A Letter to my son I won’t see read
Our family was recently given a unique assignment by my son’s amazing Kindergarten teacher. The assignment was to write a time capsule letter to my son twelve years in the future. The time capsule was to be filled with small toys and trinkets of current interest as a kindergarten student, along with letters from loved ones and relatives. This is just one example of the outstanding education and experience my son has received due to this awesome teacher and elementary school.
This should have been a simple task. Write a letter, put it in an envelope, hand it to my wife and bada boom, bada bing, I’m done! Except it wasn’t easy at all. What if you probably won’t be present when your son reads your letter? How do you write that letter? How do you fit in a lifetime of hopes, dreams, wishes and advice into a letter that is due by Monday morning! This isn’t a homework assignment that I can say the dog ate. (However, our two new puppies did just eat my entire wallet.) But I digress trying to procrastinate the deep pain and sadness that I know will accompany this letter. I want to see my son’s High School Graduation ceremony twelve years down the road. I want to celebrate this accomplishment along with many more successes and various assumed accolades. I want to see the same mischievous smile and sparkling eyes as a young man walking across the graduation stage that I currently see every day trying to avoid using soap to clean himself. I want the same dreams for success and achievement for my son that parents have for their own children. Be healthy, happy and obviously earn a full ride scholarship to play football at the University of Alabama! Cancer simply does not care about my feelings, wishes or desires.
Before people rush to say I must think positive, keep fighting or I’ve got this; I can’t tell you how much I want to make all those suggested lines a reality. I am a very unrealistic realist. I am a perpetual dreamer that believes deep in my bones that odds are simply arbitrary numbers created to be overcome. Tell me I can’t do something, and I will take it as a personal challenge to not just do whatever “IT” may be; but to do it so well that it would be laughable that ever consider anything but success. When my Oncologist gave the “crystal ball” best guess for the remaining time in the hourglass of life, I immediately doubled that number in my mind. It is now a personal challenge to fight the cancer through every impossible storm and take every…