A parable about letting go

For parents who have successfully shepherded their children into adulthood and believed the home stretch was in sight, a parable:

On a recent morning, your 21-year-old son informs you he is making a short trip to Austin to visit friends.

He’s living at home this summer to save money for the two international trips he has planned during his break in classes at UNT. Last month, he spent a week in Switzerland and Germany with two buddies and made it home without getting blown up by terrorists. In a few days, he and his sister will journey to Israel on a Birthright trip both have anticipated for years. You’re already fretting about that little adventure because your 15 years on the DMN’s International Desk taught you a few things about the world and none of them are reassuring.

College has matured your son. He’s no longer the muddle-headed flibbertigibbit you sent to Denton three years ago, fearful of the dangerous lures a college town can have on an aimless spirit. He’s become a thoughtful, responsible young man and a good student. Last semester, he made the Dean’s List for the second year in a row.

So when you hear about the Austin trip, you aren’t alarmed – until you hear the details. He’ll drive to Austin on Wednesday afternoon and, for reasons that make sense only to him, he and a UNT pal will spent one day in the capital and start home sometime after midnight on Thursday.

Negotiating I-35 in the wee hours after an evening of bar-crawling on Sixth Street sounds like an appalling idea. But you swallow your reservations – mindful of the promise you made to yourself to give the young adult living under your roof some space – and wish him good luck and God’s speed.

On Thursday night, you go to bed at the regular time and manage to drift into a troubled sleep. But at 2 a.m. your eyes pop open and you know any further sleep will be impossible until you hear his key in the front door.

You lay there, your mind swimming with every wayward traveler’s story you covered during a long newspaper career. You remember the grieving parents you’ve interviewed, only now – in your mind’s eye – it is you who is answering the questions and struggling with the loss.

Then, at 4:45 a.m. you hear the sound you’ve been praying for. The scrape of his key, his shoulder muscling the sticky front door open. Home, at last! A dozen things flash through your head. You want to scold him for not calling to give you an ETA, to lecture him about the dangers of highway travel at night, to deliver a lesson in responsibility and consideration for those who love him.

But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you ask if he had any trouble on the road and wish him a good night. As he trudges tiredly upstairs to fall into a blissful sleep, you lie back exhausted, thankful that inexorable fate has spared you again by passing your door without stopping. And as you, too, slip into dreamless slumber, only three words are on your mind, “Thank you, God.”

The sun shines once again

On a rainy afternoon last week, I sat down with my urologist and talked about cancer.

My cancer.

It was a pleasant enough conversation. He talked, I mostly listened. There was no drama and little outward emotion from either of us. The two boxes of tissues in the consultation room went unused.

All things considered, it appears that I’m a pretty lucky guy.

My cancer is located in my prostate, hasn’t metastasized elsewhere and is highly treatable with radiation and/or surgery. My chances of a cure – not a term used loosely by those in the medical trade – are good.

In the two months that I’ve lived with the possibility of having cancer, a succession of nightmarish scenarios played havoc with my peace of mind. For the first time in my 65 years on earth, I was forced to confront my own mortality.

As death shifted from being a vague concept into a very real possibility, a certain clarity of mind ensued. In the last few weeks, I’ve conducted an accounting of my life and what I have and haven’t accomplished.

The results of that assessment were sobering, but not altogether unpleasant. I’m a man of many faults and deep regrets. But I’m not a complete reprobate. I have had my moments, as they say. That said, I’m grateful I apparently still have time to chart new courses, right a few wrongs and work on being a better me.

The biggest problem with being as old as I am is not the aches and pains of an aging, disintegrating body, but the sadness of seeing family, old friends and acquaintances succumb to disease and debilitating illnesses.

Even as I celebrate – quietly, out of a fear of bringing kharma down upon me – my own positive prognosis, I have friends who face a cloudier, more uncertain future. Clicking my heels at my good fortune – even if I could accomplish such a feat without permanent damage – seems too churlish by half.  

A couple of former newspaper colleagues are waging much stiffer battles with the Big C than I am and are brilliantly documenting their journeys on social media. They are talented and brave, and their posts – which they hope will help others facing similar struggles – demonstrate vividly the depth of their character. I am proud to call them friends, and my prayers are with them and their families.

My own experience is more prosaic and less instructive. I’ll keep it largely to myself, not out of a concern for privacy, but out of an embarrassment for the good fortune I feel.

Later this summer, I’ll go under the knife to have my prostate removed. If necessary, I’ll undergo some follow-up radiation treatment to make sure all the cancer cells are destroyed. And after that?

Who knows? Of one thing I’m sure. The clouds eventually part, and the sun shines once again.