Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Yes, Prayers Are Answered

Prayers are private conversations with our own God, or higher power. (As I told Juanita today, I'm not a religious person but I am a spiritual person. I was an altar boy for many years––but that's another post for another time).

I have been asking my higher power to keep cancer away from my Daughter. While I was waiting for my PET scan results, Kaity had a biopsy and was waiting for her results. I said, "give it to me. I can handle it." I felt it was my obligation––as a parent––to keep her away from the enormous pain of cancer. The mental pain is excruciating. The physical pain from treatments brings you to death's door. The combination kills way too many. I have survived two forms of cancer. I can and would survive more cancer. Just don't let Kaity have it.

I put aside everything so I could be there with her. I know she's old enough to go herself––she's 22, after all––but her Mom and I needed to be there when she got her results. Good or bad, we needed to be there for her. For us. For each other. Nothing in the world, not work, not the economic crisis, not a pack of foaming-at-the-mouth-wolves with knives could keep me away. (Wolves with knives? Where did that come from?) So off we went. And got there almost an hour before her appointment. Even DC traffic couldn't stop us.

After a couple of egg burritos and a short wait in the waiting area, her name was called. I moved across the room to sit next to Teresa, not saying a thing. Grabbing Teresa's hand. Telling her I love her. Telling myself this is all too familiar. Telling all the Gods to smile upon my Daughter. Watching the minutes move like hours. And wanting sooooo bad to be in the room with Kaity. That's what parents do. We worry. We wait. We want to take away any pain. As Teresa told Kaity when Kaity told her not to worry, "we worry when you have a fever."

When the door opened and she walked back into the waiting room, it seemed like time stood still. I tried to read her face. Look for tears. Look for clues. Look for inner strength. I really can't remember exactly what Kaity said, because I saw in her eyes that it wasn't cancer. She told us it wasn't––like I said, I don't what exactly and I call myself a writer?––cancer and my heart filled with hope again. Joy. Love. Pain from happiness. Someone or some thing did listen. Listened to me––probably because I wouldn't shut-up. (OK all you smart-asses who are thinking "he never shuts up").

I got my answer. Thank you.

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