I know you are dying. There is not a thing I can do. No amount of money begged out of wallets and purses, no distance traipsed for miles and miles, nothing to show our support; there is not a single damn thing we can do to save you. Your cold hand clutches mine; you thank me for coming; you thank me for caring. Your eyes search mine for the smile I cannot, simply cannot, produce. There is no sincerity to be faked or felt. You are dying because the disease is finally getting the better of your health. It will take the best of you and leave us empty-hearted. Your laughter will fade to silent. You will die for no apparent reason at all. Despite it all.
Still. Here you are. Now on the wall, just as I feared. Mouth open wide with the laughter I can’t hear. Just as I imagined, your image is the least of you. Death has taken the most of you and I am left to stare at the silent image that remains. Still. Our group sits around and talks about what is to come. Throbbing feet, tired hips, weary bodies. We are all warned.Yet. We do not talk about what really hurts. What really pains us. When another woman dies of breast cancer and all this feel-good fund raising feels fruitless. When it feels as empty as a broken promise – one that really mattered. We don’t know what good will come of this because someone still doesn’t survive. After all this work it still feels like spinning wheels going nowhere. All this enegery, all this talk talk talk about a true and just cause feels false and fake.
I am off my game. Like finding the santa suit in daddy’s closet. I cannot believe. It’s not enough – simply not enough – to say it’s not worth it. That’s not it at all. If you believe that then you don’t get it. You don’t get me.
My fatigue is starting to show. Saddled with the weight of worry I am worn out. Instead of feeling fantastic about the fund raising I am fretting about the bottom line. Imagine this- I actually got angry that a donation will arrive after I have left for the walk! Where am I going with this? Instead of celebrating the miles walked I am fixated on the damage I am causing, the hidden damage to my feet, and knees, and hips never mind my mind. If I am going to wreck myself let it be with running. Something on my terms unfetter from guilt.
When I say I’m done I mean it. It’s just hard to admit it.