Shining Through

I’ve never been one to use the idea of a “sparkle” in someone’s eye or the “brightness” of a smile when describing someone, not that there aren’t people that exhibit such qualities.  It was off my radar cause it seemed to be in the column of advertising gimmick or Hollywood special effect, to make the leading man studlier or influence you to buy toothpaste.  But these last few days I’ve become a believer.

Almost everyday recently, I get to observe the interaction between Miki and her friends and family here at the Hospice House.  I am in the best seat in the house to witness sparkle after sparkle and miles of smiles of brightness.  For example, a friend of ours that Miki has not seen for some time, found her way to Miki’s room unannounced today.  When Miki saw Shirley’s face and it registered who this was and how long it has been since they have been close enough to touch, the word brightness seems insignificant to describe the glow on Miki’s face and the transformation was immediate.  It was emotional for both (even I could see it), sincere, and child-like, as if seeing Santa for the first time.  Even in her weakest moments, she draws the energy from somewhere to beam and to make her guest feel special.  Due to the medications that keep her in a peaceful state, they also put a low ceiling of clouds in her flight path, which keeps most of the brightness at bay through the day.  But evidently she has reserves to draw from so she can shine through.  I get excited to see it in action and I have been lucky enough to see it many times these last few days.

If Miki’s brightness doesn’t blind you, her sparkle will.  I see this exhibited when she gives a “look” to see if something she says was funny and if anyone caught it, or a reaction with her eyes to a comment someone says, that gets all her attention, they twinkle like stars.  The sparkles are more rare than the brightness, but between the two, she shines through.

I would prefer to only share these highlights of my day, but I have to remind myself that the road she is on, does end.  And unfortunately it will be sooner than later.  Miki has been relatively independent with her walker.  Getting around at home to exercise her weak leg as she treks across the kitchen floor a few times before getting winded and here at the Hospice House, to get herself to and from the bathroom, with me like a parent following their child as they learn to ride a bike, hoping to protect them from a fall.  Her strength is being diminished day by day, with what I can only assume is the result of the cancer and it’s tentacles that are on a search and destroy mission, wherever they are allowed entrance.  Those of you that know Miki, know that physical weakness was not demonstrated in her day to day activities previous to this detour.  This is a woman, that when we built our first house, carried 4x8 sheets of plywood on her back for the roof like the big boys.  If something around the house needed moving, we didn’t need to call another “guy” to come help, we did it together.  From table saws to furniture and building supplies to loaded bags of groceries, she could handle it.  But now she struggles to lift each leg off the floor, long enough to rotate her body from a wheelchair to sit on her bed.  Her little arms twitch with weakness, as they stabilize her on the toilet.  And today for the first time, she has shown difficulties holding a glass of water to her lips to get a drink.  These are the things that are tough to standby and witness.  She struggles to find the words to compose a sentence as simple as to ask for water.  You can see the frustration, as her forehead wrinkles up between her eyebrows.  It’s in there, but is being bullied by the meds or the effects of the cancer, or both.  And is forced to find a longer way around to get out, if it can.  You glass half empty folks might say that she doesn’t shine through these things, but you’d be wrong.  She never gives in or gives up.

And finally, she shone through in a moment that any parent/child would struggle to complete.  Miki’s parents were her highlight today.  Where she would have slipped back to sleep during a conversation with friends lasting more than 90 seconds, she was as attentive as she can be right now, for the duration of their stay that was as demanding as it could have possibly been.  They ended their visit as it began, embracing one another as if it might be their last.  To describe these moments as beyond touching, would still not do them justice.  Anytime a parent outlives a child, the natural order of things stops to shudder for a moment.  It’s just not the way it is supposed to be.  I witnessed embraces that hurt to end and words that will never be forgotten.  I was drawn into the emotion, as anyone that was looking on.  No more heartfelt words have ever been spoken.  It was a moment and she came shining though.

As a friend told me today, who has had too much experience with this, this is where it gets hard.  Miki’s there, but is getting harder and harder to peel back the layers that the cancer has set in place to find her.  Because of that, I value every moment I can make eye contact or complete a two-word conversation with her.  I can’t imagine a harder nor greater accomplishment for me in my lifetime.  But I too have to shine through, so she can too, as does each of you.  (My apologies for all the ü sounds in that last sentence!  Just the way it came out.)