Cancer and the "Right" Words

I spoke with a friend earlier this week and inquired what she had planned for the day, she said she was visiting a friend in the hospital.  I asked what had happened and found that her friend had cancer and was about to endure a very painful procedure to remove this tumor.  Even sadder, the patient’s fiancée, who I’ve met but don’t know well, has also been in for cancer twice and so far as I know, is in remission.

What a sad beginning for a couple that are clearly dear to each other.  What was sadder to me, though, is how common this story is.  Just thinking over the past few years, I’ve had family and friends who’ve had their battles with cancer.  Some of them came out victorious and others didn’t.

Given my family’s medical history, I already know that if I live long enough, cancer is not unlikely to strike (assuming the heart disease or diabetes don’t get me first.)  It was a sobering discussion but not one I regret.  The worst part of the conversation with my friend was that the right words for how I felt about this ever-present battle, or any words of comfort or love that could help carry anyone through such a crisis.

What follows still aren’t the right words.  But they are closer to what I wish I could say:

A bed is a place where you sleep at night
When the dark blankets the sky and in sight
Are the stars, millions and billions, burning,
Shining, while the moon is always turning
From new to full, and all that’s in between,
Colored white, blue, orange, but never green. 

A bed is where a baby ought to sleep,
A place for it to laugh and where to weep.
The bed is high and surrounded by bars
So they won’t fall and collect any scars
While mommy and daddy leave a minute
To let them dream for more than that minute. 

A bed should be where a child sleeps soundless
But they jump, shouting, energy boundless,
Until they’re forced under the sheets, covered
Over.  They’d sleep but the monster slobbered
And muttered, bragged that the best thing to munch
Is a plump juicy kid for his fine lunch. 

A bed is where the teenager will sleep
So long it makes the parents want to weep
For the state of the rising generation.
They wish that they would change their location
And be outside, providing a service
In lieu of their sloth, utterly useless. 

A bed is large enough for newlyweds
To love, to talk, to rest, to pray, to shed
The everyday façade and manners,
Drawing nearer th’other ’neath the banner
Of their burgeoning, growing family.
The quilt can’t warm as their own felicity. 

Parents don’t get much rest in their own beds
As the bratlings crawl and bawl, need their meds,
Snacks, a hug, a talk, another demand
To visit a friend, they’re joining a band,
They forgot to call, they drew on the wall;
Once in bed, they wail, “I can’t take it all!” 

The bed is for the sick and decrepit,
Weak and lonely, for whom no light is lit.
Family and friends stand about and support
But little they say or do can purport
They will be healed, so they embrace and weep
And understand a bed is where they’ll sleep. 

A bed was made to comfort us through the night
That hides the stars, symbolizing the blight
From which no one has, will, or could escape.
But wait! Lo, what is that bright burning shape
On the horizon?  Dawn makes evening shake
And I know a bed is where we awake.