The Pugilist
written by: Richard Korst
My wife is a warrior, a fighter, the consummate pugilist.
While her fight occurs outside the ropes, she bears the boxer’s scars earned and amassed in the ring, some visible, others undetected. She’s received radiation, endured several rounds of chemo, been poked, prodded, and bled yet, each day, each moment in the ring she obstinately confronts her menacing and relentless adversary.
She has been knocked to the canvas countless times, arising after each potential knockout blow, the referee’s count perilously approaching ten as she defiantly points her gloves skyward, screaming,
“I’m good. I’m good. I can keep fighting!”
Her daughters painfully watch her staggering drop in weight-class from light-heavy weight to lightweight and internalize their fears, afraid of her startling transformation and, quietly, fearful of their own fate, their possible future battles.
Despite their concerns, they proceed like the trainer’s cornermen, tending to the stumbling fighter’s wounds, offering water and encouragement, grasping tightly to the white towel; unwilling, like their mother, to give up the fight.
My duties happen behind the scenes, preparing her for the fight, ensuring she has the energy, the doctor’s care to sustain her battle. Silently, each night, I pray to God, not for His miraculous intervention but for relief, a respite from my wife’s daily struggles. To date, my prayer has not crossed His desk, nor do I expect a quick reply, but each day provides another opportunity for hope. I’m not angry with God, hate Him or even blame Him. If I did, how could I explain all the world’s suffering and pain? How could I selfishly think my prayers would carry more weight than the millions of others offered and deferred?
No, my God sits next to me, outside the ring in the first row, His head bowed, His eyes closed. His arm drapes around my shoulders and He weeps with me, touched by my wife’s indomitable spirit, yet pained by His inability to ease her pain in this earthly realm.
The bell tolls once more, she rises from her corner stool, battered, bruised but unflinching, circles her combatant, spits adamantly and waves them in for another round. My wife is a warrior, a fighter, a pugilist, a cancer casualty, and a cancer survivor.
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