I don't know how to start this entry. I'm sure virtually everyone, without living parents, facing surgery for cancer drifts toward that sad place of feeling an "absolute" disconnect from the very origin of their life. I have been visiting that place alot the last few weeks. I want to talk with my parents. I want them to say " it's going to be alright". I want to hear my Mom's cute laughter as I tell her some funny story about my kids. She would have cried on the phone as we discussed things, quickly gathering herself, for my sake, and then share her beautiful "cackle" , as my oldest sister would say, as we clawed around for anything funny to make each other feel good. Every once in a while I hear my Dad "whistling" under his breath as he concentrates on a task at hand. Sometimes I'm the one doing the whistling... I know if he were alive he would have received the news of my illness with a pragmatic "schedule" of the events that lay ahead, a few anecdotes of his experience, and a couple jokes thrown in for "lightness", and an "I love you son" sprinkled at the end. I also know that as soon as he hung up he would have bawled his eyes out. He loved his son, you see.
I have my memories, I even have some physical mementos...but my emotional umbilical cord has been cut. My sweet mother died four years ago after suffering a series of strokes caused by a brain tumor, my Dad a year later (in his sleep) from heart failure. I had gone to see my Mom a couple months before, visiting her in a nursing home in Sandpoint. She no longer was able to move , speak, or care for herself in any way. My sisters, both of whom lived nearby, kept a constant vigil with her from the time of her first stroke in December to her passing in May. Everyone should be so blessed to have two daughters such as this. I can only guess about the level of comfort my Mom must have felt with their presence. During my visit, I would look her in the eye and we would smile at each other. I really think she was looking at an ornery five year old wearing everyone out with his energy and mischief. I held her hand and played guitar for her, and I told her when I left that it was alright for her to let go...we would be okay. I kissed her and told her "I love you so much". My Dad was not so fortunate. He was alone. He was one of those people, about whom, it was easy to forget that he would die some day. At his memorial, most people were unaware that he was almost eighty four... he looked ten years younger and acted like he was still in high school. I had sent him a DVD of our childhood 8mm movies for Father's Day and when I called him he was watching it with a friend, I'm sure narrating it scene by scene. My last words to him... forever... were "I love you". The next day, about 1pm, he was found in bed after laying down for a nap. I wasn't ready. I didn't see my Mom very often. She spent Thanksgiving with us a year or so before her illness, but visits had been way too scarce. Just too many miles and too little money... When I sat with her I could hear her struggle for each breath, aware of those in the room and her circumstances, but present to us. She loved her kids so much. And...just like that... both my parents were gone, and with them any link to the "genesis" of my life. Now, as I reflect on my own mortality, I can't discuss it with the very people who gave me the "gift"...the one I now fight to save.
This moment of isolation, almost a "Gethsemane" moment, is felt by many people. When we approach the last third of our lives, a lot of us will lose our parents and...face health issues without them. My moment in this realization was intense, it was lonely, and it was scary. It was also brief. I was quickly awakened to the awareness that many people around me... most importantly, people that love me, that hold me up... could give me strength to "square up" to this challenge. My wife, my children, all my in-law family, my sisters, my friends. The energy of their love, their prayers, "carry" me when I want to "sit down" and rest. They know, when I don't, that to move forward you have to stay "up", you must look to the next step to avoid another pitfall. They all know that THIS moment is the one that counts. The ONLY one...that counts.
So...five days to go. My diet is changing, my final preparations are beginning, and my thoughts are shifting to a post operative perspective. It's time to adapt. I'm sorry if I seem a bit on the dark side...it's just that "place in the journey". More grey maybe, it's really not that dark for me, just reflective...internal. Thank you for your prayers, loving thoughts, and support.
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