Beating Cancer

My friend has died.

Jim was sick for a little over a year, but still his death was shocking and seemed far too swift. Even after he made the decision to stop the treatment, the reality of his death seemed like a distant thing. A future thing. Something to think about later.

Of course, for him, I'm sure it was anything but swift. And neither he nor Kate had the luxury of thinking about it later. They had to think about it every second of every minute of every day. They have two small children who need to be provided for, and for their sake, Jim and Kate had to plan for a life without Jim. Such a thing is almost beyond my comprehension.

He died Monday, in his sleep, peacefully, his beloved Kate by his side. Thank God for that. He deserved a dignified and noble death, and if cancer didn't grant him that, at least it let him go without exacting an extra pound of flesh. Jim was not afraid and he was not beaten. He was done letting cancer have it's way with him, and he left this world behind on his own terms.

I am so very saddened by the loss of him, though we haven't seen them for some time.

When I first met Jim, he was so quiet that I wondered if maybe he had problems with social interaction. But I soon learned that it was just Jim's way. And I soon learned that his diffidence hid a keen intelligence and a very ribald sense of humor. For a long time, he simply listened quietly to the general chatter and then, during a lull in the conversation, he broke his silence and said something so incredibly clever and funny that I was taken aback. I hadn't thought he was a dullard, exactly, but I never expected such wit from someone so reserved.

We used to play the game Tabboo, and Jim's definitions were always the best. He always won, partially owing to the fact that he could keep a completely straight face when his definition was being read. It was quite a blow to my ego, as I had previously been the reigning champion. But I couldn't be too disgruntled. Jim was a gracious winner.

When Jim and Kate asked me to be their doula for the birth of their first child, I was truly touched by their faith in me. I was just starting out, and in fact, Rachel's birth was only my third. I almost missed it, because the early stages of Kate's labor went by mostly unnoticed by her. I know, it's terribly unfair, isn't it??

When I arrived at the hospital after a 40 minute drive, through much of which I was mostly asleep, I had to fight my way past a formidable black nurse who crossed her massive forearms and stated, "You can't come in, there's a woman giving birth in here."

"I know that!" I snapped at her. "I'm the doula. I'm supposed to be in there!"

Jim called out something from Kate's bedside and the unsmiling woman grudgingly stepped aside.

Kate was lying on her side, curled into the fetal position. Jim crouched at her side, gripping her hand. He glanced at me briefly, and then his eyes returned to Kate. They never left her again. Because of the precipitous nature of her labor, an epidural could not be administered. She would be giving birth without any pain relief.

"I can't do it Lambchop! I can't!" she cried.

His voice was calm and steady when he answered her. "Yes you can. We'll do it together. You can do it."

And because his strength was her strength, she did.

After a cuddle with Kate, Rachel was taken to the warming station to be bathed and such. I assured Jim that Kate would be just fine and he reluctantly left her side to be with Rachel. The nurse, after completing all the customary procedures, handed Jim the tiny pink bundle.

Jim was a swarthy guy. If it hadn't been for the twinkle in his eyes and his incandescent grin, he could have easily looked menacing. But he also looked strong and full of life. When he held her, skin all roses and cream against his darkness, his youth and vigor was magnified. He looked invinceable. And he looked utterly besotted with his daughter.

Once, at a cook-out, when Rachel was just starting to walk, I was playing with her, holding her hands as she plodded plumply in that stiff and awkward baby way. I glanced up and saw Jim's gaze upon us, upon her, really. He wore the experssion of one who is utterly entranced and enamored.

They moved away two years ago, and we have kept in touch. But circumstances have not allowed us to see them since then. Husband and I have not had to witness the wasting of his body, or see the ravages cancer has perpetrated on his soul. For us, it has maybe been easier.

Because we, I, can remember him in moments like those that he gazed upon his firstborn child. Ungaurded and unabshedly in love. Vibrant. Alive.

Jim was a wonderful man in so many ways, but above all, he was a loving and devoted father and husband.

I don't mourn for Jim, really. He is free now, and I know his spirit is smiling. I mourn for those left behind to deal with the loss of him. I mourn for Kate and the children. I try to imagine myself in Kate's shoes, and the only thing I can imagine is feeling lost. But she has been so strong. She, this time, has been the strength.

Just as with birth, together they faced down death. Together, they said SCREW YOU CANCER.

Jim, it was an honor to know you. Godspeed, to wherever your soul finds peace.

Kate, all of our love to you and Rachel and Jake. You have been an inspiration and an example to all of us. If ever, God forbid, I should find myself in a similar situation, I hope I will handle it with as much grace and courage as you have shown.

Jim has beaten the cancer. Forever.