My confession

Why do we talk about the weather or traffic or sports when someone is dying? How can we think of so many things to say rather than what needs to be said? We’ll tell a joke before we’ll touch their hand and say, “I love you.” And I am the chiefest of the offenders.

My dad suffered with lung cancer for the last two years of his life. I was 18 when he was diagnosed and he passed away a few weeks after my 20th birthday. I visited dad in Tennessee on several occasions throughout that two-year period, and we chatted often by telephone, too. Far too many of those conversation had nothing to do with how much I loved him, how proud I was to be his daughter, how I regarded him as a hero, or how I wanted nothing more than to make him proud of me. Instead we talked about the Vols and politics and college life and other fleeting topics.

You’d think I’d learn my lesson. But here I am 20+ years later and, as Yogi Bera said, “It’s déjà vue all over again.” It was last Thanksgiving when my sister, BJ, was diagnosed with breast cancer. A year later she has had a double mastectomy, three rounds of chemotherapy, and a round of radiation. Today the hospital bed was delivered to her home. She is not doing well. The cancer is aggressive and, in the words of her doctor, “consuming” her. Barring some miracle, we know her days are numbered. So, when I visited today, I let her tell me a funny story, and then she dozed off to sleep. I want to tell her that I love her, and that I’m so thankful that we are friends. I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay, and that I’m going to be there until the end. I want her to know how special she is to me, and that I have thanked God for her friendship on so many occasions. Instead, I talk about the baby kittens, or compliment her Christmas tree, or discuss today’s Oprah episode.

Perhaps it’s just me. Maybe the rest of the world is in touch with their feelings. If so, I’m not feeling the love, people! Instead, I’ve got to believe this is one of our greatest shortcomings—ignoring the elephant in the room. And who is to say that I’ll outlive anyone—even BJ. Just because I don’t have cancer doesn’t guarantee me of one more day.

Supposedly confession is good for the soul. This is my confession. This is my shortcoming. What about you? When was the last time you spoke your heart? Who needs to hear from you?