She didn’t remember me, but I remembered her.
The last time I saw her in the lobby of the cancer center, she was using a cane as she slowly tried to make her way to the revolving door where her son would pick her up in the family car and they’d drive home to Delaware.
This time, she was in the ladies room and from what I gathered she’d been in there for quite some time. Her son had asked a friend of mine to “Please check on my mom. I want to make sure she’s OK.” It was then that his mom stepped up to the sink, measuring every step it took to get there. She was on shaky ground.
We offered to help her make her way out to where her son was waiting and even more important, where her wheelchair was waiting too. She didn’t want our help. She said she could make it on her own and that she was a fighter.
I bet it’s been four, maybe five weeks since I’ve seen this woman. We really don’t know each other, but the first time our paths crossed, she was so dehydrated and weak from her visit, I’d gone to get her some water. She thanked me and began to tell me her cancer story: How her wonderful son drives her down from Delaware. How she couldn’t survive without him. How God has blessed her with this amazing young man who takes such good care of her and on and on and on. A proud and appreciative mom. I remember her telling me there was no way she could give into her cancer, because she couldn’t leave her son.
Oh, how her cancer has beaten down her body. It hasn’t been able to invade that fighting spirit.
I hope I see her again.