Sometimes You Just Can't Fight

These days, I read or hear of people requesting prayers for other people going through cancer, like I once was.  Since I'm proof that positive thoughts are helpful, I am happy to oblige.  But occasionally I'll see requests to tell a dying person to "keep fighting".   It bothers me, to see that demand out there.  I want to find the person who made that statement, and holler at them. They don't understand.

Their loved one has been fighting, dammit.

I haven't met a single person out there who, when initially diagnosed with cancer, didn't want to fight.  Everybody wants to fight. I wanted to fight. Every single mother looks at her children and wants to fight.  Men hold their spouse's hand and vow to fight.  We all sit down with our doctors, plan out our attack.  No matter the disease, we all start out with our fists raised, ready to battle.  We're focused on the goal, the prize of a healthy life shimmering in the distance.

And then...well, things just don't work out the way they're expected to.

Surgery doesn't work. Chemo is ineffective.  Relapses occur.  These huge bumps in the road wear us all down over time, and sometimes, it is just more than a body can deal with.  Sometimes a person with an illness just can't fight anymore.   Telling someone who is dying, who knows that they are dying, to "keep fighting", as if all it takes is sheer will?  It's just cruel.  Bodies are decimated, unrecognizable but for the spirit still flickering within. They've already given every single ounce of strength.  Even if they still want to fight, they just can't, not anymore.  They are just tired, they are in pain, and they want it to stop.

We need to respect that.  We need to accept that.  This is not the time to demand that a person keep fighting, no matter how much we need it.  It might be the most difficult thing we ever do, keeping our thoughts to ourselves.  We want to keep our loved ones with us, encircled in our arms, for as long as we can.

This isn't about you.

This is the time to stop thinking of your own needs, your own wants.  Your loved one is tired, exhausted, worn away.  They are also terrified. A long time ago, when a person died, they were buried with various treasures, gifts to take into the afterlife.  Our compassion, our courage, our strength?

These are our gifts. 

WOE: Sending the Souls

Picture prompt:

Source: flickr.com via Tina on Pinterest

"Hurry up!" I heard someone call as they ran past my open window. "You will be late."

Buttoning my shirt, I grabbed my scroll and raced out the door.  The air swirled with crisp leaves that chased us down the street to the wide, green, expanse known to everyone as the Launch.  A small crowd had already formed, and the Guides were having difficulty handing out the umbrellas in the crush.  I knew that it was one umbrella per person, and I fidgeted as I waited in line, anxious that I would not be able to get one. I did not want to wait another year!  A somber Guide finally handed me an umbrella, and I released the breath I had been holding as I went to stand on the Launch with the others.

Today was the day.

I wrapped my scroll around the curve of the umbrella handle, and as I waited for the call of the Guides, I thought of my father, the soul I would release today.  I thought of my anger over his suicide, my incoherent rage at his inability to face life.  I had held onto that anger for years, tethering my father's soul to the earth as punishment for his abandonment of his family.  Of me.  It was my right to do so. Tethering the souls to the earth was the traditional punishment for suicides.  After so many years of anger, however,  I finally understood that my own anger would kill me, my own form of suicide.

I had to let go of my father's soul so that I could live as he never had the courage to attempt.

The sound of the Guide's prayer rolled over me, a wave of forgiveness.  The Guides moved through the crowd as they sang, stationing themselves at intervals to help those who were unable to place their scrolls.  Woven into each scroll was the soul of a loved one; not everyone was as eager as I was to say goodbye, but there would be no going back for any of us.

Today was the day.

The prayer ended. All of us snapped our umbrellas open, and as one, lifted them above our heads.  Let the winds guide all souls home, came the call, and the crisp fall wind gently lifted our umbrellas.  The souls rose, weightless, high above us, pulled by an unseen hand, until we could see them no more.  I felt the invisible cord, the one that held my father chained to me for so long, give with an audible snap.

I could hear the sounds of sobbing around me, but my heart felt too light for tears.