Ripped into being alive

A 1 and an 8 ballon are taped to the wall on each side of the clock. I told the boy I will leave them there until we can replace the 8 with a 9. He agreed that was fine.

We got the final diagnosis the day after I hung them there. Now, going on two weeks later, I see his bike hanging there on the rack I made out of driftwood as I head out the door. It kills me to see it hanging there, unridden since I can’t remember when. I wonder if he’ll ever ride it again. 

I get in the car and drive to my first class. 

I put on my mask. 

I teach.  

Anyone the least bit perceptive could see through it I’m sure. They’d know I cried my way to work. They’d see the pain behind the mask.  Indescribable pain. 

Heart ripped right out of my chest pain. 

Does he really have this? Is he really there in the hospital as I type? Are they really pumping chemo into his body, maybe right this moment? I’ll text him later and he’ll probably give me a thumbs up.

 Not once yet have I heard him complain or ask “Why me?” A question I’ve asked a million times. 

“Why my son?” 

I just assumed it'd always be “them”, never “us”. 

Now it’s here. 

This is Life in the Here and Now.

I hold my wife through tears. My God what must be a mother’s pain? The fear on her face… 

I pull her in close so as not to see. I feel it too but I’ve got to be strong. I’ve got to stay hopeful, but it’s so fucking hard. 

“But suddenly you’re ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my god you’re alive and it’s spectacular.” 

~ Joseph Campbell

I cling to adages that have brought me this far. 

It doesn’t feel so lately, but there must be more joy again someday again.

 Am I life-worthy? Can I take this? 

God it just hurts.

 But I’m here for it still. 

I’m here for that boy till the end.