Up at the Huntsman, we completed Round Eleven on Friday.
Up at the Huntsman, children under 14,
and pets,
are discouraged.
Except for trained service animals.
Trained children are optional.
(but equally hard to find)
So every once in a while you see a child.
An oldish looking one.
And every once in a while you see a dog.
A service dog.
On Friday, there was a golden retriever walking through
the "Infusion Room."
("Infusion" is secret code for chemo room. They try
and make it sound all infusion-y and nice...but it still
means the same thing. We are getting "infused" simply
means we're getting chemo dripped in.)
Back to the dog.
Who doesn't love a golden retriever?
Those soulful eyes.
That soft golden fur.
We owned, not one, but two during our first 10 years
of marriage.
Such great dogs.
Fiercely Loyal. True. Committed.
I jumped up from my seat and told its owner to walk
over to our "pod" where the chemo/infusion was taking place.
"My husband he LOVES those dogs!" I said.
I asked the young lady how old her dog was.
He had a gray face and looked like he'd been around
the dog park a time, or three.
She replied, "4 years old."
To which I expressed my shock at his appearance.
She explained that this was her husbands dog.
She explained that the dog had "absorbed all the stress
of her husbands cancer."
Apparently, quite literally.
She explained that the dog had aged before his time from
the experience.
I asked how her husband was doing, to which she replied he
had died 3 months earlier.
She was half my age. So young.
"I'm so sorry", I whispered in sorrow and reverence and
sincerity.
Those words COMPLETELY inadequate to express the extent
of sorrow in my heart and soul for her.
And as if I were standing beside myself whispering, to myself,
my very next thought came unbidden.
"She's still alive," I thought. "Her husband died
and SHE'S STILL ALIVE!"
"How is that possible?"
"How can she be standing here in front of me after
having passed through that...that unimaginable thing."
I was shocked at the very possibility.
It did not seem possible that someone can
come out the other side
of this intact. Or whole. Or alive.
For either her, or the dog.
Or me.
How is it possible without being ripped to shreds
from the inside of your soul out.
That is how I feel some days.
Like her golden retriever.
A little old before my time.
Absorbing the pain, and heartache, and sadness, and grief
from this journey.
And some days I think to myself, with equal amounts of shock...
...You're still here.
...You're still alive.
...You're still getting up everyday and living this.
How is that possible?
And so I look in the mirror, directly into my eyes.
And I brush my slightly reddish brownish hair, that has
gathered a few extra gray hairs along this ride.
And I breath in and out...
And I say...
"You're still here!"
"Look people DO make it out the other side...."
(though the thought that always comes unbidden with this is...
"how damaged" "how much of their souls have been given
to this fight" "how much destruction is done along the way,
to hearts, and families and children, and lives" "HOW do
people survive 'over there', on the 'other side' of this
after all they've seen and been through?")
And I square my shoulders and face a new day.
Fiercely Loyal. Committed and True.
A little worse for the wear, but still kickin'.
(And clawing and fighting and gnashing and trying
and hoping and weeping and laughing and growing
and sighing.)
Who's to say dogs aren't doing something right?
Fiercely Loyal.
Committed.
And True.
That's what I've got for today!
That and...
...I wish I had more soulful eyes...
Or a tail to wag.
