The Race

Parker can't sleep. Well, let re-phrase that. For the past week he has had trouble sleeping at night. His dreams are filled with horrible images of missing body parts, and people he is trying to get to, just out of reach. He said when he is laying in bed he can see, in his mind's eye, his stomach and how it must look to other people. And he cries about it.


I try to remind him that he is alive. Alive! And there were so many days and weeks and hours when he was termed "imminently critical," so to me, who cares about his stomach? What does it matter when he lives, he breathes, we have conversations about his life in the past and his dreams for the future. The future!

But to him, the football sized, angry red scar on his stomach does matter.


What girl will ever want to date me, or go to the beach with me, or won't cringe when I change my shirt with my stomach like this? I look like a freak!


To me, he's alive. That's all that matters. But I do understand. To him he has the Scarlet Letter seared into his flesh. And I don't know what to say to make it all go away, except to remind him of the poem below, a poem I fed my two young sons through every challenge in their lives.

THE RACE

““Quit! Give up! You’re beaten!!”” They all shout out and plead,
There’s just too much against you now, this time you can’t succeed.
And as I start to hang my head in front of failures face,
My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.

And hope refills my weakened will as I recall that scene,
For just the thought of that short race rejuvenates my being.
A children’s race, young boys, young men; now I remember well
Excitement, sure, but also fear, it wasn’t hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope, each one thought to win that race,
Or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
And fathers watched from off the side, each cheering for his son,
And each boy hoped to show his Dad that he would be the one.

The whistle blew, and off they went, young hearts and hopes of fire,
To win, to be the hero here was each young boy’s desire.
And one boy in particular, his Dad was in the crowd,
Was running near the lead and thought, “My Dad will be so proud!”

But as he speeded down the field across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win, lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself, his hands flew out to brace,
And mid the laughter of the crowd, he fell flat on his face.

So down he fell and with him hope. He couldn’t win it now.
Embarrassed, sad, he only wished to disappear somehow.
But as he fell his Dad stood up and showed his anxious face,
Which to the boy so clearly said, ““Get up and win that race!”

He quickly rose, no damage done ~ a bit behind, that’s all,
And ran with all his mind and might to make up for the fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
His mind went faster than his legs, he slipped and fell again.

He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace,
I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.
But in the laughing crowd he searched and found his fathers face,
That steady look that said again, ““Get up and win that race!”

So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last,
If I’m to gain those yards, he thought, I’ve got to run real fast.
Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, or ten,
But trying so hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell, again.

Defeat! He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.
There’s no sense running anymore ~ three strikes, I’m out, why try?
The will to rise had disappeared, all hope had fled away.
So far behind, so error prone, yet closer all the way.

I’ve lost, so what’s the use, he thought. I’ll live with my disgrace.
But then he thought about his Dad, who soon he’d have to face.
“Get up”” and echo sounded low,. ““Get up and take your place!
You were not meant for failure here, get up and win that race!”

With borrowed will, ““Get up!”” it said. ““You haven’t lost at all,
For winning is not more than this: To rise each time you fall!”
So up he rose to win once more, and with new commit,
He resolved to win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit!

So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
Still he gave it all he had and ran as if to win.
Three times he’d fallen stumbling, three times he’d rose again,
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.

They cheered the winning runner as he crossed the line, first place,
Head high and proud and happy, no falling, no disgrace,
But when the fallen youngster crossed the line, last place,
The crowd gave him the greater cheer for finishing the race.

And even though he came in last, with head bowed low, unproud,
You would have thought he won that race to listen to the crowd.
And to his Dad he sadly said, ““I didn’t do so well.”
”To me, you won,”” his father said, ““You rose each time you fell!”

And when things seem dark and hard and difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy helps me in my race.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all,
And all you have to do to win, is rise each time you fall.

“Quit! Give up! You’re beaten!”” they still shout in my face,
But another voice within me says, ““Get up and win that race!””