No Words
My heart is breaking for my friend. For her family. And I have no words to make it better.
Finding the right words is something I do well. Sometimes, I even find the right words at the right time. When I don’t, it becomes a focus. Not an obsession, but close. I consider possible phrasing as I go through my day, rejecting the weak or insufficiently eloquent, in my search for the correct words. Sometimes I wake up in the night certain of the right phrasing, the perfect word, able to express my thoughts with scalpel-like precision and the verbal fluidity of a skilled diplomat. This time, however, I am at a loss.
My dear friend is losing her husband to cancer. It is a cruel disease, leaving no one unharmed in its wake. He has battled valiantly and courageously and she has been there every step of the way. Their faith and courage have only increased on this formidable journey. Only now, he is beginning to lose power over his thoughts and actions, and she literally has to support his steps. He needs her more than ever before, almost desperately, clinging to her physically and emotionally to find his way. She is the greenwood branch bending beneath the weight, not breaking but showing the signs of strain these emotions and responsibilities exert.
Doctors have announced that they can do no more. It seems quiet, eerily still, compared to the hectic life of the past two years, filled with appointments–testing, expert opinions, second opinions, chemo, radiation, surgeries, experimental treatments, and perhaps most cruelly, MRIs. Meant to disclose what we can not see inside the human body, they offer the teasing possibility of improvement each time. At some point in the process, even a result of “no change from the current status” becomes acceptable, enticing all who care for the patient with an elusive possibility of a reason for hope. Always facing the agonizing wait for results, but at least with waiting comes a tiny optimistic glimmer, no matter how ill-founded. What if the medication/surgery/radiation has cured him? What if the tumor is shrinking? What if the doctors are wrong?
The MRIs have stopped. There is no reason for them anymore. All of the busyness that accompanies a cancer diagnosis now seems a distant memory for my friend. The schedule, grueling at the time, now seems like halcyon days, filled with something to actually do, trips and visits and time together, with always a scintilla of hope.
The hospice nurse arrives. She offers care for the patient. The patient, an objectified term, scientifically distant, reducing the suffering and emotions of a vibrant human life to an object of palliative care. All anyone can do is care.
Progress, with its impetus to be always moving forward, is such a vital component of the human experience. To be deprived of progress robs us of incentive and threatens our belief systems. To watch as a strong and intense person not only fails to progress but in fact regresses, to see the emotional toll on his family and on my dear friend, leaves me with no words.
But my friend has always been brave. Surprisingly brave. Most people think that because she is so kind, so sweet and caring, that she is soft. But she’s not. She never has been. We’ve been friends since I was the new girl in 5th grade, and she (and her twin sister) made me do things I’d never dared to do. At her family’s farm, when we were ten, we boldly rowed out in a canoe, ignoring the threat of water moccasins and who knows what other frightening creatures lurking beneath the surface to explore. She and her sister always skied the black diamond slopes, laughing as they sped off, leaving the rest of us who were more timid far behind. She led us on a pirate cruise in Cancun in college days and ate leaves at Girl Scout camp on a dare. She would ride the highest, fastest roller coaster at Astroworld and watched the horror movie “Halloween” without once shutting her eyes.
She is what we used to call a “steel magnolia.” She will rise to whatever challenge rises in front of her, and support all of those who need her along the way.
And every day life must go on. The quotidien storm continues to rage. Meals must be prepared, laundry done, children need to do homework, pets need to be cared for, a leaking pipe’s damage must be repaired, bills demand to be paid, the list goes on and on. Caring friends and dear family members step in to help take on the tasks and lighten the load. The ability to do something, to help things move forward, provides comfort and solace. We can not change what is happening, but we can be there when it does. And somehow, that offers hope. That we can be there for others, support them in their steps, even when we don’t have the right words.
