Friday, May 11, 2007

Retroactive Entry: On My Way Home After the Initial Diagnosis

3/21/07, 12:45am

The Greyhound isn’t too crowded tonight. I have two seats to myself, at least until Pittsburgh. The usual suspects on board. The ‘terns were so thoughtful of me tonight. Colin made some homemade granola bars for me to take on the trip. Someone pulled together a homemade card, which everyone signed. Everyone prayed for me before Jonathan drove me to the station. And we barely got lost. When we were praying; it felt like it was for someone else; like I was eavesdropping on someone else’s misfortune. I’ve felt emotionally disconnected from a lot of this thus far, and knowing my own emotional unavailability, that is one of my cardinal fears. Oh… in case I didn’t mention it, my Dad has brain cancer. Again, it feels unreal. My Dad? Mine? The same Dad I just saw at Christmas. Was the cancer growing then? Was it multiplying as we opened presents? As we ate? Was it plotting his demise under our noses?

I started writing Dad’s eulogy this morning. I am not sure why. We still know so little about his particular cancer. Maybe it will be fine. Maybe it is totally treatable. But I started his eulogy.

He told me today he will write his will as soon as he gets home tomorrow. I didn’t know my parents have any assets to bequeath.

I should get some sleep. I feel like there are a million loose ends running around in my head like amoeba waiting to be captured on this white. But sleep might be better for now. There will be ample time to write. Dad is sick. Maybe he will get well. We all die sometimes. In talking with Lolo, I can see there is something to be thankful for with cancer instead of a car crash or heart attack. At least I can head home and be with him. I can go home and have a conversation, see his face, hear his voice. I don’t have to go home to a casket or a morgue. Thank you, Jesus. Thanks for all 65 years so far, and even if not one day more, that is more time than many people have ever had.

Death is funny. I think of all deaths. Millions a day. One day I will die. So will my Dad. And Mom. So many are taken in much more violent ways. Those killed in Iraq. Children. And I have my Dad… and have for so long. Thank you, Jesus.

And I have community. And people like Amy and Lolo who know, deep in their marrow, what this is like.

Lord, let me live. Let me feel. Let me cry. Let me laugh. Let me mourn. Let me dance with Grace when it is there.

Time for some sleep.


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