Fri, Jan 18, 2013
A fresh snowfall has always been for me a kind of biblical reset.
There is something about the quiet; a spiritual softness that mutes my senses, immediately and completely, while resurrecting my wonder.
It snowed the other day, just in time.
I was walking east toward a dropbox. The package in my hand needed to be overnighted to the city for a client. The contents of the pages explained a delivery method for chemo. The particulars make my head swim, the concrete I can manage.
Revised files. Drop box. Before 1pm. Priority.
The crunch of my feet—heel, toe and again, heel forward, toe down—tamping distraction. I stopped at a crosslight. Cars whizzed by, the bells at City Hall chimed. The light turned and I stepped forward. Crunch, swish, swish, crunch. I walked until I arrived at the drop box. I pulled the handle down and watched the drop box open. I lifted the package and set it tenderly inside. I closed the door and wished I was not delivering the package, but instead the medicine. I waited for a sound, but it was quiet. I opened the door again.
I began walking back. Crunch, swish, I wish.
I feel it to my left. The building is massive, it is not my building or my sanctuary, but on this day I stop. On this day I turn slowly and I lift my face toward its peak. Against the grey sky through the puffy, white flakes, the gold cross shines. I step back and open my shoulders. I quiet my mind and imagine the inside of the building, the murmured prayers it has harbored through the ages. I offer my own words through trepid lips. I picture his face and I remember her voice. I remember how she used to tuck her hair behind her ear. I whisper his name and I wish for all the promise of fresh snow to fall softly over them.
I don’t know what to write.
We got bad news today and I can’t seem to figure out how to put it into words.
Ransom’s CT scan from last Friday showed that his cancer has continued to grow. We were so hoping for something else. Something amazing. Something beyond what was expected. But we are left with this.
What makes this all the more difficult, and what we sort of knew was coming, is that there is really nothing else they can do for him. They can, and will try, to slow the progression, but there is nothing to be done for the long term. Nothing they can give or do to make it better. Exactly the situation I’ve been fearing.
The amazing thing is, if you were to see Ransom today you probably wouldn’t even know he has cancer. He’s full of energy, happiness, and laughter. It’s hard to imagine now that cancer could rip this away from him again. Throughout the last ten months I have prayed unceasingly for Ransom. At many times it seemed like God was immovable. That he was unwilling to intervene and change the course Ransom was on. I honestly don’t know if this will change…but I find that I cannot stop praying. I cannot stop asking for a miracle. I simply must.
In the meantime, we will continue to live. We will continue to love and enjoy the perfect little gift we have been given. He is such a beautiful and wonderful child.
Tonight I stop and I turn to face you. I ask you with an open heart to spend a moment thinking of Aimee and her sweet boy Ransom.