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Written in loving memory of Joy Marie Gibson Childs
As I turn the calendar to view the coming events, vivid memories haunt my mind as the date of my mother's birthday looms sadly in front of me. With a saddened heart, I recall the persistent ringing of the telephone beckoning me from my shallow sleep. Reality slapped me when I heard the cold voice of my father saying, "It's time, you need to come now." As I quickly jumped into my clothes, fully anticipating this dreaded call, the coolness of that July morning offered little relief as I started the trek toward my childhood home. This agonizing journey was cluttered with heart-wrenching memories of Mother's year-long struggle with the formidable beast called cancer. Her valiant battle had not gone without its scars: the loss of hair, the pale grayness of her skin, the loss of weight. Retention of her pride was her only victory, but it was the fight she chose. The seemingly endless chemotherapy and radiation treatments, now in retrospect, were for naught. More than once, my tears coated the bathroom floor as I held her convulsing body while she expelled her lunch. I painfully remember gazing into her tear-filled eyes sensing that the battle was nearly over. A breathtaking chill filled the air as I entered to stand at the foot of Mother's bed. I remember thinking, I must be strong. Men are supposed to be strong and not cry, I have been taught this all my life. But the little boy in me silently cried out to be held in the arms of the mother he loved so dearly. The last thing I wanted to be was weak, when my mother had just showed me the strength of a mountain. "Let her go son", my dad's words were of little comfort as I caressed her face, knowing she no longer felt the warmth of my touch, but the loving hand of the Lord. Although I agree with the preacher of Ecclesiastes that there is a time to live and a time to die, I find nothing reproachable in those who rage mightily against the dying of the light of a precious life.
© Steve Childs 1-25-99 |
