Keeping the Dream

He wants the chemo. They’re sending him home, maybe today, at the latest tomorrow. He’s to recuperate while here the rest of this week and weekend. Next week, he’ll see his oncologist and the situation will be assessed then. The plan is to start the R.I.C.E. treatment on him as soon as possible.

It’s amazing the look of peace that came over his face, when he knew he’d still have a chance to fight. He totally understands the risk, but to him, if he has one chance, no matter how small, he wants to take it.

My sister told me when she was battling her cancer, that she had always thought, that there would be a point where if she could no longer live with dignity, as she perceived it back then, and if she became more of a drain on other people’s time and resources, she’d want to quick fighting and gracefully let nature take its course.

She could not understand nor agree with people who hung on for so long, and seemingly futilely…until it happened to her, until it was her life. And suddenly, just one more sunset, just one more moment with her family, one more ice cream cone or beam of sunlight streaming through the window was worth fighting for.

So there’s no hospice for Kenny at this time. There’s the “Bridge Program”, where he will come home with continued medical treatment with the intent toward further treatment and recovery. It’s what he has set in his mind, his goal to accomplish.

There’s no judgment for those who say “enough”. But there’s no judgment for those who refuse to take that path, either.

A disease can take many things away from you. What it should never take away is your right to choose. It’s such a fundamental part of being human. And cancer doesn’t change that.

It is morning. My child is still asleep on this quiet morning. I am thinking of my friend who lies in the hospital.

Six weeks ago, I discovered the passing away of one dear friend. Today I face the task of going into the hospital to tell another dear friend, one whom I have known for over half my life, with whom I had my first two children, his options. I spoke with his oncologist Friday. They are not what he wants.

Nor I. Nor the ones who love him.

And I don’t quite know how to feel at this time. My thoughts are so focused on how he feels, and how I can be there for him.

I did weep after leaving the doctor’s office. Actually, it started in his office. But as I found myself driving down strange streets in a fog, I knew where I had to go. I went straight to our local health store to get some ideas of how to take care of him should he come home for hospice.

They may send him home to die, but I and his family will welcome him home to live and receive whatever gifts each present moment gives to us.

We don’t know everything.

But though I don’t judge everything by what I see, I do not deny everything I see either. And what I see now weighs upon my heart with a sadness. His hands were so cold as I held them last night. I am not blind to that spectre that hangs before us.

Even still, I hold open a space for that which may confound me and everyone else.

He deserves that. I will not withhold hope under the pretense of protecting my own heart from disappointment. Nothing will spare this heart from splitting in two when he leaves. So I will not hold back anything I can offer now.

I don’t know what he will do, but I do know what I will do. I will be there for him no matter what. I will be there.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mother and every person who has ever given birth to anything – whether it be a living, breathing person or a dream that insists on a life of its own.