My aunt Tina had been given six months to a year. Yet she remained positive, as she always had been. Even when existence was in doubt and death loomed close by, she rightly opted to celebrate life. Despite the supposed inevitability of her final calling, she held out for a miracle. She pined for a miracle from God a blessing from the heavens. Refusing to dampen her demeanor, I let her believe. But in all good conscience, as I rode with her in the car, taking her to pick up some groceries, I knew such a miracle would not be bestowed. At least not one from up above.
She raved about the quality of her doctors and their determined drive to find a cure for cancer. Her thankfulness for their hard work translated into a most profound respect for their profession. But I gave them more credit than that. If a miracle was to occur, it was going to be the work of man, not the spirit in the sky. All the progress of the centuries on earth has been brought about by the men of earth. The quality of life has increased to previously unimaginable levels not because of the kind hand of a deity but because of the Enlightenment.
Despite attempts by a few barbarians to return man to his original state (the law of the jungle glossed in rosier terms), man continues to reach new heights. But the fact that we are only in the midst of that climb that fact that we have not yet found a cure for cancer does not equate to my acceptance of the so-called realistic or fatalistic mindset. I understand man will forever be ascending as long as technology, science and the potential of man to harness nature are continually glorified and actualized. It was because I understood reality, because I grasped man’s potential and power, that I never said goodbye. I saw no reason to make the preparations for the final hug when it could have been 30 years down the road.
Often I was restless in bed and concentrated my thoughts on her. Others capped off their night by praying to God for her speedy recovery, but the visions that dominated my mind were ones of doctors, surgeons and lab technicians. For them, I looked up. For them, I got down on my knees. If God didn’t inhibit the murderous demise of 6 million Jews, then what should I have expected him to do for my aunt? Nothing. And I could barely do much myself. But I loved her and helped her celebrate life. And I lent moral support to the creators of medicines, treatments and cures. Because in them brewed the only hope she had.
I loved her enough to let her derive her happiness from whatever sources she wished. And she loved me enough to want me to follow my own course. I don’t feel guilty about not praying, and I wouldn’t have done anything different if I had to do it all over again. But I would have spent one more minute at her side, told one more joke about Raymond Burr or Johnston, R.I. and given her just another hug.
The more I looked at her and realized that, had it not been for the wonderful innovation of gamma-knife radiation, she wouldn’t have lasted as long as she did, I seriously began to harbor doubts about the existence of miracles. She didn’t last that 30 years, but she could have and that’s the ultimate point. What could have saved my aunt and what could save millions of other suffering beings is not a freak occurrence, but reason and productive achievement brought to their most logical conclusions. If she had made it until the summer, I would have been beaming with indescribable joy. But I wouldn’t have been surprised, and I wouldn’t have rushed into the nearest chapel. I’d have given her a hug and looked into her eyes. And then I’d look up at the stars and smile.
I can’t give her that hug anymore, but I am still gazing at the stars and beyond, understanding full well that there is no final frontier. And I am still smiling. If she wasn’t the most positive woman on earth, I don’t know who’d take the cake. If she didn’t have a dose of humor for even the dourest situations, then no one did. I am honored to have had my family graced by such a beacon of happiness. And I salute anyone else who wakes up each and every morning and never even contemplates the notion that he might not the next.
This cat won’t be coming back. But the stories, memories and laughs will.
Especially that one about the man with the chickens in his cupboard.
[ Jacob Cote, a freshman in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press and can be reached at favtak@bu.edu. ]
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