Take this Cup

It's easier to be on the cross than to look up at it.

A friend said this to me over and over when Erin was sick. You have no idea how many times I said to Erin, I WANT THIS TO BE ME! I WISH I COULD TAKE THIS FROM YOU!

But she was chosen.
Take this cup.

How many times did I beg God - LET IT BE ME. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO ME? OH PLEASE TAKE ME!

The helplessness, the impotent frustration of not having any control whatsoever over the eventual outcome of the path of the disease, as it stalked and invaded her body, drove me wild.

Gethsemane. Agony. Stay here and watch. Why are you sleeping? Wait with me. Sweat blood.

CHOOSE ME, NOT HER. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? ARE YOU MAD?
SHE'S ONLY 15!

I had to watch my child, the one who grew under my heart, the one my body nourished before and after birth, carry this heavy cross day after day because she was chosen to bear the weight. Why her? Because she could do it with grace and without complaint? Because she could teach others to conquer the paths of adversity and quell the raging storms in their lives? So she could join with all the other children who are chosen?

Most of you are not privileged to view the challenges of those in the pediatric cancer world, but the vast majority of those children/teens live most exquisitely in a state of astounding grace and acceptance. The rest of us are so busy, flailing about in an attempt to control something for our loved one who is suffering, that sometimes grace and acceptance just have to be postponed until further notice.

My witness of that world pulled me down into a chasm from which I will never fully emerge. I want to learn from all I saw, move to a path of purpose.

The dark night of the soul is a term used in many faiths, describing a time in a person's life that is marked by a sense of loneliness and desolation, where there is cause for a struggle of faith. The wounds of grief are raw and there is questioning - WHY?

I often find the need for solitude in order to sit quietly with my grief, finding value in silence, contemplation, writing, prayer - alone; feeding my spirit as I search for the promise of peace. Each person's landscape of grief is unique to them.

WHY?
BECAUSE I SAID SO. Take this cup.
Solitude as fuel. Sit in the garden. Listen to God.


Understanding the possibility of becoming angry and withdrawn because few truly understand my pain, I want to find a balance between my need for time alone and the necessary integration into the spinning world where, sometimes in spite of my wish to have it otherwise, the sun does continue to rise and set, the mail is delivered, and the car needs gas.

And I truly do want to be with compassionate family and friends who lend an ear, a tissue, or a hand, often not knowing what to say, and that's all right. I don't necessarily want advice. A hand to hold is just fine. Weeping is one of the things I do best these days. It's cleansing and I often emerge renewed.

Each day is a step toward true acceptance.
Take this cup.
Not MY will, but YOURS be done.

Erin taught me to move forward, in spite of suffering, doing so until her last breath. That cognition leads me through the dark.

I tell myself to continue to have faith as I walk through this darkness of the unknown; faith that the light will shine again. I don't imagine it can ever blaze with the force it once did, but there is a pronounced sparkle on the days that I can let some of the grief go. I work through the pain of not being able to see my child, to remind myself that Erin is fine now, free from the thorns of cancer and the shackles of surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation. I know she is at peace. On the days when I can focus on the fact that she is fine more successfully, I can glimpse more promising possibilities - peace for myself.