Just Hold My Hand

For some reason, tonight, I cannot shake a certain experience of cancer as it relates to Allison, and I am quite sure, Michael. I am thinking of my sister and how she is working through the days and nights, four weeks now, that her partner and soul mate is no longer with her. I am reminded of my loss, our loss, as I found myself mentioning Allison's name a bit more than usual today. I found it necessary to explain, last evening, to inquiring new acquaintances that yes, I have two children, one with us, one residing in heaven. With God, my heart told me. With Michael, now, my heart cried out, but of course, I didn't say any of that. It still takes my breath away when people ask, and I find the gentle way to explain the fact that I am a mother to two daughters, and then the familiar questions come, and I must answer. I must.

I have had more than a few flashbacks as I travel the journey with my sister. Not the same one, of course, but it has it's similarities. Every part of it has had a familiar path. The diagnosis. The treatments. The side effect. The gifts, yes, gifts that cancer can bring. But also, the pain, the loss, the heartache and the sadness. And for some reason, today, I cannot get certain images and happenings out of my head. The day is ending soon, and I pray the night brings sleep, peace, rest for myself, my sister, my special friends, and for those I love, and for all those who grieve.

The image in the flashback moments are of her hands, and of his, Michael's hands. I held hers so often that I still feel them. I haven't let go in many ways. I suppose I never will. Her hands became very symbolic because of their beauty, their strength, their grip, their touch. So did Michael's. But when I see, in my mind's eye, his hands, I also see hers, my sister's, holding his, caressing, and loving him through touch. Each time I visited his hands were different, still his, but somehow telling a story, just as hers did, Allison's that is. Her hands told it all, they swelled with steroids, they shrunk in sickness, they thrived and brightened in health and they showed us that death was looming, her body changing and shutting down in a way that we could have never imagined. And his did the same. They swelled, too, they became healthier, fingernails looking finer than any time in his life, and then, the signs, that passage was imminent, the slender look of hands that had done their work, were ready for idleness and rest. Yet, the hands of a man who gave it all he had, and that of a young woman who did the same, leave a lasting image and feeling in my heart. I can almost feel them right now. And I hope my sister never loses the feeling of Michael's hand in hers. I hope in her desperate times, she can close her eyes and remember the loving caress, the gentle touch, and the strength that was transferred between them, in the touch of a hand.

Toward the end of Allison's life, when we were still in a state of confusion and uncertainty, wondering if there was more that we/she/doctors could be doing, her father made a visit to her doctor and asked if there was anything else we should or could be doing. This doctor was a father. It must have pained him deeply, for we knew his sensitivity with our daughter, and the look he, himself, had in his eyes when he was in her presence. No questions were asked by my husband as to amount of time left, or predictions, instead, he stayed clear of asking the doctor to play God. He asked a simple question of the doctor, what else do your recommend we do? And a simple answer, enjoy your time, love her, and hold her hand.

We may not ever get another chance to hold the hands of a loved one. So my thoughts tonight are that I am glad we did when we could, and I know my sister must be glad she did while she could. It's simple and it costs nothing, it may cause embarrassment to those we love, depending on ages and stages, but there is nothing like the strength and caress of holding someone's hand. It passes strength from one soul to another. Tonight I feel as though Michael is reaching out and touching Karen's hand, and giving her a bit of strength to get up, to put one foot on the floor, to make movement in a day, and even to go to bed at night. I feel it as much as I feel Allison doing the same for me, for us, for anyone who asks. She is reaching down and holding our hands, and I am allowing myself to feel the magic of that touch. Good night, Allison, and good night, Michael. How it must feel for you to be holding hands in spirit in a place that knows no day or night, no pain or strife, no worry or angst, just the pure joy of touch and goodness and grace.