My
younger son, Benjamin, was only seven (well, almost seven…actually still six) when Ken was diagnosed with
terminal cancer. In the span on one
short week, he went from having a Daddy who would play and ride bikes with him,
take him camping at the local flea market, and let him ride in the bucket of
the backhoe (only when Mama wasn’t looking) to having to watch his Daddy fight
for his life and wither away from a horrible disease. It was a HUGELY scary adult thing for such an
innocent and carefree little boy to try to endure. It changed him… immediately and tremendously.
When
someone in a family, whether a parent, grandparent or child, is diagnosed with
a terminal illness, that family’s entire world immediately changes. Emotions are heightened, schedules are
changed, the phone rings incessantly, hospital stays, doctor appointments,
treatments, medications and medical equipment become a part of the “normal”
routine. The family’s vocabulary even
changes – they suddenly have to become fluent in medical terminology and the
language of diagnosis and prognosis (it really is a language all its own … you
have to listen for what the doctors DON’T say in order to interpret fully what
they do say).
This
is the world my tiny, dimple-faced boy and his brother were thrown into. I was so busy managing Ken’s healthcare and
helping him fight that Jesse and Benjamin were often pushed aside. We were tremendously blessed with family and
friends who tried to “pick up the slack” and help us with the boys, but it’s
not the same thing as being comforted by your parents. I soon noticed a marked change in Benjamin’s
behavior. He stopped talking and
interacting with people and he began to deal with stress through physical
movement. He would run up and down the
hallways, spin ‘round and ‘round in a circle in the floor, climb anything
climb-able (and usually jump off). I
came into his classroom one day and he was reading his assignment, sitting in
his chair, which was UP ON TOP OF HIS DESK!!
My initial reaction was to snatch him down and fuss at him, but his
second-grade teacher, a dear, kind, compassionate, grandmotherly woman, shook
her head slightly and continued their lesson.
When she finished, she came over and told me that she didn’t care if
Benjamin sat on top of his desk, or stood on his head in the aisle… as long as he
was listening, he could do whatever he needed to do to relieve his stress. That teacher was an angel sent from God to
help my child through that terrible time in his life.
Ken
fought hard for two years. Benjamin’s
level of physical activity grew to a fever pitch. It got so bad that Ken would snap at him
about it. He couldn’t help it… he was in
such pain at the end. Before his
illness, Ken would never have been harsh with either of our boys. But cancer makes you do things that aren’t in
your nature. Benjamin began to avoid
Ken. He would stay in his room or stay
outside if his Daddy was awake. It broke
my heart then, and it still breaks my heart now, when I remember.
After
Ken died, Benjamin would rarely talk about his Daddy. I think, in his own way, he was trying to
protect me. If he didn’t talk about it,
maybe I wouldn’t cry so much. As the years
passed by, I began to wonder if Benjamin really remembered his Daddy at
all. He was such a baby when it was
happening. I know that I don’t remember
much from the time I was six or seven.
And the whole two years was so sad and stressful. Who could blame him for not wanting to
remember? When he was younger, I would
ask him if he remembered things that happened before Ken got sick. He always said “yes”, but I wondered if they
were just borrowed memories – you know, things you think you remember, but it’s
only because you have heard other people talk about them. But I figured that borrowed memories are
better than no memories.
Now
that Benjamin is grown, he has finally admitted to me that he has little to no
actual memory of his Daddy, and my heart hurts for him. But he has begun to talk more about him. He has taken to wearing a beanie (toboggan)
that was Ken’s. He is built so much like
Ken and his mannerisms are the same, so when he wears the beanie, though it
makes me smile, it sometimes takes my breath away.
Yesterday,
Benjamin came to me, holding one of Ken’s hammers and asked me if he could have
it. He works in construction, so I asked
him if he had lost his hammer. He said “no”,
but he would still like to have Ken’s hammer.
I said, “But Baby, that’s your Daddy’s hammer. He used it… touched it with his hands.” Benjamin said, “I know… that’s why I want it.” I can’t really explain how it felt, seeing my
son holding his Daddy’s hammer, and knowing that he wanted it to help him
remember. I pray that when he uses it,
he will feel his Daddy’s strength, his determination, and the love his Daddy
had for his family. Ken would have
wanted him to have it.
