Universal Terminal Disease: Mortality

I don’t want to seem morbid or dark, but I must say, there are things that have struck me as ironic in the last few weeks since I’ve found out that I have lymphoma.

For better or worse, my wife and I have decided that the right thing to do is let people in on our journey.  So, a few days after telling my immediate family, I told my extended family, colleagues, former colleagues, and close friends.  I’ve let people know through phone calls, in person, emails and social media.  My wife linked my last blog post to her Facebook. It’s been exhausting, but it’s also been good for my soul.  The outpouring of love has been overwhelming.  It has brought me to tears several times.  One colleague with whom I’ve been working for only a short while said she felt like she’d been “kicked in the gut.”  A former student – one of the brightest, kindest people I’ve ever known – told me to “add [her family’s] voices to the swelling chorus of love and support.”

This is just a sampling of the incredible tsunami of support I’ve received.  I’m privileged to have had all of these words of care, compassion and concern.  And the pot of chili someone brought over on Superbowl Sunday was pretty sweet :)

But here’s the thing:  Why so much love? Why now? And why me?  On the surface, these may seem like incredibly stupid questions. 

Why all the concern?

Duh.  People just found out you have lymphoma.

Why now?

(same answer) Duh.  People just found out that you have lymphoma.

Why me?

Same answer + people care about you. Again: Duh.

So, yes, lots of love and I’m very grateful.  But the thing is, everyone else has a serious illness (not just me). It’s called mortality.  That’s the thought that has struck me over and over again in the last several weeks. 

Yes I have lymphoma and there is a possibility that’s pretty bleak as far as life expectancy.  There are other possibilities, says the current research, that are not so bad.  It’s only been a few weeks from receiving the diagnosis.  I have yet to meet with the oncologist to determine a treatment plan. So, things are still pretty surreal. 

The fact remains, however, that we’re all mortal.  It’s just that my mortality is staring me in the face.  But what’s to say I won’t outlive some of the people who are currently showing me so much love, care and support? People who are currently getting nominal, unintentional, seldom care, love and support?  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not wishing anyone ill.  For those of you reading this, allow me to offer you a Vulcan blessing:

Live long and prosper :)

Still, we’re all mortal.  We’re all going to die, so where’s the love? Everyone feels pain and hurt and sickness and sadness and loss.  I just happen to be feeling a lot of it right now and it’s concentrated in this point in time and we’ve made it public. Maybe I'm sounding like an old cheesy love song  but really: what I've learned is that we all need to love each other better, deeper and more regularly.

The elders of my church (of whom I am one) came over to pray for me several weeks ago.  One of the elders said, “Don’t get me wrong.  I think it’s great that we’re all here praying for Rocco.  But what about all of the other suffering people in our community?  Shouldn’t we be visiting them?  Praying for them too?”

Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them … (James 5:14a)

I’ve run out of things to write about.  Tomorrow I have my appointment with the oncologist to go over our test results from the CT scans, bone marrow biopsy, bone sample and blood work.  I’ve done a masterful job avoiding thinking about this appointment.  Denial is one of my gifts.  But now the reality has caught up with me.  Approximately 14 hours from now, I’ll know just how bad the lymphoma is and what the treatment is going to be.