Here is what I will share in my small group tomorrow:
Prometheus
She comes in, slightly worried but telling herself it’s nothing.
She nervously word vomits small chat.
She sits there expecting me to tell her she’s fine.
But, I know the truth.
Incurable.
Death.
The information I have will change her life.
She will never be the same.
Seconds seem to hang in time.
I don’t think this will ever get easier.
I never know what to expect.
Anger and lashing out, or tears, sadness….. depression.
The words not yet sprung from my tongue will touch her to her core, her soul.
Cancer.
The word is a bullet. Quick. BANG! Straight to the heart. Deafening silence.
Shock first, agonizing pain. She buckles even while sitting. Sobbing.
I roll a chair next to her and sit. It’s like witnessing murder.
With Kleenex I wait. She looks up.
I touch her knee.
She feels pain, I feel defeat.
What now? She whispers
A battle of epic proportions awaits. The kind that makes men shudder.
A story where evil is strong and you’re not sure the hero can win.
But you keep this to yourself.
Ramble off possible options from memory.
Mundane, rote memorized phrases keep your voice from quivering.
She sighs, a deep breath.
Doc, what would you do?
She seeks a fairy godmother, the one who will make the unlikely hero win.
Crying inside, I have no answer.
I am supposed to say fight, even though it will probably kill her.
Surgery. Chemo. Radiation.
Poison your body. Multiple times.
Until you feel like Prometheus.
I simply say, I cannot answer that for you.
I rattle off statistics.
What she “should” do.
She is she, you are you, and I am me.
I would pray. And read. And dream.
And travel, and love, until I had no more to give.
Who has the answers?
Who is the patient savior when the doctor god becomes mortal?
The darkness will come,
And the only answer to face it:
What did you do in the end?
I whisper as my voice deceives my feelings,
Whatever it means to you,
Die living.
