The Courage at Last to Tell Them

I went alone to Mt. Forest on Tuesday. My brother often comes with me, but this time, he was busy with a leaky pipe in his basement. Perhaps it was for the best. I had decided to tell my parents about my illness. I had tried to protect them by not telling them, but I was wrong. Parents want to know when their children aren't well. They deserve to know.  

It was a hectic day. I arrived later than I’d planned and so we went directly out for lunch. I didn’t share my secret with my parents in the restaurant because I didn’t want to spoil our lunch. Mum’s Alzheimer’s was barely detectable. She seemed just like good ol’ Mum. Dad remains deaf and nearly blind, but he puts on a brave face and tries to snatch a bit of joy from each day. God bless him. Both of them. After lunch, there were errands to run and before I knew it, the afternoon was gone and they were being summoned to the dining room for supper. A local outbreak of flu prevented me from joining them. 

I went out, ate, and returned after dinner. And in their little apartment later, I told them. Simply. And without much detail.

“I’ve got a problem with my lungs, Dad. Same as you.”

“The doctor’s have me using oxygen when I exert myself.”

“There was an incident in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. It really frightened Colleen.”

“My faith. My family. My friends. The experts at Toronto General. I’m in good hands.”

“There’s the possibility of a lung transplant.”

“Chronic. Progressive. And eventually, fatal.”

They asked a few questions.

“Do you keep a tank of oxygen in the car?”

“Do you have to pay for the oxygen?”

“How are you feeling now?”

“Do you take any pills?”

There were no tears, no there-there hugs. It was not as difficult as I’d imagined. They took it well. After all, I’m not terribly ill yet, am I? Colleen suggested I might feel as though a weight had been lifted, and I suppose I do. I’m glad I’ve told them, finally. I know they’ll think of me – Dad, especially. Each time they do, it will be a kind of prayer or a silent benediction, an invisible, powerful energy flowing across the miles from their hearts to mine. That’s what I believe. It may not help. But it can’t hurt.  

F-ather A-nd M-other I L-ove Y-ou