Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve … Henry Van Dyke
“Thinking of Jimmy today. Is it possible he was diagnosed 20 years ago? My heart goes out to you, Dan and Molly as you remember him.”
The text arrived at 4:56 pm on Sunday, January 11th. Not just on the 20-year anniversary of Jimmy’s original diagnosis with brain cancer, but within the timeframe when Dan and I were racing to Randall Children’s Hospital with Jimmy to meet the neurosurgeon who would remove the tumor.
When Jimmy was still alive, we celebrated every anniversary of his diagnosis. In the early years, the day meant he was one year closer being able to put all things cancer behind him and focus on composing a life for himself. After the recurrences, the anniversaries became a gift. Proof that he was still in school, still mobile, still here.
But once Jimmy died, the anniversary of his death overshadowed everything. Time divided into before and after, the two halves no longer fitting together. There was no route back to the life we once had, and we had no map for the path we were now on.
The minutes stretched making every day feel far longer than 24 hours. There was so much to do .. the death admin and notification calls, school runs and softball practice. The clearing out of all things medical, no longer needed and so painful to look at. But no matter how busy I kept myself, the time wouldn’t pass.
For months in the middle of a quiet afternoon, I’d suddenly feel as though we were still in the before-time. That Jimmy wasn’t gone, just out of sight. Upstairs, out for a walk, away at school. I sank fully into these fantasies when they happened, wanting no part of a world without Jimmy in it.
But I also kept remembering the final days, the last few hours of his life playing on repeat in my head. Unable to stop the tape, they seared into my memory. Jimmy’s last words. His last breath. Forever frozen at 21, as we continued to age.
Jimmy has been dead for more than a decade now. The years stack up. Birthdays come and go. The light leaves and returns as the seasons change. My hair has gone gray, and I walk the horse trails instead of run. But time has not returned to normal. The dividing line between Jimmy here and Jimmy gone will never leave. I mark everything in my life by that split.
When my dear friend texted, I was stunned to realize that 20 years had quietly passed since Jimmy’s initial cancer diagnosis. Although I no longer have the comfort of believing, even momentarily, that he is just in the next room, I still cannot wrap my mind around how much time has flowed by since that life altering afternoon.
I vividly remember so much of what we said and did together during the cancer years, the adventures we had as a family, the travels, the laughter. Our long walks and late night talks. The way we shared secrets, holding nothing back. But the moments that have forever left an indelible mark are the last days of Jimmy’s life. The hours I spent curled up next to him, just listening to him breath. My silent pleas for him to stay. Even now, all I want is to return to that cozy room. Jimmy’s soft, warm hand on my arm. His head on my shoulder. The way time stretched and slowed, allowing me to clock every moment. The feeling that I could face whatever might come if only Jimmy was still here to be part of it.
