Gratitude – Tim
It is a Thursday morning in November 2009. The sun is gently playing shadows through my dining room windows. I love my house; it’s a big rambling thing over a half century old, lovingly remodeled by Tomas and me 10 years ago.
It’s a spacious 3500 sq. ft. and decadent for two people. But on this day, I’m painfully aware of a third person in my space. It’s Tim, my oldest son, my favorite person since his birth in 1966. At 43, he’s 6’2”, an accomplished athlete, with angular features and the chiseled good looks of movie stars like Rock Hudson.
He’s been living with us since he and his wife separated months before. They’d had a rocky time of it for the past few years of their 12 year marriage.
He was to stay for 3 months until he got on his feet.
The complications began when he was diagnosed with cancer right in the middle of his living in our guest room. He started chemotherapy treatments. He lost his hair and had the puffy face of a Prednisone user.
I honestly thought that while he lived with us, we’d eat dinner together, sit around and watch TV or movies and talk about everything like the old days.
But his disposition is markedly changed; he’s nauseous, cranky, and despondent. I desperately want to help him feel better and offer to make him breakfast on this particular cool fall morning.
He’s just shuffling back to the guest bedroom where he’s living. And I know he will shut the door.
I really want to hug him this day. I really want to feed him or talk or get his blankey or any of the mom things that are coming to me…. Instead I just see the back of his bald head.
And then I saw it. My hands fly to my mouth to cover my gasp. At the base of his neck right at the beginning of the back hairline is the mark of the forceps from his birth. I always noticed it when he was a baby and felt he was forever marked by the brutal instrument doctors used at that time to pull babies from their mother’s womb.
It looked like four red dots, a mark like a chicken might make if you took its claw print.
Tim’s hair had covered this for decades, now it’s visible and it puts me into a new state of sadness.
My son, my beloved most treasured son, has cancer; he’s suffered every measure of torture from the pain in his gut which gave the first sign to the 6 drug cocktail he’s given in his vein every other week. Then a periodic lumbar puncture to test his bone marrow and gallons of blood drawn over the three years of his treatment.
He’s one of the few people I’ve known his entire life and I love him like I love my own life ….and he stands with his back to me, an angry, sullen and sick person and I can see the evidence of his birth.
I cry all day. I pray. I ask my friends to pray. I see a therapist.After six sessions and some drugs, I get through it. Better yet, HE gets through it.
In March 2010, his cancer journey ends as Doctors pronounce him in remission. He begins to pick up the pieces of his life.
Of course I’m grateful for his recovery, his life and for his renewed enthusiasm to help others. He is an avid healthy lifestyle proponent, a writer sharing his cancer journey and his love of running. I’m grateful he’s in my life and that he’s my son.
I’m proud when I hear my son say he’s kicked cancer’s butt. He likes to quip; “People often say it’s good to see you! I answer with its good to be seen!” Seven years ago I wasn’t so sure I’d be seen again. But I kicked cancers butt and I say yes, it’s good to be seen.”
Yep,that’s my boy.