Losing Jeseca: How One Man Lost Love But Not Hope

By Jon Graves

Jeseca was the dream wife. She was gorgeous, sexy and athletic; extremely talented, wise, yet humble; fun; energetic; supportive. Best of all she loved the Lord with all her heart. She was the soul of our family, and it was her friendship, love and support that helped shape me into the man I am today.

Needless to say, the most difficult moment of my life came when I kissed her hand for the last time—the hand I held as she drew her last breath.

The first time she smiled at me, my heart skipped a beat; the same beat it skipped each time she gazed back at me with her beautiful blue eyes. We met at a golf course, fell in love shortly afterward, and were married nine months later. In our 11 years of marriage, we grew to trust and love each other more each day. And we dreamed of conquering the world in our own unique way—she would become the most recognizable portrait artist in America while I played on the PGA Tour. Life was good.

Now that’s not to say we didn’t have our challenges. Every marriage does. We just didn’t allow them to overtake who we were together. We believed in us, and we believed in a mighty God who promised to make all things good if we would simply put Him first. With that, we were able to rise above nearly every obstacle thrown at us.

Then in the summer of 2003, nearly two years after a mini-vacation to see her family was cut short due to a tennis ball-size lump under her jaw, our lives took on a different direction than we’d planned, and our relationship and faith were put to the test.

The bomb drops
When we were originally told she might have cancer, our initial thought was that God would use it to reach people for Him. We were young and ambitious, and believed wholeheartedly in the dreams and desires that God had given us together. Of course our reaction to the actual diagnosis was less than enthusiastic. The transition from might have to did have was heavy. And the outlook was dire.

She had what the doctors called the most advanced, localized case of cancer they’d ever seen. What began as a lump under her jaw became an invasive scourge on her body—18 tumors—affecting every region of her neck.

Our oncologist, a kindhearted man who loved with Jeseca the moment he met her, found it hard to believe she was alive, and opted not to predict how long she might have left. But he promised to give it his best shot, and focused on the goal that Jeseca would one day see her grandchildren. And then he issued a stern command to me: “Don’t leave her. Most men leave when things get hard, and women lose hope. In this business, the people who die are the people who lose hope.”

Men leave when things get hard. It blew me away. That wasn’t an option for me, though. I loved her too much to leave her side, and our future together was on the line. So with high hopes and an amazing God by our side, we began a four-year campaign to beat back an incredibly stubborn (and rare) form of cancer.

It wasn’t easy. The best chance for survival comes with an early diagnosis. When we found out that it was indeed cancer, she was already at Stage IV, the final stage of cancer before death. We found out late in the game, and radical steps had to be taken to save her life.

Over the first seven months, she underwent an aggressive campaign of two simultaneous chemotherapies followed by seven weeks of daily radiation treatments, after which she had a radical neck dissection. All went well, and it looked as if they had successfully rid her neck of the disease after the first year and a half. Unfortunately, there was another site that the doctors had become concerned about.

Halfway through that first year, we noticed that a miniscule lesion (or tumor) had formed on her liver. The chemotherapies she was taking for the tumors in her neck had no effect on this tumor. As time went on, and as the doctors continued to scratch their heads, this 3-millimeter spot grew to envelop her entire liver; and then spread to her chest, lungs, eye, jaw, lymph nodes, and finally back into her neck. It was baffling, but we never let go of the hope we had in God, or of the dreams we still believed would come true.

She never stopped smiling
Jesus was Jeseca’s strength, and she sought His face even in the worst of times—in the early hours of the morning when she could give Him her heart without distraction.

On August 15, 2007, she was scheduled to have the second surgery in the span of a week to relieve the edema that had pooled around her stomach as a result of the tumor growth in her liver. I’d been working the midnight shift for a month or two so I could take care of her and the boys during the day, and as I ran through the morning’s dishes I began what had become a routine prayer over the years. “Lord, please guide the doctor’s hand in surgery and give him the wisdom he needs to treat her.”

For years my prayer remained the same, and it was all about me. “Please tell the doctors what they need to know so they can give her back to me at the end of the day.”

On this day, though, the day she died, my prayer changed. We’d come a long way down this road together—Jeseca, God and I—and God had proven Himself to us. So as she carefully prepared to leave for the hospital, I knelt down and admitted that I was tired of praying out of fear. “Whatever happens today, I will always trust You,” I prayed.

Less than five hours later—clutching Jeseca’s hand in the emergency room, urging her to come out of the coma into which she’d been slipped during the procedure—I watched helplessly as her vital signs plummeted and she drew her last labored breath. Hours later, I understood, at least in His own sovereign way, that God had finished His work in Jeseca. Now it was my turn, and my prayer had just become the impetus for the work God wanted to do in my heart.

Whatever happens today, I will always trust you.
My life changed instantly, and I had major decisions to make. The most critical was whether or not I would bring the boys up to say goodbye to the woman who had become everything to them: their mother, best friend, teacher, confidant and the protector of their hearts.

I look back on it now and realize that the decision should have been easy. In the midst of the emergency room atmosphere with physicians, nurses, caseworkers and hospice staff pooling around me, somehow it wasn’t. So I asked for five minutes alone with Jeseca, and in that five minutes I understood the anguish with which Job must have prayed as he ripped his clothes and cried out after hearing that his family had just perished.

As I knelt down to pray and begin a new, lonely walk with God in the middle of the emergency room, I knew that the only opportunity for the boys to heal was to allow them to say goodbye. I had no idea what I would say or how I would hold it together when they got there, but I trusted that God would give me the right words at the moment I needed them. He did.

Under the shade of a small tree outside the emergency room, I tearfully explained that their mom died there in the hospital and was now with Jesus in Heaven. They were scared and confused, but brave enough to follow me, hand-in-hand, into the emergency room where they gave their mom their last hug goodbye.

Two hours later, after walking around the hospital campus chatting and looking for lizards—something we’d done each day during her second round of radiation treatments—we left for home without the woman who made our family complete. Walking in the front door, exhausted and broken, we huddled together on the living room floor. With the audio Bible playing and my arms wrapped around them, the boys fell asleep within the hour. I cried until morning.

Life after Jeseca
Life was a blur for the next two weeks. I had to handle the funeral arrangements, burial and memorial services; enroll the boys in school; and think about going back to work. In the process, I had to make the transition from husband and father to single dad, and I had to do it while the wound was raw and deep.

I’ve juggled two goals ever since: taking care of the boys and taking care of my heart. There’s been many a night when I’ve stayed up until 4 or 5 a.m. to listen to the music we enjoyed together, or to go through our journals and try to deal with the disparities between what we’d hoped for and the current reality. It’s been grueling, and I’ve lost much sleep, but my heart has come back to life with the help of a mighty, loving God. And I’ve watched the boys begin to grow into extraordinary, humble young men.

The first few months were rough. Life was drastically different, not only because we’d lost their mom. Now they were attending school for the first time, and as opposed to every other day in their lives, they didn’t get to spend every waking moment together. They had to deal with their pain separately. It tore me apart just to think about it, but as with everything else we’ve experienced over the Last four years, God took care of it all when the time was right. Their hearts are healing now, too, and He’s brought the three of us together in a way I never dreamed was possible.

Looking ahead
So what now? That’s a question I’ve asked myself many, many times in the wee hours of the night. And what was the point to all of this? And what about that great work God was supposed to do in people’s hearts? Perhaps He only needed to work on 1.

It’s been 10 months since Jeseca died. Among other things, I’ve come to see that I had absolutely no idea how much Jeseca had to do, and how much she was actually able to accomplish each day. Frankly, I don’t think any man has a good enough grasp on how much women do until they’re faced with the situation. It's laughable to think back on how far off I was when I would ask her why she didn’t get to a small task during the day—seriously laughable. I get it now. Guys, believe me: your wives are amazing!

Do I have any regrets? Sure, but probably not what you’d think. We had a great marriage and a great friendship—better than most, or so I’ve been told. But I’ve come to realize that although I loved Jeseca like crazy and poured all of me into her, I could have loved her more.

I could have loved her in the small things of life. I could have read to her more while she lay on the couch with her legs up. I could have helped her more around the house; or at least I could have done it with a better attitude. I could have encouraged her every moment of every day to spend more time on her art than on my meals. Those are the things that make life richer—the things that make a marriage worth dying for.

I know I got some of them right, but I could have done better. Every man can. But it’s a choice we have to make every day to serve and not to be served. If we can do that, we will reap the greatest earthly reward God gave to man: the love and devotion of a woman’s heart.

Take my word for it. There’s no greater treasure in the entire world.

For more information on Jon Graves and his crazy life, or to read his weekly account of Jeseca’s fight against cancer, visit his website at www.jongraves.com.