How Do You Tell Your Child She Is Going to Die?

Slowly the doctor enters the claustrophobic examining room. After sending Hiedi scampering off with a nurse, he turns to me. “I’m afraid there is a tumor,” he said, and a raging ocean washes my world away.

Because I know her so well, I imagine the scene in the other room where Heidi sits upon a hospital bed. That morning, she had dressed herself in a multi-splendored outfit taking time with each detail, laughing giddily. As usual, she had grabbed a small bit of her world with two-fisted joy, so the colors she wears are in every direction and she is all be-dangled with bracelets and charms.

As I walk towards that room barely putting one foot in front of the other, I know the contrast she makes against the stark walls. Her sun-streaked hair is tied with ribbons and bows; the curls spring with their own life. In the manner of all children, her feet swing alternately, thumping against the side of the bed, clanking against the lowered metal railing. The whole thing shimmies into the wall making dull thuds each time it hits. Her small body also moves in rhythmic motion. Thump, thump, I wanna go home... wanna go home. Thump, thump, I wanna go to school... wanna go to school. Thump, thump, giggle.

In her mind’s eye, Heidi can see the world spinning in a pinwheel’s blur of colors just like the times she turned cartwheels in the front yard, over and over and over again, sunlight whirling with blue sky swirling into green grass, then sun again. High, high. Wanna go so high. Over, over, heels over head. Stick that landing. Perfect!

Thump, thump. Where’s my Mommy? Wanna go home... I’m bored! Ouch! This headache. I wish’d go away!

Her head lifts up as she hears the door open. There’s my Mommy! She’s so pretty. She looks so pretty... she looks... pretty sad. I can make her laugh. And her bright eyes dance in the overhead light, headache forgotten.

In slow motion, I approach the gurney and gently take her hand. Kneeling in front of her on the cold hospital floor, I start to speak. In my ears, my voice sounds far away as if it came from the end of a long tunnel. Hollow. So hollow. The words echo around the room and come back to crush me.

“Heidi, honey...” I hesitate as the words refuse to come out.

Heidi looks at me, puzzled. Why is Mommy doing that? her eyes say. And she wrinkles up her nose.

The words choke so hard I can barely whisper.  “I...I’m afraid... they’ve... they... have...

"They’ve found a tumor.”

“NO – Mommy! NO! I don’t want to die! NOT LIKE YOUR MOMMY! NO-NO-NO-NO-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Heidi flings her body violently against my arms as I try to restrain her.

Suddenly she wrenches loose and throws herself onto the cot and sobs in a heap. The roar of the heating unit threatens to consume her.

Slowly, my voice breaks through the deafening roar surging from her mouth. From under the ocean depths it rises, muffled by the water's weight. “Oh, sweetheart, love – that was so long ago. They’ve come so far in twenty years! The doctors have learned so much since then. It’s better now. I promise. Back then there was no hope.”

And precious little hope still, but I did not know this yet.

Innocent eyes look up at me for a moment. Then she buries her face back in the mattress. Little by little, her sobs turn to shudders. Finally her body quiets, and the shivering stops. She turns her face sideways on the mattress so that she can see, her cheek and nose bright red from where she had slammed them into the bed. One eye peers at me.

Then, “Okay, Mommy...” And she sighs. “I believe you.” Slowly, she pushes her hands under her shoulders and sits up. “Can we go home, now?”

I take a deep breath. “Sweetheart – not just yet. They are going to admit you today.”

The sniffles never grow any louder and she nods okay. The sparkle does not reenter her eyes and now they look out of place with her cheerful array.

But stuffed deep inside a restless quiet stirs. “Home, home. I wanna go home,” she chants in that place one more time. “But I can’t go home, not now,” and wants to cry. She takes a deep breath and carefully lets it out. Then she smiles a tentative smile through the tearstains.

Comments

[heather]

I still remeber being with Heidi like she's still around. I read that. I started to cry. Thinking she's not here in a form were you can hug her. But she's still around watching over us. I miss her soo much.

[[Pat Kashtock]]

Heather -- thank you. That is so sweet. It made me cry. You were always so very, very good to Heidi and it meant a lot to me then, and means a lot to me now. Thank you.

[Betsy Stalcup]

Pat, I had no idea you had lost a child. Her picture looks so dear, so full of life and the description of having to tell her that she was going to die . . . profoundly moved me. It was great to see you again last night. I knew you looked familiar. It was good that you remembered our walks at the writer's conference.
Did you read the article about Diane Komp on my website?
Bless you, dear sister!
B.

[[Pat Kashtock]]

Betsy -- Thank you. She was something -- a wild child. I should post my clock story about Heidi. Losing her piece by piece was awful. But those last few weeks, she seemed to begin the recovery to who she really was. Then suddenly, she died.

I haven't found the Komp article yet. I confess I was having too much fun reading about the mice! But I need to look for the other one. She interested me the minute you started taking about her.

Blessings,
Pat