When Bad Things Happen to Good Me
For my 58th birthday, I’m lying motionless in a cold MRI coffin in Albania. Bright lights and loud whirring mechanisms shout at me that I’m old, maybe sick, definitely dying (someday). Hopefully not soon, but for 45 minutes there’s nothing to do but contemplate mortality and assess life.
If this is the beginning of the end, I realize there are very few regrets. All the mistakes and missteps of my path are behind - not forgotten, but carried as a helpful reminder of the better man I ought to be, not a weight. Of course I’d do many things differently - treat people better, go barefoot earlier in the spring (oh, guess I already have that covered) - but these are wistful rocking chair reimaginings, no longer monsters under the bed that keep me up at night.
If my doctor comes back spewing words like “terminal” and “life expectancy”, what will I change? I’ve already closed the door on a rewarding but stressful career to write this new chapter of rambling adventure. I spend quality time with family and friends, sing on the sidewalk and eat questionable street foods. I dance daily with my bucket list, while knowing that I won’t die any happier if two or two hundred more get checked off before I check out.
As the MRI searches cyclically for signs of malignancy, I search for signs of sadness or emptiness. The one regret, the one great sadness that rises up, centres on family. Losing the final decades with my beautiful wife. Not seeing my boys continue to grow and thrive and be beautiful loving fathers. Not being part of my grandbabies’ lives. That is the one great Joy to come that I covet, that I would lament and resent losing.
If my deepest emotion and attachment that echoes in this terrible tunnel is love for my family, I reckon that’s as good a place as I can ever hope to be.
Why Me?
I brought up “resentment” earlier, but it makes no sense. I don’t believe in a god who would do this to me nor save me from it, and there’s no evil Erin Brokowich corporation to blame.
And why not me? Do I deserve everlasting great health more than anyone else just because I bake my own granola? My men’s group is full of men who also belong to the “Reluctant Brotherhood”, an online support group for men with prostate cancer. If I am to join them soon, they’ll support me with strong arms. Except for being 10 years younger, there’s nothing special about me, and nothing they did to deserve their condition.
It was my Reluctant Brothers who got me in for PSA testing to begin with. “You may have a blessed life, but your butt ain’t immortal,” they caution. At age 58, some springs are bound to pop. Recognizing our mortality is a necessary gift - to take care of ourselves, and to appreciate and build upon the good things in our lives. I don’t want to spend my birthday in the hospital, but I do appreciate the self-reflection and affirmation it’s forcing on me.
Better Me than My Children
While they run their analyses, we spend a long weekend in Kosovo, trying to put off pondering what changes a bad result could bring. We return to a blessed “benign” report, but the relief is short lived - our son is in the hospital.
First thing next morning we’re on the plane from Albania to Philadelphia instead of Cambodia. For an agonizingly long week, our days are spent at his bedside, consulting with the disturbingly large posse of medical experts trying to puzzle out his condition. Our nights are spent praying to that same god we don’t believe would or could or even should intervene, and wishing I could trade my “benign” result for a clean bill of health for my boy.
Again we ask, why him? And again, the answer comes back, why not him? Our dearest friends rise up in strong support and loving warmth, then also share their own current personal and parenting woes and fears. The child in rehab, the friend with a new pacemaker, the unconscious teen with brain swelling after a bike accident, the friend with a painful nerve-ending condition, the estranged child, the directionless child. How many of us are walking around with secret or undiagnosed pains and limitations and fears, for ourselves or our loved ones?
Finally the results come back - a rare auto-immune disorder that is chronic but treatable, not condemning him to a shortened or restricted life. It’s not something a 21-year-old “should” have to face, but Dr. Google had us in some pretty horrible wormholes of how much worse it could have been.
Wild Horses (could not keep me away)
We stay another two weeks, cooking and driving and loving him up. The steroids start to bring down the inflammation and restore energy. He responds well to the first infusion of the other stuff - to be repeated twice a year for a few years. Our resilient child starts to re-emerge, re-engage, re-hope. We stay until we know, and he knows, that he’ll be able to continue the journey with his peer support circle.
There’s nothing more primal than hearing our children cry out for help. We were pulled onto the next plane to Philadelphia like a “resistance is futile” Borg tractor beam. And now that it’s the right time to leave, we find we’re unable to go far, like magnets that can’t be pulled too far apart.
So instead of resuming the SE Asia plan, we feel called to return to Monteverde, where we can exhale and heal in our beloved community and ancient cloud forest. And where we can remain close to our boy. Almost the same time zone, quick flight up if he needs us, and three weeks together at Christmas for another infusion of parental love (for us as much as for him).
I’m thankful that my son and I will both come through these scary medical muddles. Thankful that Sarah and I are in a position to drop everything and fly back across the ocean the moment we need to be with our children. Thankful for a very competent and caring american hospital team who kept calling him their "interesting" case (and hopefully the insurance company who will sign off on all of it).
And thankful for the bravery and vulnerability of my amazing son. I have many times written about how strong and wonderful both our boys are, but that doesn’t mean they have to be perfect. That strength, and that openness to reach out when help is needed, will see our boy through this moment and the many life challenges that define us as humans.
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Currently in...
Pittsburgh - a housesit as an excuse to spend one more week with Zekiah
Heading to...
Thailand (Chiang Mai), Vietnam (Hoi Ann, Feb-Mar), Cambodia (Siem Reap, Apr). Please share any sites, people or ideas by email.
Thank you for this….sending loving kindness and good prayers for wellness all the way around ❤️
Feeling this very much ~
Love this!
We are all vulnerable, we are all blessed and we are all lucky…till we aren’t. We will soon ponder it all on the green mountain. Glad everyone is doing okay.
Thank you for these beautiful reflections. Much love to all of you.
Much love and health to you and your family, Rick.
What a life! I’m glad things are turning out well. Also, glad to see you and Sarah! In Monteverde, too!
Scary weeks but good to hear that test results for you and Z are favourable. Diana keeps us informed. Love C
I’m happy to heard that both of you are doing well! I I I really enjoy reading your blog, keep on traveling!
Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry you all have had to go through this. Sending love and light and a big wish I could be there in Monteverde to greet you and walk trails together, reconnecting.
Indeed, why not me. Why not us, or them.
But the knot we become when our child is bedbound is slow to unloose, even when they return to normal life. I hope you get the release you seek in CR. All the love to you and z
Beautifully written 🥰 Happy you are both through the scare and that the strength of your family and support system is there for you all! Thank you for sharing your incredible words 💖