I listen as you mutter the words you have to force yourself to say. Words that I have also had to whisper and acknowledge.
“There is nothing else they can do. They’ve given her months to live.”
I listen as you cry and ask questions about how to accept this fatal diagnosis and this catastrophic view of the future. As I listen I feel this pain multiplied, as I hurt for you, while at the same time being reminded of the familiarity of my own story.
I listen as your breathing quickens and your heartbeat races. I listen as the cries become screams. I sit, paralyzed by empathy and experience. I’ve been in a seat so extremely similar to the one you’re in. I wish I could switch spots with you, like a game of musical chairs. I’ll keep circling, boldly ready to take the chair so that no one else has to experience this loss. If only this was a possibility.
I listen, wishing desperately things were different and that there were words worthy enough of this moment. Words with the ability to comfort and soothe, but words aren’t what you need, a miracle is. The same miracle I needed years before, when my mother was given the same prognosis.
I listen as you judge the credibility of the doctors.
I listen as you analyze the accuracy of the results.
I listen as you reject the answers.
I listen as you declare an error and also the ability for miraculous healing.
I listen as you proclaim hope and faith and a future different than the one delivered.
I listen as you cycle back and forth between belief and denial.
I listen, still silent but paying close attention to each word that leaves your mouth.
I don’t say a word. You don’t need me to. You simply need me to listen, so I do.
I listen to the admissions of your heart and the vulnerabilities of your soul. I listen to your pain. I listen to your anger and your confusion. I listen knowing I’ve been the mirror image and sound of this very moment, like a painful dejavu.
I listen without the ability to change the outcome but with the fierce dedication to remain with you through it all, whether it be a miracle or a mess. I listen because I love you and I support you. I listen because a long time ago you did the same thing for me, you listened.
So I listen, even though it hurts.
And I listen, even though it stings.
And I listen, wishing desperately that you didn’t have to say these words or experience this heartbreak.
I listen, and I’ll keep listening. And I’ll pray and I’ll keep praying. And I’ll be here, however you need me.
