Reflecting on a poem a year later

On the Elevator at MD Anderson, October 13, 2010

I was already on the elevator
when they stepped on,
wife and husband,
gravity having
worked on their
seventy-some-odd year old bodies
till they shortened and sagged
from the relentless downward pull,
but here they were fighting still,
holding hands as a sign
of the covenant
that they were in this
together—
even though it was her cancer,
even though the fear in their eyes
betrayed the uncertain truth
that one might have to live
without the other.

I imagined how her story had taken form—
a lump felt in the shower,
or pain in her abdomen
that led to scans that showed
the lopsided ovary—
either way the profound feeling
of senselessness
that cancer would strike
the organs still held dear
even if long since retired
from their biological duties—
Darwinian deeds that gave life
and nourished its infancy,
so that she might live on
at least in her progeny.

But she wanted more than that,
as we all do,
if we are really honest.
We want more
than to be
brought low
by a tiny oncogene
that goes about its insidious work
silently,
before finally speaking
at a volume to be heard,
and declares its
greedy claim on life,
on the whole of life,
body, mind, spirit, family,
such that nothing,
nothing,
will ever be the same again.

So here she was,
hand in hand with husband,
stepping on the elevator
to rise to the occasion
of the battle before them,
fear in their eyes
yielding to gravity once again,
looking down
in trembling gaze
at the sure footing
of the ground level
they were leaving now,
never to return the same.

And out of the corner of my eye,
in the time it took to get
from first floor to tenth,
to the clinic where they would
start life anew
with this third party,
I watched her husband
breathe in deeply
look up to engage
their Agincourt odds,
with hope and love,
and courage enough
for the two of them,
and gripping her hand tighter,
met the ding of the elevator
as one prepared
for whatever might come,
and led his beloved
into the breach,
less than a fortnight before
St. Crispin’s Day.

Note: It was a year ago today that our paths crossed--an odd anniversary, but it gave me pause to wonder about them again. Has she survived till now? How is he doing, and might he have "new" anniversaries he marks now. The reference to Sr. Crispin's Day is an allusion to England's famous Battle of Agincourt, in which they defeated the French against incredible odds. King Henry V's speech, immortalized by Shakespeare, is one of the great literary masterpieces of all time. It resonates with the human spirit so deeply I think because it embodies hope and grace in the face of fear, and we all at one time or another are faced with such circumstances--when the challenge is so daunting that the desire to run is real, but we know that the only way to possibly vanquish the threat is to face it head on, not ever knowing the outcome as a sure thing until it arrives. And while we must face those realities in our individually unique way, we do not have to go it alone.   I am grateful for this woman's husband, a year later, knowing she was not alone, and they found their way together.