Arms That Once Reached Up

June 19, 2025

I went to lunch with two of my boys today.

I was craving chili, something warm, simple, familiar.

Honestly? I was a little excited.

Just to sit at a table with them, laugh a little, feel the hum of life outside of chemo chairs and medication schedules.

For a little while, it felt like old times.

But as we stepped out into the sun afterward,

that familiar wave hit me.

The dizziness.

The world tilting at the edges.

The kind of weakness that doesn’t ask permission,

it just arrives, uninvited and absolute.

I had to reach out,

grab my son’s arm,

just to stay upright.

Just to keep from going down.

In that moment, I felt something crumble inside.

Not my body, I've gotten used to its betrayals.

But something deeper.

Something tied to what I used to be.

I used to lift them,

onto my shoulders when they were small,

higher than the crowds at parades,

above the treetops on hikes,

to the tops of mountains we climbed together.

I was the strong one.

The protector, the hero,

The one they reached up to.

The one who made them feel safe.

Now it’s them holding me up.

It's not just today, not just physically.

They hold me up every single day,

in the way they look at me,

in their quiet steadiness,

in how they carry on, even while watching their father change.

They hold me in their humor,

their patience,

their silent strength.

It must be hard for them to see me like this.

To see the man who once seemed invincible,

now pausing, wobbling, reaching out for balance.

I know it’s hard for me.

But they never flinch.

They don’t look away.

They don’t shrink from the moment.

They just offer an arm.

They steady me,

without words, without pity, without hesitation.

There’s something sacred in that.

Something I never expected,

and will never forget.

Because love grows up.

It evolves.

And sometimes, it flips the script completely.

Maybe the real strength I gave them wasn’t in the shoulder rides I offered,

but in the example of how to carry someone else,

with grace, without complaint,

when they need it most.

Maybe strength looks different now.

Not in lifting others,

but in allowing myself to be lifted.

We’re still walking.

Still climbing, in our own way,

Together.