Survivors

Last night I went to a party for dear friend, the wife of my former pastor. It marked the 5th anniversary of her survival from pancreatic cancer. Five years is the "brass ring" for us. If we can be in remission for 5 years, we're "cured" (but we're always on guard for the beast.)

The joy of my pastor in reaching this milestone with her was obvious. I hope that twinge of jealousy that I momentarily felt wasn't. Why does he still have his mate, and why am I alone? It didn't seem fair. I shook off that feeling before it could fester, though. I wanted to rejoice with them.

My five-year point was reached in May of 2006. B and I both had appointments that day. I got the good news of "no more CT scans needed" -- but it just more bad news for her; yet another treatment had failed to reduce the liver tumor.

I couldn't wallow in my own pity-party, though. Also present was a young widow with a new-born baby. Her husband had died suddenly when she was only a couple months pregnant with their first child. That little baby looked so much like her daddy. We talked a while. We understood each other. We shared the difficulty of going on, of being the ones left behind. The struggle to find a purpose to get up out of bed in the morning. How even getting dressed is burden. I may write more on this later.