Max has had the Fentanyl patch on him for three days now. You could say he's acting either like an angsty teenage stoner (staring out the window, sighing and whimpering) or a love-sick hero trying to snap out of it (staring out the window, then vigorously shaking himself and whimpering).

This had been so, so hard for us. One thing that helped immediately was a suggestion from Max's teacher Judi. "Don't talk to him in a 'Sympathy Voice,'" she said. "He'll hear the distress in your voice and that will compound his own distress."

Honestly, I'd been talking to him in Baby Talk the whole time and I just stopped and he was a little better. Well, I know I was. I keep saying in an optimistic tone, "Well, Max, we'll get through this. And then you can tell the story of how you survived the pit bull attack!" It's doesn't erase the pain (either physical or emotional) but it proves to me once again, that's it all about on what we choose to focus.

I can't very well pretend this is no big deal as I apply hot compresses to his oozing, bloody wounds. I've been forced to think hard about forgiveness in regards to Max's attacker, or more correctly, the attacker's owners. So I'm forced to take my own advice: "Feel your feelings, give them a voice and then move on."

Max seems to be processing this whole thing pretty well in spite of the fact that he is on major narcotics and wearing that hideous plastic Cone on his head. I give him a break from The Cone when I can be around to make sure he doesn't lick and pull out the stitches.

Yesterday was the first time we left him alone (with Cone on) because I officiated at a funeral. It was a bright, crisp, achingly gorgeous day. The burial was at a small cemetery in Mt. Vernon and the memorial service at a beautiful little church in Conway. In my homily I talked about how when all is said and done, the most important things in life are not things at all, but the quality of your relationships. Who loves you, who have you loved and more importantly, who have you forgiven?

After the burial service we walked back to the car through the cemetery. I looked at all the different gravestones. Did any of these people take their anger or bitterness to their graves? If they did, it didn't matter now.

Just then a sharp wind cut through the trees and blew leaves and sticks across the gravestones. And at that moment I let the wind take all my anger and fear around Max's attack. I didn't want to carry those feelings to my car, let alone my grave.

In Good Taste

I just read that as some people age, their tongues lose the ability to taste bitterness. I think that happens in our emotional lives as well. So the older we get, the less bitter we are about life.

But of course this doesn't happen with everybody. I'm always shocked and saddened when I meet patients in their seventies and up who have been carrying a grudge for some fifty years or more.

It seems that having cancer can make old grudges float to the surface like so many dead goldfish. I recently saw an elderly man who said that forty years ago he found his wife with his best friend "ten toes up and ten toes down." He recounted this experience with such anger and venom, it was as if it had happened yesterday.

After a while we got around to talking about what it would be like if he could let go of his bitterness. He looked shocked. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because then you wouldn't have to carry around that poisonous anger."

He shook his head and muttered, "Ruined my life."

It was as if he was carrying around a little old ratty blanket covered with filth and burrs. He didn't want to give up the familiarity of the blanket in exchange for the release of his pain.

He didn't have many friends and had successfully alienated his kids. As his son later told me, "Who wants to be around a toxic waste dump?"

I don't mind losing my ability to taste bitterness because it increases my ability to taste the sweetness of Life.

I like to think that it's a gift of aging.