I have a friend whose child who is very sick.
I think of her all the time.
I am sick of winter; I think of her moving from mild Virginia Beach to Chicago for the best hospital, putting on worn boots to trudge through slush to make another trip to the hospital.
I dread Monday morning end of the weekend; I think of her sitting in the car, in the hospital parking garage, willing herself to meet her husband at the door, exchange news, and take over for the next 24 hours at her daughter’s bedside.
I feel overwhelmed with responsibility; I think of her caring for a daughter near death, another with grandparents in another city, a third with the other grandparents in an apartment nearby. All of them missing their sick sister.
I feel overwhelmed with demands and learning of a new job; I think of her clearing her heart of pain to try to interpret test results and specialist’s reports. I think of her hoping that the latest experimental treatment will start to work because all of the other options have not. I think of her worry and fear that has lasted for three and a half years.
And I think of her looking at all this in the face and finding optimism tempered with reality. I think of her finding time to give back, help others, and urge others to do the same. I think of her embracing every happy moment. I think of her picturing her child walking out of that room, that building, continuing to learn and moving on to the life she should lead.
I picture that, too. I imagine what should be, and send my love and hope to them every day.