Clinical Trial
It all comes down to a clinical trial for him. Whether he can find one that will accept him. After he had one clinched, he became sick. So he no longer qualified for it. It seems so cruel, doesn't it? That his life should hang in the balance, because of a missed opportunity. Instead, he sits here in the hospital looking at me— a person who does not bring hope of a clinical trial, but only a reminder of what he's going through. So what does all of this mean? I want to ask God. As I stare at this man covered in a fleece blanket that says, "World's BEST man" on it. His eyes begin to tear up when I ask him about it. He doesn't want to cry, I can tell. He wants to live. He wants to fight "it", And his only hope is a clinical trial. They have to find one, he says, As if he could easily nip it from the air. As if he could just wish one to appear in that room. I explore all the edges of his life, as if I have a right to, and poke and prod at his vulnerabilities, careful not to be too exposing— hoping to find some kind of balance. His gentle tears tell me I do. For all his good, smooth words about "strength" and "pushing through, he admits he wonders "why." Why him? Why now? He's been a good guy. So we talk about God, and how we both love him, and how it's strange yet gracious of him that we can be sad and scared, and also comforted by him. To know he is the giver of peace, and to also know that things could be different, somehow. So I pray for all the things said and unsaid, left hanging in the room. I pray for a clinical trial for him, and I walk out feeling sadder than I had before. But better shaped by God through witnessing his sorrow. I hope one day I pass him and I don't recognize him. I hope it's because he's walking and healthy, laughing with his wife, who loves him so. Maybe he recognizes me, but does not say anything because he doesn't want to ruin the moment. But he catches my eye, and I return his kind smile, not knowing that the exchange happened because he got his clinical trial.
