Jan 2004
No. 8
Not Quite Forgiveness
by Melisa Wong
Pre-Medicine; Stanford University
Through the dense morning fog that brushes the coastline,
A man slowly moves along a faint path in the sand toward me.
Only the emptiness of his shadow can be seen.
His fragile silhouette leans heavily on a walker,
Too proud to be confined to a wheelchair,
But too desperate to refuse the helping hand.
Over the crashing waves, I hear his violent coughs and gasps for air,
Reminders of a destructive habit that took his once healthy lungs.
As he nears, his identity still remains unknown.
Society recognizes him as a man with lung cancer, brought upon by his own hand.
Not an unfortunate victim of a randomly assigned disease,
But a man who asked to be sick by smoking a daily pack of Marlboro Lights.
Society debates whether or not he deserves empathy,
Whether or not his smoking diminishes his courage to face treatment.
Denigrated by society to be a container of disease, the man continues to walk.
Physicians recognize him as a patient with an illness, not simply a disease.
A patient who quit smoking immediately after he learned of his fate
To attempt to correct his lifelong mistake.
Physicians, despite their earnest efforts, cannot restore his cancerous body.
Only the promise of healing provides comfort,
And his humanity gradually returns.
As the man emerges from the haze, his identity becomes clear. This man is my father.
His eyes dim with regret when he realizes that I too am a part of society,
The part that struggles not to cast blame and sadly only sometimes succeeds.
He reaches out for a steadying hand as if to apologize for cutting short our future.
I extend my hands in understanding but not quite forgiveness
And help him sit down on the sand.
Together, we watch the waves break and I remember how we used to play in the water.
I close my eyes and feel my father's presence stronger than before.
I open them again, and I sit alone on the sand that once had a seat for two.