Scan on Friday

Right now, I’m hoping he’s clairvoyant.

My little wild man, the charmer, the heart-stealer, my joy, the comedian, the shoe-lover, the stylish one, the one who teaches me daily what it is to live with a zest for life, what it is to truly savor. I’m hoping we can add prophetic to this list.

We were stretched out on a blanket under the maple tree, he and I. We must have a picnic today, he insisted. It is a sunny day, lunch needs to be enjoyed outside.

Our robins paced on their watchtowers, watchful. Red-breasts puffed out in power, in confidence. A gentle breeze licked our cheeks and a slow warmth soaked into our skin. I laid back, linked my fingers behind my neck, supporting my head on bent arms. The familiar strain was immediately present through my upper abdomen.

When, Lord? I am 34, this, just laying on my back, this shouldn’t be hard.  When will I be able just to lie down again without any discomfort? Something else taken for granted – lying down without pain. How many times did I do this without pain and never thank you? What am I taking for granted now…

And he interrupted my thoughts, as he constantly does. As he is doing at this very moment as I type. He cannot breathe without noise. If he is awake, he is making noise. In his room hangs a favorite quote: “boy (n): a noise with dirt on it.” He lives this definition; he personifies boyhood.

“Mommy, you have just a tiny bit of cancer.”
I opened my eyes, squinting at him in the sunlight. He was only inches from my face. Cheese. He smelled of cheese, peanut butter, and dirt. Always dirt.

It wasn’t a question. He stated it as fact. “Really?” I said.

“Yes, just this much.” His index finger tip and thumb were mere centimeters away from each other.

I hope you are right, my son, my wild one. I hope you are right.

I have a scan this Friday, March 30. As always, I will be fasting that morning. I ask everyone who feels a pull in their heart of hearts to do so to join me in that fasting.

I will learn results on Monday, April 2nd. I will share the results as soon as I can.

I ask to live. Not for myself. I am ready for Home. I long for it. But I grieve to think of leaving them. They are my reason to fight; my will to live. I want to walk through their early years with them, kiss their skinned knees and later their bruised hearts as they face the disappointment that this life eventually brings.

So I beg you to pray. I pray you will beg. HE can do it. He CAN.

(By the way, in case you haven’t seen it yet – the place to click to leave comments is up there to the left of the posts’s title, just below the date.)

Sara Walker

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