Is This the Best God Could Do?

Copyright © 2021 Sarah Tirri.

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models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Cover design: Sarah Tirr

Artist: Daniel Jankowski

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6079-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6080-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date:  02/19/2021

Pleas visit my blog: www.sarahtirri.com

Contact the author: sarahtirri@gmail.com

CONTENTS

Chapter One

In the Beginning

Chapter Two

Linda’s Leaving

Chapter Three

The End Times

Chapter Four

The Pied Piper

Chapter Five

Human Smallness

Chapter Six

Heaven, Redemption and Jesus Christ

Chapter Seven

Hells Bells

Chapter Eight

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. It’s a Random Life, Ho-Ho-Ho!

Chapter Nine

The Word

Chapter Ten

…and man created God

Chapter Eleven

Revamp it!

Chapter Twelve

Morality, Sin and the Catholic Church

Chapter Thirteen

Fanaticism of Islam

Chapter Fourteen

God Has Favorites

Chapter Fifteen

Behold: A Godless World

Chapter Sixteen

Big God – Little Human

Chapter Seventeen

Separate and Suffering

Chapter Eighteen

Godlike

Chapter Nineteen

Alternative Thinking: A Head-On Collision with the Bogey Man

Chapter Twenty

You Either Believe in a God of Magnificence or You Don’t

CHAPTER ONE

In the Beginning

I was in a bad mood, pre-menstrual and bitchy. I had turned my cold back on my husband the night before. I had yelled at my kids. I felt disgruntled, and negative thoughts plagued me. I couldn’t be bothered to change the dogs’ water bowl, and I couldn’t be bothered to shower. I remained on the couch and looked to escape. I turned on the TV and watched the desperate or maladjusted reveal themselves to Jerry Springer. I watched the news: an assortment of third-world scarcity, including a load of sub-Saharan children who really didn’t care whether they lived or died, first-world surplus, deadly epidemics, warfare, terrorist attacks, suicide bombings, opiate addiction, youth rebellion, earthquakes, overcrowded schools, homelessness, identity theft, global warming, stock market uncertainly, out of control brush fires, unemployment, illegal immigration, and political corruption. It was all depressing. I then changed the channel and watched a surgeon prepare to separate Siamese-twins while their mother agonized over the fact that she’d had to choose. I changed it again and saw live coverage of a prison riot, and then I watched a documentary about the binge-drinking culture that is cursing my motherland. Entertainment Television was my last stop; here I learned about Hollywood’s most acrimonious divorces…………….What a crap planet this is, I said to God out loud. Is this the best you could do?

CHAPTER TWO

Linda’s Leaving

It began as a normal May morning until I telephoned my mother’s doctor in the United Kingdom. I wanted to find out the results of the tests she had recently undergone. My mother had previously been diagnosed with a minor stroke.

Hello. My name is Sarah Tirri, and I’m calling from Florida to find out the results of a recent MRI scan that my mother had.

Hold the line. I’ll put you through to radiology.

Radiology, can I help you.

Yes, I’m calling to find out the results of an MRI scan my mother had recently.

Are you related to the patient?

Yes I am. I am her daughter.

We are not allowed to give the results out over the phone. You will have to make an appointment to see the doctor.

Well, that’s a little tricky. I’d like to talk to the doctor over the phone. You see, I live in America and am not able to just pop in.

Oh. I get it. Well, hang on a minute. I’ll find out whether somebody can help you.

Hello, this is Dr. Sherman’s nurse. How can I help?

Yes. I’m calling to find out the results of an MRI scan my mother had recently.

Your name please?

Sarah Tirri.

Mrs. Tirri, it’s not hospital policy to discuss a patient’s medical diagnosis over the telephone.

I understand that. But I live in Florida, and although I can fly to England if I need to, I have three young children, and my youngest is doing her first ballet recital, and my dog is in heat. My husband can watch my children, but he has this tricky deposition to get through two-hundred miles away in Miami. And if my mother’s doing all right, I should like to plan my trip in a week or so.

I see. Let me try and locate the doctor who’s treating your mother.

Thank you.

After several minutes, another female voice came on the line. Hello, this is Dr. Clifford-Jones’ nurse.

Hello. My name is Sarah Tirri. I am calling from America and need to know the results of an MRI scan my mother had yesterday.

Well, Dr. Clifford-Jones is in surgery at the moment. I’ll see if there is another doctor who can help you.

Thank you. I lit a cigarette.

Operator. Where can I direct your call?

Shit! No! Operator? No! I’m sorry operator. I think I got disconnected. I was on hold.

Who were you holding for?

I don’t know; somebody who can help me.

Who was the last person you were speaking to?

Dr. Clifford Jones’ nurse.

Hang on, madam. I’ll try and re-connect you.

Thanks.

Hello, this is Doctor Clifford-Jones’ nurse.

Yes, this is Sarah Tirri again. I just spoke with you and…

Oh. Mrs. Tirri. Good. I thought I’d lost you. Hold the line. I am going to connect you to Dr. Jacob. The line went dead again for a few moments.

Hello Mrs. Tirri, Dr. Marcus Jacob here. Um, the nurse told me that you were looking to know the results of the MRI scan that your mother had Monday. Usually we don’t discuss the results over the phone, but I understand you live in America. It’s not hospital policy, and I want you to know that, but under the circumstances, I think I can make an exception.

Is my mum okay? I asked. There was a weighty pause.

What is it that you know of your mother’s condition, Mrs. Tirri?

Well, she had what was diagnosed as a transient ischemic attack a little over two months ago. I understand this to be a minor stoke, and Dr. Clifford-Jones suggested another scan as a precaution but didn’t seem unduly worried.

There was another pause, but briefer this time. Well, I am not sure how else to put this, but your mother didn’t have a stroke. She has a massive brain tumor, and it is untreatable.

A brain tumor?

Your mother’s brain tumor is untreatable, Mrs. Tirri. She had an MRI two months ago, and a brain tumor was not detected at that time. Her cancer grew so quickly. I have never seen anything like it. I am so sorry.

I was shaking now, but my voice remained steady. What about chemotherapy?

I’m sorry, but that won’t make her better. There is nothing we can do to help her.

"How long has she got? How long has my mother got to live?

The tumor will kill her within weeks.

Weeks? How many weeks?

At the rate it’s growing, a month—two—tops. I hate to tell you this dreadful news over the telephone. This must be awful for you.

Yes. It is. It’s not your fault… I’m not quite sure what else to say. It’s awful, isn’t it? I’m going to go now. I have to go. Thank you. I hung up the phone and lit another cigarette.

It wasn’t a minor stroke; it was a death sentence. I was stunned. I ground out my cigarette and lit another. My beloved mother was dying. She was going to bloody well die.

It took a few surreal hours before the news started sinking in, and then an appalling thought began to take form: My mother had no idea she was so ill, and I would have to tell her that, this time next month, she’d be dead… And so my husband and I made the inevitable, this cannot be happening trip to England. The process of trying to come to terms with the enormity of what was happening was alien and terrifying. We landed, groggy and apprehensive, and drove towards the hospital over the Sussex Downs. I tried to compose myself before seeing my mother and practiced many a serene, comforting smile. The hospital had recently been under major renovation, and its big new wing could be seen a mile away, but the neurological unit had been relegated to original building, which was tucked behind the Accident and Emergency Department. It was a typical Victorian affair: low ceilings, exposed plumbing, and peeling paintwork. The cooking smells and the vague noise of invisible dripping water added to the ambience, and so did Prince Charming’s doubtful countenance. My husband was used to American hospitals with air conditioning, automatic doors, and faux greenery—a plush Hilton-kind of sterility. I found myself reassuring him that this was the top neurological unit in the country, but I could tell from his expression that he wouldn’t have a tooth removed in this joint.

My brother was waiting for us in the lobby, and the nurse directed us to our mother, who was sharing a ward with three other women. I cheerily greeted her and told her that her hair looked shiny and her cornflower blue nightgown suited her complexion. Well, Sarah seems unruffled, I could feel her ascertain. Things can’t be that bad. Or maybe she knew the truth but stopped herself from saying, Why the false joviality, Sarah? For fuck’s sake I’m dying here. Be yourself. We haven’t got much time left.

My brother and my husband stood uneasily, hoping for a diversion: a nurse, a phone call, an earthquake, the tea trolley, a power outage, anything. I sat on the edge of my mother’s bed and watched as she desperately tried to glean information from the various hospital staff whose job it was to pretend to know nothing at all. I reassured her that the doctors were going to meet with us at noon. She immediately looked at the clock. It was 11:55. I told her we would come right back and let her know the prognosis. I left the ward, my brother and husband expounding relief in tow.

Although the eminent neurosurgeon with a double-barreled surname had actually misdiagnosed my mother’s condition, my brother and I, for some strange reason, decided to leave her health in his questionable, but hopefully capable hands. Maybe he hadn’t seen what any other neurosurgeon would also have not seen. Maybe diagnosing her with a stroke was the correct course of action. Maybe neurosurgeons with impressive surnames deserved their eminence, but they didn’t deserve the rank of magician.

The doctor pointed across the room at about a dozen x-ray-type pictures tucked behind illuminated glass. My mother’s brain was displayed in various poses. We stared ominously.

Betraying acute discomfort by his tone and his fidgeting, the doctor talked about the cancerous mass that he hadn’t detected two months previously. He then prepared himself for a tirade of questions: Is there any hope? Is there a chance that you got it wrong again? Are you sure? Is it definitely malignant? Why won’t chemo work? What is radiation? What have you told my mother? What would you do if she was your mother?

In a last-ditch attempt to avoid the inevitable, the neuro-surgeon gave us a brief reprieve. There apparently remained a zillion-to-one chance that the tumor wasn’t malignant. It was decided that one last biopsy would be prudent, and the procedure was scheduled for the following Wednesday. We were told that the odds of winning the lottery were better. But this act of denial was something for which we were grateful. My mother was dying, and the biopsy was irrelevant. But because this micro-chance represented the best prospect of a miracle, we all went along with the charade.

During this moment of reprieve, my mother willed things to get better. The nurses knew the truth, and so did the people who loved her. My mother found our evasiveness annoying, but she didn’t want to face the truth either. The next three days drifted by: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. My mother saw family members she hadn’t seen for a while, and she tried to stay cheerful and optimistic. I played my part well, adding credence to the theater in the same way that any talented actress might.

Wednesday finally arrived, and although I didn’t know it then, this would be the last time I would see my mother as I knew her. Anesthesia came first. Then her scalp was shaved. Next her head was clamped in a steel vice and her skull was penetrated by a drill-bit strong enough to bore through bone, after which the doctors scraped away a piece of the barnacle that had attached itself to the side of her brain. The specimen of cancer would then be sent away for analysis, and this would give us a couple more days.

The futile brain biopsy that we had all so readily agreed to accelerated my mother’s decline, which I suppose happens when part of your brain gets hacked away. My brother and I had not considered the implications of invasive neurosurgery, and neither of us had considered how compromised our mother’s immune system had become. I don’t know how brutal the procedure actually was, but I do know that our mother was never the same again. In retrospect, there are two things I regret in my life, agreeing to the biopsy and not sending my mother more flowers.

The biopsy took three days to analyze, after which we were asked to meet with the doctor. His expression was solemn, and nobody said that much because nothing had changed. The doctor shuffled some paperwork and sighed in empathy. His job was over, and he shook our hands. It was now time to face our mother, and my brother and I walked towards her ward. I shall never forget that walk.

Mark and I sat on either side of my mother’s bed. She was leaning forward expectantly. The doctor had already told my mother that the biopsy’s results were not favorable, but because she had just been drilled through her head, she found processing information rather difficult. Her big, brown, beautiful eyes met mine. Tears stung as I heard myself say, Things are not good, Mum. My brother and I couldn’t bring ourselves to say the D-word. But we didn’t need to.

So it’s curtains, then, is it? my mother whispered. The pain on her children’s faces confirmed her worst fears. My mother let out the breath she had been holding in for the last six days and started whimpering like a baby.

She was soon shipped off to the hospice to die, and, writhing in the grimness of it all, I flew back and forth between the U.S. and England. The woman who had given birth to me was leaving me behind. She was leaving me. She was going to bloody well leave me! You selfish bitch Sarah, I said to myself. It’s not all about you. What about her? Look at her!

I hated walking into the hospice. I hated seeing my mother sitting in the bay window with a tartan blanket over her knee. I hated watching her flip through magazines that were upside-down. I hated watching her manufacture serenity in an attempt to ward off dread. I hated watching her scoff food into her mouth. (She had been pumped with steroids and her appetite was through the roof.) She even ate the core of her tomato. She had never done that before. She had always been a delicate, finicky eater, choosy and selective. Now she was a savage, attacking whatever was set before her. The steroids had made her face puff up too. Her jaw line had extended, making her look mannish. I dreaded seeing her, and I dreaded the thought of not seeing her.

The tumor was as ravenous. In its desire to devour her from the inside out, it coursed through my mother so rapidly that the doctors told us it was the worst tumor they had ever seen. The massive lump of cancer began paralyzing my mother, first immobilizing her muscles, taking away the use of her right hand and then