I saw a warrior stumbling today, armor all but removed. It was hard, sad, and scary. If you are around my age or older with my sense of humor, you probably watched The Carol Burnett Show. I loved that show. A favorite of mine was the Tim Conway character who shuffled his feet everywhere. He could not even lift his feet enough to step on a rug. It was funny and Conway made you laugh.

The warrior I see is walking almost like that character and it isn’t funny. He is an older gentleman and one of the technicians is walking beside him, holding his hand. The old man has an oxygen tank in a bag that he carries over his shoulder. The tech gets him to the first sofa in the waiting room. The man struggles to sit on the sofa; he finally makes it and leans forward, fighting to breathe. His wife sits beside him and gently pats his hand.

I look over at him and see how white he looks. I see his face; I have never seen that color of white before. I turn away because tears are filling my eyes. I shake my head. This shit is getting too real. People die from this, from cancer, every single day. It is really just beginning to sink in for me. I think I have been working through the shock and going through the motions. But now it is becoming real.

I am called for my appointment. I am becoming more warrior-like with each new visit to the clinic. I laugh and talk to the techs and nurses. I tease my doctor when he walks in the room, winks and says, “You still have your hair!”

“Come on, man,” I say.

He responds, “I must not have given you enough.”

I love this banter but we soon get more serious and talk about my treatments. As I walk back into the waiting room I can see an ambulance, lights blinking, outside the front door. I look toward the sofa – he isn’t there. I look at Lorene. They are taking him to the hospital. Godspeed, Warrior Brother.