Yesterday, my wonderful and very perceptive sister left this comment on Paul’s post from September 7:

I’ve been noticing a pattern, and I’m wondering if it’s frustrating for you. At various times throughout this ordeal, you’ve described the physical and emotional struggles you’re facing, and it seems that few of us have responded (at least not publicly). And then you write a snippet of positive news (which is wonderful, and of course is what we all hope to hear), and you get encouragement and cheers. When you were first diagnosed, Kimberly wrote quite poignantly about how those of us on the periphery could lend our help. Now that you’re in a different, but still very difficult phase, I’m wondering what we can do now to support the two of you. Any requests or instructions for your devoted fans?

Melanie is not the only one who has noticed this pattern, and “frustrated” only begins to describe my reaction to it. I recognize that it is easier to respond enthusiastically to good news, or to posts about aspects of our lives other than Paul’s illness and struggles with recuperation. And don’t get me wrong, we love getting comments about anything we write. However, it is when we write about our ongoing struggles that we most need to hear from you. When Paul writes something that is filled with pain and frustration, and even some despair, and there is no response, I feel sad, and hurt, and sometimes angry.

I imagine sometimes that you read this blog as if it were the “friends” section of your daily paper. Flip to the page, read today’s news (perhaps laughing or crying or stopping to think), then go on to the next section. News flash: this is not reporting. These are our letters to you. I like to think that, if our posts from the six month anniversary of Paul’s surgery had arrived in your email inbox, we would have gotten some response. In the post to which Melanie referred, I started by writing, “Stay in touch,” and closed with, “We will let you know if you can ‘do something’ in particular to make our lives a little easier; in the meantime, ‘standing there’ with us will go a long way in helping us get through this.” Those words are just as true now as they were seven months ago. Please comment, or write, or call. Let us know you’re still here with us.

It’s a beautiful Sunday in Seattle, and I have lots of things to do. I hope you’re having a great weekend.

Love,

Kimberly

p.s. I received email recently from someone who worried that her words of support seemed cliched. I’ve been there, too; if that’s where you are, I can only suggest that you just get over it. “I’m thinking about you” and “I’m sorry to hear that you’re struggling” are perfectly good sentiments. Feel free to use them, or any of the other tried and true phrases.