Gifts of the Journey

I am sure that everyone who faces a terminal illness has experienced the clarity of communication which comes when there is little else to say. This blog contains many memories and reflections which are gifts of those I know and love. In one sense it is a little embarrassing to read such positive and complementary things about oneself—all the while knowing that there are other and less positive stories to be told if all were to be revealed. On the other hand, facing two rather advanced cancers has given me the opportunity to be open and candid with my family about my hope and concerns, and especially about my love for them. We normally end each phone conversation with “I love you” which is true, if somewhat cliched. That simple phrase has taken on new meaning in the past few weeks and has become even more precious. In addition to such expressions of relationship my son Martin wrote a poem during the waiting in the hospital. I share it not so much because it reflects positively upon me, but because it is a precious gift from a beloved child. And, it’s good! For Pop, Postop A little boy says "my dad is my hero" the terms are feats of strength whoops of violence he says: dad can lick your dad can lift a thousand pounds.. a car! save a building burning. He thinks muscles, recites comic bookery. At 35 I say: My dad is my hero. his illustrations inked with pun powered pen His speech balloons exclaim that a hero can be a gentle man show kind care a man can transform into a hero without pummeling a soul he can fight the good fight and face the darkest fears with good nerve In civilian clothes, or stole- draped uniform (white-- the color of good) he practices what he preaches his manner teaches Knowing his faith, he faces egos, not devils My dad is my hero. I brag about him on my courtyard during my recesses and way-after school activities unlike a child, my claims aren't blown-up, zonked or kazzowed, blasted or gazoozled They are gospel truth Starting with "My dad is..." they differ from childhood counterparts in their endings Listing them would be novel I'm trying to be graphic My dad is my hero. He didn't close me into cells, even for the sake of plot or page turning He gave me frustrating freedom, and while I wasn't looking, made sure that no buildings crumpled over me. faced with a villainous kidney, he fronted mortality with the same grace he fronts morality His kryptonited body strongly straightening itself over hibernating days He's my hero As a child I asked: "Dad, have you ever cried?" He answered: "I cried the day you were born because I was so happy." At 35 I say: I hope I can be just like him when I grow up. Martin McClellan Posted by Donel at September 6, 2004 03:43 PM