Sunday, February 07, 2010
Going to Korea
Before anyone gets up in arms, I am NOT going to Korea, again.
It's the unifying idea for this post.
Just bear with me. I am going to do things the way I like. Lay out all the "puzzle pieces", and, then, put them together.
I have three people in my life, that I care about, deeply, that are facing some serious health issues.
One has brain cancer. ... Don't know how severe, yet.
One has stage IVb cervical cancer, that has migrated elsewhere. The doctors have given her a year to live.
The other ... well, I am concerned for her well being, emotionally, and physically, but, it appears, she is doing okay, for the moment.
On one hand, I am scared for all three of my friends.
On the other ... well, let me tell you my first story of this post.
In the middle of the 80's, my mother's only sibling, my Aunt Melba, developed bone cancer. The prognosis was not good. In fact, it was awful. She was given about a year to live. She fought it for 4 years. The doctor's only explanation for why she died at that moment was that she had fought as long as she could, and there was no more fight left in her. It was only when she was too tired, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, that she died ... on an operating table, during an operation she had asked for. When she made the decision to have the operation, she still had a "fight" left in her. It was just too much, given everything else.
So, I am not giving up on any of my three friends. I believe that all of them will be here with us as long as they choose to be. When the fight to be here with us becomes too much for them, then ...
Well, that leads me to the next story.
It was April of 2002, I forget the exact day.
I was in the standard Army gathering of all the personnel in my unit that starts each work day (the "morning formation", for you Army people).
My First Sergeant tells the unit that he has just gotten off the phone with the person responsible for assigning personnel to the various Army Bands around the world, takes a breath, and then says: "Sergeant Robertson, I need to talk to you, in my office, after this formation."
I turn to the person next to me, and say: "I'm going to Korea." She looks at me like I am crazy.
So, after formation is over, I walk up to the First Sergeant's office. I knock on the door. He tells me to come in and shut the door. I shut the door behind me, and ask: "So, when am I going to Korea?"
He does a double-take ... thinks for a second, and says: "June." He and I discuss my assignment after Korea, and I leave. I tell the person that I had stood next to in formation that I was going to Korea, and she was amazed. It was like I was "The Amazing Kreskin" to her.
I go home, and tell Amy. (At this point, we did not have cell phones.)
Fast forward to near the end of May of that year. (About 30 days out from me going to Korea, without Amy, for a 12 month tour.)
Everything that happened that night was, according to her, "The Last Time We Would": have dinner together, pet the dogs, watch TV, or a DVD together ... or ... whatever. And each of those things brought on tears.
This was about the fifth night, in a row, that this was going on, and I was not going to leave for another 30 days.
So, being the reasonable person I am, I blew up.
My yelling, stomping fit ended with: "I am not leaving for Korea for 30 days! Can we not act like EVERY night we have left together is the LAST night we have together? ... I can't live this way for another month! ... Don't send me to Korea, before I get sent there."
Amy, being her, thought about that for a bit, and said, basically, "Yeah, okay."
So, (to bring the puzzle pieces together), until there is an obituary in the paper, a funeral notice from a funeral home, or whatever, my friends are fighting the good fight ... and I am going to be a "cheerleader" for them.
It's appropriate to mourn for the dead.
It's kind of sick to mourn for the living.
To complete the metaphor, they haven't "gone to Korea", yet. So, don't push them out the door, before their assigned report date.
It's the unifying idea for this post.
Just bear with me. I am going to do things the way I like. Lay out all the "puzzle pieces", and, then, put them together.
I have three people in my life, that I care about, deeply, that are facing some serious health issues.
One has brain cancer. ... Don't know how severe, yet.
One has stage IVb cervical cancer, that has migrated elsewhere. The doctors have given her a year to live.
The other ... well, I am concerned for her well being, emotionally, and physically, but, it appears, she is doing okay, for the moment.
On one hand, I am scared for all three of my friends.
On the other ... well, let me tell you my first story of this post.
In the middle of the 80's, my mother's only sibling, my Aunt Melba, developed bone cancer. The prognosis was not good. In fact, it was awful. She was given about a year to live. She fought it for 4 years. The doctor's only explanation for why she died at that moment was that she had fought as long as she could, and there was no more fight left in her. It was only when she was too tired, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, that she died ... on an operating table, during an operation she had asked for. When she made the decision to have the operation, she still had a "fight" left in her. It was just too much, given everything else.
So, I am not giving up on any of my three friends. I believe that all of them will be here with us as long as they choose to be. When the fight to be here with us becomes too much for them, then ...
Well, that leads me to the next story.
It was April of 2002, I forget the exact day.
I was in the standard Army gathering of all the personnel in my unit that starts each work day (the "morning formation", for you Army people).
My First Sergeant tells the unit that he has just gotten off the phone with the person responsible for assigning personnel to the various Army Bands around the world, takes a breath, and then says: "Sergeant Robertson, I need to talk to you, in my office, after this formation."
I turn to the person next to me, and say: "I'm going to Korea." She looks at me like I am crazy.
So, after formation is over, I walk up to the First Sergeant's office. I knock on the door. He tells me to come in and shut the door. I shut the door behind me, and ask: "So, when am I going to Korea?"
He does a double-take ... thinks for a second, and says: "June." He and I discuss my assignment after Korea, and I leave. I tell the person that I had stood next to in formation that I was going to Korea, and she was amazed. It was like I was "The Amazing Kreskin" to her.
I go home, and tell Amy. (At this point, we did not have cell phones.)
Fast forward to near the end of May of that year. (About 30 days out from me going to Korea, without Amy, for a 12 month tour.)
Everything that happened that night was, according to her, "The Last Time We Would": have dinner together, pet the dogs, watch TV, or a DVD together ... or ... whatever. And each of those things brought on tears.
This was about the fifth night, in a row, that this was going on, and I was not going to leave for another 30 days.
So, being the reasonable person I am, I blew up.
My yelling, stomping fit ended with: "I am not leaving for Korea for 30 days! Can we not act like EVERY night we have left together is the LAST night we have together? ... I can't live this way for another month! ... Don't send me to Korea, before I get sent there."
Amy, being her, thought about that for a bit, and said, basically, "Yeah, okay."
So, (to bring the puzzle pieces together), until there is an obituary in the paper, a funeral notice from a funeral home, or whatever, my friends are fighting the good fight ... and I am going to be a "cheerleader" for them.
It's appropriate to mourn for the dead.
It's kind of sick to mourn for the living.
To complete the metaphor, they haven't "gone to Korea", yet. So, don't push them out the door, before their assigned report date.
Labels: cancer, death, Korea, mourning
