son will be a different person then. Due to the damage, he won’t be able to remember much at all. He won’t be able to speak as he can now and he won’t be able to understand others talking. Since the brain controls all motor abilities, he won’t be able to walk. Now, the thing that will be hardest, both for you two as his parents and for Steve as your son, is that he most likely will not be able to recognize you in the morning. The brain damage is simply too severe for us to control …”

He continues, but I am no longer interested in what he’s saying. This is too much. I can deal with losing the ability to talk or walk, but to not recognize my own parents is more than I could bear.

For the first time since I was told that I have cancer I almost ask, Why me? But even before my mind can conjure up the question, I feel something. I’m not sure why, or exactly what it is, but it calms me and lets me know I will be okay. Despite everything else that is happening, I feel an assurance coming through the chaos of the room, communicating clearly to me. It reminds me of a blessing I had previously received which said I would have the opportunity to go on a mission and help others to know about the gospel, if I desired to do this great work.

I had already had the promise given to me that I would live. But what about the complications the doctor spoke of? That would have terrified me, except for the strong assurance of something else. The best way I can describe the impression I felt is with the words of the prophet Isaiah:

“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness” (Isa. 41:10).

Somehow I knew I would be okay. The night continued in a state of desperation and chaos, but it didn’t frighten me anymore. I had been given a gift from my Heavenly Father that superseded anything the doctors might say or do. I knew that I was in my Savior’s care. I had been given the faith to survive.

Five years later, I did serve a mission as I was promised. And I know now, as I did that night, that Jesus Christ is my Savior. I will always recall the horror it was to even think of losing the memory of my parents. Yet so many in the world have truly forgotten their Heavenly Father, and that is a terrible loss.

It has been my privilege to share my knowledge and testimony of Jesus Christ and His Church. I have been blessed to be able to see people find their Father in Heaven for the first time and learn of His love for them.

Illustrated by Richard Russell