my privilege

But Here I am Permitted to be With You

Sidney Morris

You are ill and so I lead you away

and put you to bed in the back room

you lie breathing softly and I hold your hand

feeling the fingertips relax as sleep comes

You will not sleep more than a few hours

for this illness is less serious than my anger or cruelty

but this dark bedroom is a foretaste of other darknesses

to come later which all of us must endure alone

but here I am permitted to be with you

After a while in your sleep your fingers clutch tightly

and I know that whatever may be happening

-- the fear coiled in dreams or the bright trespass of pain --

there is nothing at all I can do except hold your hand

and not go away.

~

I recently stumbled upon this poem quite by chance. I suppose one often stumbles upon things one is truly meant to find.

This is the door to the room on the first floor of our home that became Erin's bedroom when we brought her home from the hospital. I've sat alone for hours in those grief-filled darknesses, while staring down the hall at that doorway and while sitting in that room ~ absorbing the impact of our lives forever changed by a cancer diagnosis, at times angered that my proclaimed meticulous care couldn't fix her, humbled by the powerlessness of my control over what her eventual path and purpose would be, astounded by the courage and grace of a girl so young, and with gratitude for the awarenesses her illness and death continue to inspire within myself and among others, often in unexpected ways... for the latter bits of realization bring clarity that these manifestations are consistent with my belief that there was not the loss of a battle with cancer, but rather a beautiful life well lived.

The poem paints a striking contrast

of agony borne of outrage, frustration and fear

~ there is nothing at all I can do ~

and the understanding that presence with my daughter

was a privilege and a gift

for had I not always been there, would I still feel her hand in mine?