The news came in the summer of 1969. Multiple sclerosis. It was in the early stages, but there was no cure. It was anyone’s guess how the disease would take its toll. He may live with chronic aching pain. He may lose his vision. He may be wheelchair-bound. Then again, he may not.

“What are you going to do?” my grandmother asked, shaking her head.
“I’m going to marry him,” my aunt said simply. She was already engaged. A wedding was planned for December 1969. 

***

Rebecca Lund met David Otterness in a religion class during her freshman year at Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, Minnesota. It was the spring of 1966, and he was intent on becoming a Lutheran minister. Rebecca—Aunt Becky to me—was on the brink of pursuing a nursing degree. She had long known she wanted to be a nurse, ever since at age four when she heard a man in the church pulpit read a Bible verse in which Jesus blessed those who helped others.

While David was away in Bismarck, North Dakota, completing a year-long pastoral internship, the first signs of the disease started to creep in. A physician, a member of the Bismarck congregation, noticed the young seminary student struggling to maintain his balance when he stood in front of the congregation. His walking was a bit off, too, and he seemed to be having trouble with his vision. The physician approached David, suggesting he undergo some tests.

As a nursing student back in St. Paul, my aunt knew the prognosis with any chronic disease is uncertain. A person had to live with the illness for a while to know how consuming—mild or severe, slow- or fast-moving—it was. Becky knew that two- thirds of MS patients would never be confined to a wheelchair. She knew bladder and kidney infections were common causes of death in MS patients, but she also knew strong antibiotics could treat such infections. She knew symptoms would likely come and go, so at times the disease would be in remission.

Her nursing experience had shown her first-hand how families react to chronic illness. Clearly, ongoing, committed support was key to carrying people through tough times. She and David had spoken frequently about promises. She had committed her life to him when she accepted the engagement ring. She knew the road ahead might be difficult; he even warned her it would be. But she was soon to become a registered nurse. Who better to care for someone with a chronic disease? It was quite simple, really: She loved David. And because of that, she was determined to care for him. Still, they prayed for a miracle of healing.

The wedding took place in December, 1969, as planned. It was the day my aunt had imagined since she was a little girl: a big church, a gleaming white gown, an unforgettable celebration of love. Six months after the wedding, David was ordained.

He began his ministry with a cane. A short time later, he fell and broke his leg. As his balance became more unsteady, he had to depend on a walker, a change he all but refused to accept. Late one night, he broke his hip while walking to the bathroom unaided. He returned home from the hospital one day before his  fortieth birthday. He would never walk again.

Yet, for my aunt, who was single-handedly raising her and David’s son and working part time as an obstetrics nurse, the worst was still to come. Slowly, David’s ability to chew and swallow worsened. Becky paid close attention to the texture of his food, sometimes cutting it into tiny pieces so he wouldn’t choke on it. Always, she had to be vigilant when he ate.

Eventually, David’s swallowing worsened so that my aunt pureed everything he ate. It was a time-consuming job that demanded much of her energy. It was important to her that his meals still tasted good. She researched food processers, learning by trial and error which foods could be pureed successfully (instant mashed potatoes, some vinegar and mustard with dried onion made a pretty good potato salad) and which foods couldn’t (bread gummed up into a sticky ball).

David’s condition was quickly headed toward requiring round-the-clock care. My aunt knew she needed reinforcements. But how could she afford help on a part-time salary and the small monthly disability check? A nursing home cost $6,000–$7,000 per month. The MS Society offered her $1,000 in respite aid per year. She could receive government-funded care if she enrolled him in hospice, but hospice patients were qualified as having less than six months left to live. Because of her extraordinary care—she had taken classes in how to change a patient’s position, how to transfer a patient from a bed to a wheelchair, and how to handle incontinence—David was nowhere near that timeline. She could pay a home health aide on a very limited basis. But more and more, she relied on my grandma, a retired nurse, to care for David while she worked. While Becky helped bring new life into the world on the fifth floor of Immanuel St. Joseph’s, her husband lay at home, with hardly a hint of life in him.

Finally, Becky faced the hardest truth of all: the longer she provided David with exceptional care, the longer he would live, which meant the MS would only get worse. Was she doing the right thing by keeping him alive? If she didn’t do everything she could to keep him alive, would she regret it forever?

And how could she share those thoughts with David? His ability to think and communicate had severely diminished. How could she approach such a complex issue in the simplest words? Kneeling beside him, she did her best:

“David, we know your MS is severe. Whenever you get sick, I take you to the hospital so you can get better. The next time you get sick, do you want to go to the hospital to get more medicine? Or do you want me to take care of you at home?”

“You take care of me,” he answered.
“You might die because you won’t have medicine to help you,” she said. “Do you understand?”
He nodded.

***

Ten months later, my aunt held David’s hand and whispered hymns to him as he died. When I cried, I cried for Aunt Becky. I had grown up thousands of miles away from her. I only ever knew her husband in his weakest state. I cried for my aunt’s unshakable commitment she had honored for forty years. I cried because David’s death meant that she could start living again.

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