One of my favorite stories is Kurt Vonnegut's "Billy The Poet"

First off, the cancer. It sucks. Chemo sucks. I have a scan on the 3rd of July, and even if it comes back clean, I still have at least two more treatments to go. The doctor has also decided that I’m a tough guy, so I can handle a little more on the dosage. Of course, I’m no crybaby, so I told him it’s ok. A couple of times last week I was hit with the whole “fatal disease” thing, and started thinking about how bad this could be. I haven’t slept in a while.

As some of you may know, I have a dog named Kirby, who been with my father since I was in Europe, right before I got sick. Kirby is a pit bull. She is 80 pounds of muscle, and a little fat, that believes she’s a 10 pound lap dog. She is an affectionate oaf. While I’m lying on the couch, with barely enough energy to keep my eyes open, Kirby will waddle over and flop her haunches on the floor next to me, just to say “I’m here”. If she senses that I am a little stronger, and willing to share her affection, she will nudge her nose under my arm with the gentleness of a mother with her babe. She will slide herself under until there contact between myself and the top of her head. She demands no more. She doesn’t urge me to pet her, or rub her belly, or play with her, she simply asks for a single point of contact, a simple touch.

The sense of human touch, and all the strength and comfort it can convey, has fallen victim to a society that increasingly overvalues the importance of personal space. While not strictly the domain of the Sicilians, touch is a very important part of our interpersonal relationships. In my family, amongst every member regardless of gender or age or interval of time between meetings, a hug and a kiss on the cheek is an autonomic response to a greeting, a well cooked meal, a touchdown by a favorite team, or a passionate discussion regarding how kids have it easier these days. When sitting on the bench after striking out, my father’s hands upon my shoulders gave me encouragement. When my cousins teased me, a hefty arm around my chest from my Uncle Tony gave me strength. When some ailment had knocked me out, my mother’s hands rubbed across my back eased my ills. At those times when I am lucky enough to have someone special in my life, the simple caress of a woman’s hand over mine, or the soft drop of her lips upon my cheek can be filled with the intensity of a thunderstorm and the gentleness of a summer breeze. At the top of my head is a spot about the size of a dime, a sweet small spot, that when lightly touched, as a fingernail slowly drawn across it, will place me in such a state of relaxation and contentedness that I feel safe and sound from any harm the world may have planned for me.

As I lay on the bed, curled under blankets, distraught by the cold and nausea and the pain of my treatment, the enormity of my father’s love, felt through the easy touch of his hand on my arm, urges me forward. As my mind is clouded and my will sapped, I can regain so much hope when my sister sits at my side, and I place my head in her lap. And when I am well, in those few days I am allowed to be myself, a warm hug with friends reminds me of why I fight. An entire universe is created in a single point of contact.