Triumphant
It will be a year, this week, since we knew it was more than a sore on his tongue.
In this year of hard things some of the most difficult have been our trips to Chicago. It's not so much the doctors or the needles or the procedures that have caused so much pain (although Matthew would disagree with me) as it is the view. It is maddening. The 4th floor window of the U of C Medical Center frames a perfect picture of the Chicago skyline. It taunts us and tantalizes us and reminds us of good times -- when our lives were lighter.
Every time we go there we say, "Some day ..." And then we sigh.
Matt had another doctor appointment last Friday. He's been feeling good so our only worries came from the length of time between visits. Due to bad weather and plain bad luck - it had been a while and we were anxious to be told things were still okay. We arrived a few minutes late so I dropped Matt and Thanh off near the medical center's entrance and left to park the car. I wasn't with them when they got off the elevator and made the short walk north. I don't know if the view took their breaths away from them. I only know what it did to mine. And then (to myself) I said, "Some day," and of course, I sighed. But before I took a seat and settled in to wait, I looked at my son, so alive and healthy looking, and I wondered whether some day might finally have arrived.
The visit went well. His doctor pronounced him 'perfect'. She introduced us to another young man who had been through many of the same things as Matt. The two of them stood there, grinning at each other, comparing scars and fates. Afterward I almost let it slip out, "Should we ...?" But the forecast called for storms and it was late on a Friday afternoon -- better to just slip out of town before something bad happened.
On the way home I remembered something Matt had said about the Indiana Dunes, how he and Thanh had tried to go there once. It was on one of those trips home from Chicago that came in the life before. They hadn't had enough money left to pay the entrance fee.
"How much was it?" I asked.
"Five dollars," Matt said.
"We have five dollars," I told him.
We pulled off at the exit marked Dunes HIghway and snaked our way around a few curves until we came to the sign for West Beach. We didn't even have to pay the five bucks -- the gatekeeper having abandoned his post for the day. "I hope it looks cool," Matt said. The sandy, tree and grass covered hills that surrounded us on our drive in were interesting, but Matthew is a veteran of North Carolina beaches. These were not the kind of dunes he had in mind.
One more big curve and there they were -- huge piles of sand that forced my head up, up to find the top. I considered my sandals, my bum knee, the extra weight I'd have to haul all the way up there. "You guys go. I'll wait here," I said.
And they went.
I watched them make their way, running at first, then going slower. After a minute, they stopped and ducked their heads against the wind. It was fierce that day and I could tell by the way they twisted from it that the sand it carried stung. It seemed that Thanh might give up -- but Matt tugged on her hand and she followed. The last few steps looked easier. Then there they were, hand in hand, at the peak.
Thanh stepped down a moment later, leaving my son to stand alone, looking so strong and sure silhouetted against the sky. The wind whipped his shirt into a flag and still he stood there, unflinching.
There may be more mountains in our future, more difficult climbs to overcome. I know this. But down below, my heart filled with hope as I witnessed this moment of triumph. I will keep the memory of it with me always:
My son -- King of the Mountain, Master of the View -- at last.
In this year of hard things some of the most difficult have been our trips to Chicago. It's not so much the doctors or the needles or the procedures that have caused so much pain (although Matthew would disagree with me) as it is the view. It is maddening. The 4th floor window of the U of C Medical Center frames a perfect picture of the Chicago skyline. It taunts us and tantalizes us and reminds us of good times -- when our lives were lighter.
Every time we go there we say, "Some day ..." And then we sigh.
Matt had another doctor appointment last Friday. He's been feeling good so our only worries came from the length of time between visits. Due to bad weather and plain bad luck - it had been a while and we were anxious to be told things were still okay. We arrived a few minutes late so I dropped Matt and Thanh off near the medical center's entrance and left to park the car. I wasn't with them when they got off the elevator and made the short walk north. I don't know if the view took their breaths away from them. I only know what it did to mine. And then (to myself) I said, "Some day," and of course, I sighed. But before I took a seat and settled in to wait, I looked at my son, so alive and healthy looking, and I wondered whether some day might finally have arrived.
The visit went well. His doctor pronounced him 'perfect'. She introduced us to another young man who had been through many of the same things as Matt. The two of them stood there, grinning at each other, comparing scars and fates. Afterward I almost let it slip out, "Should we ...?" But the forecast called for storms and it was late on a Friday afternoon -- better to just slip out of town before something bad happened.
On the way home I remembered something Matt had said about the Indiana Dunes, how he and Thanh had tried to go there once. It was on one of those trips home from Chicago that came in the life before. They hadn't had enough money left to pay the entrance fee.
"How much was it?" I asked.
"Five dollars," Matt said.
"We have five dollars," I told him.
We pulled off at the exit marked Dunes HIghway and snaked our way around a few curves until we came to the sign for West Beach. We didn't even have to pay the five bucks -- the gatekeeper having abandoned his post for the day. "I hope it looks cool," Matt said. The sandy, tree and grass covered hills that surrounded us on our drive in were interesting, but Matthew is a veteran of North Carolina beaches. These were not the kind of dunes he had in mind.
One more big curve and there they were -- huge piles of sand that forced my head up, up to find the top. I considered my sandals, my bum knee, the extra weight I'd have to haul all the way up there. "You guys go. I'll wait here," I said.
And they went.
I watched them make their way, running at first, then going slower. After a minute, they stopped and ducked their heads against the wind. It was fierce that day and I could tell by the way they twisted from it that the sand it carried stung. It seemed that Thanh might give up -- but Matt tugged on her hand and she followed. The last few steps looked easier. Then there they were, hand in hand, at the peak.
Thanh stepped down a moment later, leaving my son to stand alone, looking so strong and sure silhouetted against the sky. The wind whipped his shirt into a flag and still he stood there, unflinching.
There may be more mountains in our future, more difficult climbs to overcome. I know this. But down below, my heart filled with hope as I witnessed this moment of triumph. I will keep the memory of it with me always:
My son -- King of the Mountain, Master of the View -- at last.