of encouraging support came through. I think I lost ten pounds and
grew two inches. I was anxious about unveiling my heart on this matter
of experience, so anxious, disability clouded my words when I wanted
to speak. Voice? No. Not there. A shell. Protective at first but then
an escape to hide.
That bastard was winning. Tired. Sad. Exhausted. Alone. Anxious.
Depressed. Yup. In October the wall fell down. Strength no more. He
was in remission since August but the fear of the unknown and familiar
crept in, making heavy every breath. Sleep. Escape. Where's the shell?
In November my father got sick. I needed the wall back up but my shell
was gone. In South Africa, Katy and I fought hard. Dad was sick, and
our histories differed on childhood. Mental illness again. I was
tired. It was different this time. No help this time. I was thankful
for his remission, the sweetness of new life. But not here, no option
for this situation. And then they called it cancer.
I came home and was tired. Even more than when I left. My heart was
tired. The balloon was weak. Sleep. Where was peace? Why is there
healing and hope in one way but not the other? Not all? For everyone.
I got help. It sucked. And took longer than swallowing a pill. But dad
still has cancer and the morphine is flowing. Not long now. Dad wants
to fight but they won't let him.
Husband is good though. He comforts me and holds me. He supports me.
He's back, but better than before. Remission is sweet (pause. deep breath). I don't have to
be strong now. I can't anymore.
May my voice stand out as an advocate for the voiceless. In witnessing
pain, in watching others suffer, my heart breaks too. I hurt, too. My
scars are internal and wounds deep in emotion. I stand tall now, the
shell is gone. I don't need it any more, nor want it. Thank you for
affirming my voice.
Finding hope,
 |
| Katy, Dad and I in 2008 |
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