“While I breathe, I hope.”

dum spiro, spero.

An entry from Paperdolls & Cowboy Boots:

June 7, 1991

Jennifer’s father heard about my abuse and called me early this morning. Jennifer’s dad is a fun-loving, charismatic guy. Everyone outside of their family calls him “Boss.” Anyway, Boss asked me to lunch. Boss was a Prisoner of War in Germany during WWII. He was a fighter pilot and spent most of the war in a POW camp. He rarely talks about it.

For two hours today, I listened to him. He talked about his time as a Prisoner of War. He almost died there. He built a bond with the other American Prisoners that is unbreakable. They still get together. That’s the only time he talks about it--until now. He showed me a large scrapbook of all his medals, notes, and photos from the War. He told me to always live my life to the fullest and have fun every day. One page of his book had a single scrap of paper, barely legible:

dum spiro, spero.

I placed my finger slightly below the scrap of paper. Reverently he whispered, “While I breathe, I hope.”

The prisoners would whisper that phrase, in Latin, to one another. Sometimes, if a prisoner woke up from a horrible nightmare to realize awakening was a worse nightmare, they would slide this tiny scrap of paper to him. Boss had it when they were liberated. His eyes brimmed with tears when he said, “I almost lost hope.”

He told me to never lose hope. To remember that it’s over. When things come up that remind me of the past, to simply say to myself that I already survived it. They can’t hurt me anymore. Then, he said, “Try to do something fun.” He said, “If you can’t do something fun right then, start thinking about planning a time to have some fun.” Boss is the best skier and water skier I know. When he was in that German POW camp, he vowed that if he made it out alive, that he would live. He said, “And now, I’m telling you: live. Enjoy your life. Remember: it’s over. They can never hurt you again. You are strong. Enjoy your life: dum spiro, spero, April.”¹

Last week I heard the news that Jennifer’s brother, Boss’s youngest son, has a very progressive form of cancer, and has mere days possibly weeks to live. I am shocked and stunned. I assumed this son would live forever, or at least out live me. Like his father, Boss, this son lived life to the fullest with more of a quiet persona, he still has Boss’s steadfast capacity for love, joy, and adventure.

Here is Boss’s son, with his grandson surfing behind a boat:

Boss’s son and grandson, surfing behind the boat. Faces blurred for privacy.

It’s a bit of a challenge to learn to pop up on a surf board behind a boat. Even more challenging while holding then balancing a grandchild. As Boss said, “Enjoy your life.”

Part of the Gift is the Grief²

To my beloved survivors:

As you heal and grow, you will encounter life’s pain. It’s what everyone experiences, and nothing like the soul crushing attempted annihilation of your sense of self that you experienced when you were sexually abused as a child. Please don’t be afraid to experience love, joy, and have fun. Although you will feel pain and loss, it will never be as bad as what you experienced as a child.

Fifty springs are little room….To see the cherry hung with snow.

This past week, we had a light spring snowstorm. I glanced out my top window and watched the large, fluffy flakes cascade down in front of a flowering tree. I thought of A.E. Housman’s poem, “Loveliest of trees.” It’s about a young man of twenty who realizes he only has fifty more years to enjoy the cherry blossoms hung with snow.³

Live, love, and know that part of the gift is the grief. Life is filled with gifts. Don’t be afraid to embrace them. You deserve joy, love, and to feel the sadness when those with whom you love are gone.

Heal to embrace the wisdom that your time is finite also. Enjoy the beauty of spring blossoms, even amidst the snow.

dum spiro, spero

1. Paperdolls & Cowboy Boots, approx page 160

2. A friend said that to me after she lost a dear family member.

3. Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
—A.E. Housman