Father's Day seems to have significant meaning in our lives, it seems.
On Father's Day, nineteen years ago, our first child was born. A boy, named after my husband. The biggest memory I have is that my husband never left my side during the entire time I was in labor. Even though I was not a "young" mother, I was still scared to death by the labor pains and the fact that I couldn't grasp the idea that this huge baby in my belly relied on me to get him out. Even though the tremendous stress of feeling like I was all alone in birthing a child, my wonderful husband held my hand the entire time and encouraged me taking away some of that stress. I wasn't alone.
After our son was born, I'd joke for him not expect a better gift next year because giving him a son was probably the best I can do for a Father's Day present.
Last year on Father's Day, he woke up with what started out feeling like a stomach ache but soon progressed to full out pain in his side. For a man, who never complained before, I knew this was something that we needed to pay attention to. By midday, we were at the Urgent care and they sent us to the ER. By early evening we had a diagnosis, he had a bad gall bladder that probably needed to be removed.
A year later, this Father's Day, we are dealing with inoperable Pancreatic Cancer. I am refusing to believe that the best Father's day my husband will ever have was 19 years ago. We will endure this next journey together. He won't be alone.
My wish is for next year's Father's Day where we can look back on this year and have the gift that he is a cancer survivor.