I’m looking down, wiping my face on my shirt sleeve, when they walk past me towards an elliptical machine – a mother in her fifties holding the hand of her son who looks like he’s in his early twenties. He’s wearing sweat pants, a polo shirt and I notice he has Down syndrome. He follows her, a step behind until they stop together at the side of the machine. With one hand on his back she speaks quietly into her son’s ear pointing with her other hand to different parts of the equipment. He lifts his chin to see what she is describing. I turn down the music in my ears, slow my steps, and watch.
She lightly taps the top of his left hand, touches the left handlebar, then waits. He lifts his hand and places it on the grip. She repeats the process with his right hand. With both of his hands in position she bends down and touches his left leg slightly below his knee, points to the left pedal, then taps his right leg and points to the right pedal. She stands up and waits by his side. He doesn’t move. She leans in, talks softly, steps behind him and puts a hand on either side of his waist bracing him. With slow caution, using his mother’s hands and her nodding head as reassurance, he lifts his feet onto the peddles.
He stands motionless, tall, holding tight, feet and hands ready. She rubs his back and smiles. Slowly his legs start to move, stuttering at first then with more certainty. She reaches to the console, pushes a few buttons, pats his arm, and backs up a few feet. After a couple minutes of observation, she walks to an exercise bike, out of his sight, and climbs on. She watches and peddles.
He stares straight ahead and keeps a steady stride. Five minutes, six, seven, then his legs turn sluggish and slow and stop. He holds the hand grips firmly, stands fixed in his place, and never looks back. Never searches for his mom. He waits. Trusting. I look over to his mom. From her position on the bike, she had been attentively watchful. She pauses her peddling, lingers for a moment, gets off the bike and approaches her son. She places her hand on his shoulder and encourages. He nods his head a few times and his legs start moving again. She smiles, pats his back, and returns to her bike. He lasted longer this time, about 20 minutes. Then fatigue set in and he anchored himself into another standstill. She came quickly, helped him off, handed him a water bottle, and walked out with him side by side.
A few days later I’m sitting in a green chair in a small hospital room. The doctor walks in, official white coat, manilla folder tucked under his arm, and pulls the rolling stool close to Kevin, my husband, who is lying on the bed. Stage 4 cancer, he explains. He is forthright and direct. It’s in his colon, liver, and lungs.
Stop. What?
My ears heard but my heart refused.
Stage 4? What does that mean? Isn’t that what people say in a whisper voice when it looks grim? How many stages are there?
Explain it again. Give me hope.
But I’m silent.
I just nod as the doctor keeps talking and talking – chemotherapy, radiation, referrals, oncologist, gastroenterologist, biopsies, CT scan, fever, white blood cells, red blood cells, insurance coverage, transfusion, bleeding, colonoscopy, admitted to the hospital.
And just like that, everything changes.
That night I lean against a large hospital window in a dark unfamiliar room and I remember him, the mother’s child on the elliptical. How he stood still in an uncertain place and waited, knowing she would come. When he was scared and unsure, she came and patted his back, whispered reassurance, and he kept going. When he was sweating and depleted she came and championed his effort then helped him step off onto steady ground. And I wondered if I could ever be like that, trust like that. Would God come? Does He see me? Would a God who let this happen reach out and whisper reassurance? I was scared. I longed for Him to show up and fix this, make everything okay. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Yet, I also knew trying to navigate this daunting detour on my own would result in needless wounds and wreckage. The weight was already heavy. I needed someone to share it. So as I sat in the shadows searching for an inkling of light, I decided to try. I wanted to trust like the mother’s child. And in the coming days when the ground shifted like quicksand under my feet, when dusk to dawn was sleepless, when worry dominated my thoughts, I wouldn’t frantically search behind me and doubt, but instead I would stand still…… and wait.
