There is a song out by Mat Kearney right now that says, “I guess we’re all just a phone call from our knees.” I’ve heard that song multiple times in the past few weeks, but it didn’t mean a thing to me until Friday.
As I write this, my grandfather is laying in a hospital bed a few miles away. He was admitted with breathing problems, and after a few tests, he was found to have a mass the size of a fist in his right lung. A biopsy will confirm our worst fears tomorrow — late-stage lung cancer. Aggressive. Terminal.
I’ve been trying not to think about it. I’ve been trying to keep a smiling, strong face on for my grandmother, for Paw Paw, for my family. I picked Mama up at the airport this morning, as our spread-out family arrives from all over the globe. No one wants to acknowledge that this could be it. But we’re all here.
I’ve only let myself cry twice. Once in the shower where the tears mixed with the streaming water. That one doesn’t really count. The second was when I finally had a moment away from family, with C. He let me cry – big, ugly tears that stained my face with mascara and despair.
This shouldn’t be happening. Not to him.
I held Paw’s hand two years ago as he heard the news that his brother had finally succumbed to lung cancer. Now the same disease is taking him from us.
I know we are never promised “fairness” in this life, but this really sucks.
