Cancer Gives....TIME

Sometimes cancer gives time, in my experiences, it always has. The variable of time is quite different for all who endure it, the patient, the caregiver, the loved ones. I have looked so deeply into the eyes of those I have loved and wondered what the element of TIME means to them as the patient, how long since the diagnosis, how they lived and embraced the day, how they passed it, how they hoped for it, how they interpreted it. Time and cancer go hand in hand. And, again, only from my experiences, time is a gift. While never enough of it, so much can happen in the TIME spent with a loved one. There is no call of real shock, there is no sudden death to take you off your feet in unprepared fashion, there is no true surprise to one's end of life experiences. Time becomes a gift that cancer gives.

I could rant and rave about what cancer takes away, also. And that is one in the same, TIME. It does take away our past, our present, our future. It strips and robs and all the while helps you to know that the body is our temple, housing the spirit that is what holds it together. Our bodies do change and transform, and all of a sudden, all the beauty that we thought was important means very little, the hair is gone, replaced by hats and scarves, the weight is lost or gained, the transformations are unbelievable, surreal, right before our eyes. But we (our loved ones) are still the same. Nothing changes on the inside, except the lessons and the strength and the perseverance and determination, and ultimately the spirit grows. My contention is it grows, so that it might soar.

I am grateful for TIME, time I had with my father, my daughter, and now my sister's husband. To have those conversations that I have had with all of them is my greatest gift, even while blended with my greatest sadness. I am just plain sad right now. Not because I must leave the family now, to return to my own, but because the world has changed. Changed as cancer invaded, subsided, roared, raged, rested, only to surge and consume. And in doing so, there has been loss. And loss is hard because it doesn't fall into our realm of how things are "supposed" to be...Allison is "supposed" to be here, Michael is "supposed" to be strong enough to drive the jeep, walk alone, stand alone. But she isn't. And he isn't.

As I sat with him yesterday, just he and I, and I was able to answer some of his questions with definitive answers, drawn from experience, I was also able to make promises that I know I can keep. I promised him in the name of a loving Father who tends to all things. I promised Karen will be cared for and loved, should his time on earth come to an end sooner than any of us would have imagined. As he explained how tired he was I promised him that if his physical body isn't meant to be attached to a suffering body any longer, that he would never leave us, that he will be in everything we do, for always. He will be in the sea breeze, as Allison is in the pink sunsets over the ocean, he will be in the music we play, and he will be in the laughter. He will be in the decisions and the choices. He will be all around us, guiding and nudging and even probing. He will not truly go anywhere. He will be here, for always.

As I head home, soon, I thank God for time, for this time, as painful as it is, that we had our moment, that he may find peace in knowing, and accepting, God's gift of salvation. That one day he can plant both feet firmly on the side of heaven, not jockeying as he is right now. That peace will be his. All the while, we know God is the true miracle worker. His medicine far exceeds man's! So, as we pass the time, we know, too, in our hearts, that restoration and healing can take place in ways we would never believe. Right before our eyes, there it will be, and Michael will receive his own sweet miracle. It will be beautiful to see, as we pass the TIME.