A Prayer More Than a Prophecy

She laid in the hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown that seemed two sizes too big. Her hair was starting to come back. A step above a shaved head, but not long enough to be an intentional hairstyle. She was skinnier, weaker, and if I’m being honest, dying. 

I laid next to her in the hard, uncomfortable bed. “She is going to be ok. She will make it. She will get better.” It was a prayer more than a prophecy. 

We wore masks and had to sign waivers to be present in the room with her harsh medication and chemotherapy. She was losing her battle, but remained beautiful and strong. “She will be ok. She will beat this. She will get better.” It was a prayer more than a prophecy. 

Her levels stabilized. She got a wave of strength. She got released from the hospital. She is the purest example of resilience I know.  “She’s doing it. She’s going to beat this. She will get better.” It was a prayer more than a prophecy. 

She feels well enough to take her walker out for an adventure. It’s been days since she’s been able to stand independently and walk. This is a success, so venture to her favorite store. I let her slowly shop and walk and gaze, even though I’m ridden with anxiety and fear. “She can do this. She’ll be ok. There is nothing to fear.” It was a prayer more than a prophecy. 

Slowly she faded. She lost her strength, her ability to move, and her ability to speak. She spent her time in bed, quiet and weak. “I will not lose her. She cannot die.” It was a prayer more than a prophecy. 

Words spoken with certainty. Words spoken with power. Words that were really loud prayers of my heart’s wishes and needs. No matter what I said, or what I demanded, she was dying in front of me. Eventually she did. She took her last breath, and I cried, “This isn’t real. She’s not gone. She isn’t dead.”

A prayer. Not a prophecy.

A reality that she was gone. A reality that it was too late for prayers, too late for hope, and too late for a miracle. 

xox, Chels