Perspective

A keeps nodding off on the ride to the hospital.  Each time she wakes she asks if her face is less swollen.  “You look beautiful,” I say.  But she isn’t swayed.  “You always say that,” she says. “Even when my face is puffy.  So I lie.  She holds cold compresses to her face.  Sleeps on a stack of pillows to keep her head up.  And spends long minutes touching her face while staring in the mirror.  Lying is the least I can do. 

I hand over my credit card at the cafeteria for the 6^th, the 13^th, the 20^th time without hearing how much I owe.  I have to eat, and it all tastes the same anyway.  I drink coffee, wanting my second cup before I finish my first.  But the tiredness doesn’t go away.  Not really.  It has become a part of who I am, with an ache behind my eyeballs, and a twitch in my eyelid. 

“I’m thirsty,” A says.  “Can I have a drink?”  And although saying yes feels like it would be right, I have to say no.  She looks discouraged, but doesn’t fuss.  “My throat is dry” she says, rubbing at her neck.  “OK,” I say. “But just a sip.”  But she decides not to take it, worried it will make her face puffier.

The nurse turns over A’s arms, poking at each with her fingers.  “What are you doing?” A asks, even though she has been through this several times, and definitely knows.  “Just looking for a spot,” the nurse replies.  A notices a dark bruise in the crook of her arm, and points to it cautiously.  “What is THAT?”  The nurse pats her leg gently.  “We just need to give that spot a break.”      

 My Mom tells me she doesn’t understand why any child suffers.  And the fact that A is suffering with all she has been through in her seven years?  I hear my Mom’s voice waver and crack.  But she has faith.  She prays every day, and she knows God will answer.  What do I have?  Is it faith, or something else? It doesn’t matter, because I pray every day too.  Lying in the bed each night, I send my pleading whispers up while A breathes softly beside me.  “What can I do?” everyone asks.  “Pray.” I say.  “Send good thoughts/positive vibes/healing energy, whatever works for you.”   Make such a clamor that anyone who might be listening has no choice but to hear.

We massage A’s legs and feet, Sue on one side, me on the other.  Her feet look misshapen, and the skin on her legs is so tight you can see every tiny bump and scar.  “My legs look better, right?” she asks.  And we lie, rubbing the calves and caressing each swollen toe. 

This place of uncertainty feels like a cave to me.  And I’m standing on the edge of a pit in this absolute darkness, with no idea of which way to turn.  Or every day I roll this huge rock up this huge hill – more positive encouragement, more hugs, more failed attempts to make her food taste good, more goofs to make her laugh, more lies.  Whatever works.  But every day ends the same.  The rock rolls down.  The lights go out.  And I’m left in the darkness, at the edge of a pit, sending my pleading whispers to God.  Or anyone who will listen. 

But she is a light.  Through it all, she is a light.  She tells the doctors and nurses she loves their boots, their nails, their shirts, their style.  She forgets their names, but says “Hey BFF, I missed you!”  whenever they enter the room.  She teases, pretending that when her mother goes off to speak quietly with the doctors, she is going off to kiss them.  She calls me knucklehead, old man, and tells the doctors that I fart all the time.  And she laughs.  Loud laughs and quiet giggles, they are beautiful sounds all the same.       

So I roll the rock up the hill, and find the faith that one day she will be healthy and well again and I won’t have too.  Because with swollen toes and puffy eyes and a dry throat and a dark bruise on the inside of her arm this seven year old is a light.  Through it all, she is a light. And rolling that rock is all that I can do.