the other, I knew that only the most awesome grace could have arranged this day: both my girls in the same world, and Will coming home.
Metamorphosis
I WAS SITTING IN A ROCKING CHAIR IN OUR BEDROOM, nursing Margaret, who was a week old. Will was sitting on the floor, staring out the window. A picture book about dinosaurs lay open at his feet. Hannah was on the bed, lying in a half-seated position against a pile of pillows, covered by her pink blanket. Her eyes were closed, but I didn’t think she was asleep.
Several days before, she had announced, “I hurt too much. I want to sleep in the bed that smells like you and Daddy.”
Her tumor was growing rapidly now, large enough to press against her ribs and spinal cord. Although a constant dose of morphine was being pumped into her body, twenty-four hours a day, Hannah could no longer walk; she had to be carried. Other than asking to go to the toilet, she seemed content to stay where she was.
I felt frustrated that there wasn’t more I could do to help Hannah, and longed for information about how to prepare her and us for her death. Pat had given me what she could,but the hospice she worked for rarely dealt with dying children; none of the hospices in our area did. It seemed almost inconceivable to me that there had been shelves of books, videos, and even classes at the hospital to prepare Hannah for Margaret’s birth. Where were the experts now, when I needed to prepare her for her death?
I had done my best to anticipate what Hannah might need. The antique rocking chair was a testament to that. It had always been Hannah’s favorite spot to snuggle and read. I had asked Claude to bring it upstairs, imagining it would be the perfect place for us to spend her final days. I was wrong. “It hurts too much,” she said. My image of us rocking peacefully into her death was simply one more thing I had to let go of.
Will looked up.
“Mom, how long does it take a body to become a skeleton?”
Hannah heard Will’s question. Her eyes popped open. These days, death was one of her favorite subjects.
You’ve got to be kidding , I thought. I was all for telling the truth and facing fears; but I wasn’t ready for this conversation.
“I’m not sure, Will,” I said, feeling that I didn’t want to know, either.
He screwed up his lips and creased his brow, as if he were contemplating probable rates of decomposition. Hannah had her own ideas.
“You know,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief, “they can bury your body, but they can’t bury your spirit!”
She was grinning. Will looked at her and grinned, too.
“That’s great, Hannah,” he said. He turned to me.
“What do you think, Mom? Do our spirits go to heaven even though our bodies are buried?”
I had been waiting for this question for a while. I had even wondered if I should bring it up myself. I loved that the two of them had done it on their own.
“Well,” I began, my thoughts tripping seven sentences ahead of my words, “I believe that when the body is too sick or too old to live anymore, it dies, and then the soul is free.”
“What happens to the soul after the body dies, Mom?” Will asked.
“I’m not really sure,” I admitted. “Some people believe that souls go to heaven after the body dies. I think I believe that, too.”
“Me, too,” said Hannah.
Will wanted to know more. “I know the Bible says that, but does anybody else?” he asked.
“Well,” I answered, “I’ve been reading books about something called a ‘near-death experience.’ Sometimes people die for a few minutes, like in very serious surgeries or car accidents, but then doctors manage to bring them back to life. When this happens, those people describe death as a long tunnel with a bright light at the other end that draws them into a place of beautiful love. Not everyone believes that’s what happens. I guess we can’t be sure until we do it ourselves.”
I continued. “You know how a butterfly grows
Metamorphosis
I WAS SITTING IN A ROCKING CHAIR IN OUR BEDROOM, nursing Margaret, who was a week old. Will was sitting on the floor, staring out the window. A picture book about dinosaurs lay open at his feet. Hannah was on the bed, lying in a half-seated position against a pile of pillows, covered by her pink blanket. Her eyes were closed, but I didn’t think she was asleep.
Several days before, she had announced, “I hurt too much. I want to sleep in the bed that smells like you and Daddy.”
Her tumor was growing rapidly now, large enough to press against her ribs and spinal cord. Although a constant dose of morphine was being pumped into her body, twenty-four hours a day, Hannah could no longer walk; she had to be carried. Other than asking to go to the toilet, she seemed content to stay where she was.
I felt frustrated that there wasn’t more I could do to help Hannah, and longed for information about how to prepare her and us for her death. Pat had given me what she could,but the hospice she worked for rarely dealt with dying children; none of the hospices in our area did. It seemed almost inconceivable to me that there had been shelves of books, videos, and even classes at the hospital to prepare Hannah for Margaret’s birth. Where were the experts now, when I needed to prepare her for her death?
I had done my best to anticipate what Hannah might need. The antique rocking chair was a testament to that. It had always been Hannah’s favorite spot to snuggle and read. I had asked Claude to bring it upstairs, imagining it would be the perfect place for us to spend her final days. I was wrong. “It hurts too much,” she said. My image of us rocking peacefully into her death was simply one more thing I had to let go of.
Will looked up.
“Mom, how long does it take a body to become a skeleton?”
Hannah heard Will’s question. Her eyes popped open. These days, death was one of her favorite subjects.
You’ve got to be kidding , I thought. I was all for telling the truth and facing fears; but I wasn’t ready for this conversation.
“I’m not sure, Will,” I said, feeling that I didn’t want to know, either.
He screwed up his lips and creased his brow, as if he were contemplating probable rates of decomposition. Hannah had her own ideas.
“You know,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief, “they can bury your body, but they can’t bury your spirit!”
She was grinning. Will looked at her and grinned, too.
“That’s great, Hannah,” he said. He turned to me.
“What do you think, Mom? Do our spirits go to heaven even though our bodies are buried?”
I had been waiting for this question for a while. I had even wondered if I should bring it up myself. I loved that the two of them had done it on their own.
“Well,” I began, my thoughts tripping seven sentences ahead of my words, “I believe that when the body is too sick or too old to live anymore, it dies, and then the soul is free.”
“What happens to the soul after the body dies, Mom?” Will asked.
“I’m not really sure,” I admitted. “Some people believe that souls go to heaven after the body dies. I think I believe that, too.”
“Me, too,” said Hannah.
Will wanted to know more. “I know the Bible says that, but does anybody else?” he asked.
“Well,” I answered, “I’ve been reading books about something called a ‘near-death experience.’ Sometimes people die for a few minutes, like in very serious surgeries or car accidents, but then doctors manage to bring them back to life. When this happens, those people describe death as a long tunnel with a bright light at the other end that draws them into a place of beautiful love. Not everyone believes that’s what happens. I guess we can’t be sure until we do it ourselves.”
I continued. “You know how a butterfly grows
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