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.
