We think of the devil as a thief. We think of fear as a thief.
Rod Stewart sang that time is a thief.
All true, each in its own way. But I'm not talking about the devil or fear or time, here.
I'm talking about me.
I'm a thief, for in my way of dealing with terminal illness...being a joking, flippant hardass...I've taken something from my wife, the emotion to which she, in a married relationship, is entitled/
What she's been denied is best illustrated in Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture" (he himself died of pancreatic cancer):
laugh at pain beyond belief
while deep in my heart the knowing
that I have become a thief.
I joke about conditions dire,
jest that I’ve not long to live,
while realizing you require
to give what only you can give,
the comfort offered in the holding,
wiping tears from anguished face,
but you’re fearful of a scolding
for I am of a another race,
a people always playing cool,
which effort only plays the fool.
Music from Bryan Adams, with Summer of '69. (Please click here if the video doesn't come up for you.)