I've been trying to draft this post for weeks now but I've been having a hard time with it. There's so much I want to say and I'm finding it difficult to put it all into words that seem to properly communicate what I feel. But I've decided I have to try so I can get it out of my system and move on.
A few weeks ago one of my parent's good friends, Cecil, was diagnosed with cancer. Advanced. Already spreading. The doctors told him there's really not much they can do for him and so he has decided against treatment and instead is enjoying the time he has left without worrying about trying to extend that time.
Part of me finds this set of circumstances incredibly frustrating. How can modern medicine, which can transplant faces, rebuild or replace bones and give a premature baby life who previously wouldn't have taken a single breath – how can they not do anything? How is that even possible? How is it that with everything else we are now capable of, cancer continues to defeat us?
Another part of me finds Cecil's response, his acceptance of the news, incredibly inspiring. He has chosen to end his life as he has lived it – on his own terms. In a world that spends so much time grasping at every last opportunity to extend youth and life, I find his decision to be a sign of strength and resilience that I can't help but respect.
My great-uncle Frank received his cancer diagnosis about… seven years ago and he took a different approach but with the same goal. He fought his cancer with everything he had in him with one singular focus – he wanted his grandchildren to remember him. He lived for six more years and in the end, achieved his wish. His grandbabies will forever have memories of the time they spent with him. He, too, faced death on his own terms, molding the circumstances by his own choices, and I'm just filled with an appreciation for what that must take in and from a person – and what it truly means.
As a soon-to-be parent, I spend a decent amount of time these days wondering about my child, what his life will be like and where it will take him. And, of course, I always wish for a long, healthy, happy life. What parent wouldn't?
As I was thinking through this post the other day, though, I was wondering if maybe that's the wrong thing to wish for. Maybe, instead, what I should wish for is that my son arrives at the end of his life, whenever that is, with the same ability to appreciate the time that he did have, whatever that time was, as Frank and Cecil. Maybe what I should wish for is that Colin and I are able to instill in him the peace and strength that he'll need to carry him through even those times where it would be easy to give in or allow bitterness to enter his heart.
It seems counterintuitive though not to just wish for the simple path – a long life. But I want so much more for my son than just simple quantity. I want deep, rich quality. I want for him to be able to lay the number of hours aside and concentrate instead on what is in those hours – on the life he fills them with. I want to be able to teach him there is more to life than just length.
I'm still frustrated. I still can't comprehend how medicine can fail us even now – how it could only give Frank six years and can seem to give Cecil hope for even less. But instead of dwelling on the negative, I'm trying instead to learn the lesson that both Frank and Cecil have to teach – to appreciate, to fight to remain in control of your life by your own choices, whatever they are, and to look at difficult circumstances not just in the easy way, but in whatever way brings you peace.
I hope I can figure out how to do that well enough that I can teach my son to do so himself someday. When he has to. I hope I can raise him up into a man like Cecil, who is one of the most tender-hearted souls I have ever met, and like Frank, whose quick, warm smile and ready quips I will always remember as the absolute pulse of life at every family gathering.
I hope.
