This morning I ran into a guy who used to attend my classes at the gym. If I had to guess I'd peg Jim at 60ish. His knees started to give out and so he had to cut back on the level of intensity in his workouts and because of that it's been almost a year since I've seen him. As we were catching up I was swiftly reminded so much can change in just 365 short days.
His daughter, a late thirtysomething, non-smoker, had been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. It had already metastasized and spread to her brain and other vital organs. She was given only a few months to live. She has defied the odds while on an experimental new drug and has lived for 14 months since her diagnosis. But doctors have said her cancer will eventually outsmart the drug. It's only a matter of time.
She has two daughters, a young 12 and 14 years old. Jim sat down with the 14-year-old the other day for a bit of a heart-to-heart. She has been rightfully struggling with the knowledge that her mother will probably never see her attend her first prom, help her pick out her wedding dress or rock her future grandbabies. It is my worst fear personified. She is living every mother's nightmare.
Jim, himself struggling with being the provider of strength while knowing full well he will have to bury his "little girl" in a matter of months, had the most profound conversation with her. It ended like this:
"We can't change the cards we're dealt," he said.
"I don't want to be a card player," the 14-year-old replied. "I just want to be a kid. I just need my mom."
I often end my days feeling heavy with guilt. I've yelled too much, hugged too little, hushed them repeatedly. I never feel I am doing an adequate job of raising my daughters.
But I am present. And I love them. And today I was reminded that is enough.
