insidethe cocoon until it’s ready to fly? Or the way a hermit crab lives in a shell until it gets too small for his growing body and then moves to another? I like to think death is something like that.”
“I’m going to be a butterfly,” Hannah stated, and with that settled, rolled back onto the pillows and shut her eyes.
On the Threshold
HANNAH WAS DOZING ON ONE SIDE OF THE BED, HER LONG legs barely covered by her pink blanket. She was wearing only a pair of cotton underpants.
“Clothes are too scratchy,” she had said.
One of her arms lay across Margaret, who was asleep next to her, tightly bundled in fuzzy pink pajamas. The hum of the air conditioner in the window accounted for the nip in the air despite the fact that the late July sun was baking the roof overhead. The sicker Hannah got, the colder she wanted the room to be.
I rocked to the rhythm of the morphine pump’s click. As Hannah’s tumor grew, so did the amount of morphine she required. I was grateful for the way the drug seemed to dull Hannah’s pain, but the more effective it was, the easier it was to deny that she was sick enough to die. For days now, I had fantasized that she might wake up, ask to get dressed, and suggest we all go out to dinner. Claude seemed even more lost in the fantasy. Every time Dr. Kamalaker had prescribed an increase in her dose, he questioned the need to doit, explaining that he was afraid she might get addicted. Nobody had the heart to tell him that addiction is not possible for someone who is dead.
I continued to rock back and forth. A stack of books on the dresser with titles like Living With Death and Dying, Embraced by the Light , and How to Go on Living When Someone You Love Dies was as neglected as the shriveled piece of cheese that Hannah had requested and then refused to eat. Even her Christmas dress, which she had asked me to hang on the curtain rod where she could see it, seemed to be holding its breath.
I closed my eyes. My lids felt heavy and warm from too little sleep. I could feel Hannah looking at me. I opened my eyes slowly. Her arms were outstretched, reaching for me.
“Mommy, I want you to carry me to my room.”
I came alive. It was the first time in days she had asked to go anywhere other than the bathroom. Perhaps this was the moment everything had been waiting for. Hannah was taking an interest in life again. I gently and gingerly ran my hands under her bony hips and back and lifted her from the bed. I moved slowly to give her body time to adjust. I could almost hear her internal organs groan as the tumor shifted its bulk inside her. Hannah wrapped her thin arms around my neck and locked her legs around my hips. She pinned herself against me with a strength that surprised me. Her head rested on my shoulder. I breathed her in, felt her soft, “woolly mammoth” hair against my cheek. Her body was unnaturally warm given the coolness of the room. She was burning with a fever that would not break. Her chestrose and fell against mine, and I could feel both of our hearts beating—mine slow and deep, hers quick and light.
As I lifted her from the bed, I tried to imagine her sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by baby dolls and dress-up clothes. I knew the image was as fragile as a painter’s wet canvas. As I adjusted Hannah’s position on my hip, she winced. The image slid out of my mind. I tried desperately not to jiggle or jar her too much as I carried her down the stairs. When we got to the doorway of her room, Hannah reached out and grabbed the wooden molding.
“Don’t put me down and don’t go in,” she said. “I just want to look.”
The two of us stood on the threshold, watching dust dance in the late afternoon sun. A pink comforter and her cow-jumping-over-the-moon quilt stretched neatly, without wrinkles, across her bed. Dolls and stuffed animals stared blankly from their perches on the shelf. Two seashells from a preschool field trip leaned against each other on top
“I’m going to be a butterfly,” Hannah stated, and with that settled, rolled back onto the pillows and shut her eyes.
On the Threshold
HANNAH WAS DOZING ON ONE SIDE OF THE BED, HER LONG legs barely covered by her pink blanket. She was wearing only a pair of cotton underpants.
“Clothes are too scratchy,” she had said.
One of her arms lay across Margaret, who was asleep next to her, tightly bundled in fuzzy pink pajamas. The hum of the air conditioner in the window accounted for the nip in the air despite the fact that the late July sun was baking the roof overhead. The sicker Hannah got, the colder she wanted the room to be.
I rocked to the rhythm of the morphine pump’s click. As Hannah’s tumor grew, so did the amount of morphine she required. I was grateful for the way the drug seemed to dull Hannah’s pain, but the more effective it was, the easier it was to deny that she was sick enough to die. For days now, I had fantasized that she might wake up, ask to get dressed, and suggest we all go out to dinner. Claude seemed even more lost in the fantasy. Every time Dr. Kamalaker had prescribed an increase in her dose, he questioned the need to doit, explaining that he was afraid she might get addicted. Nobody had the heart to tell him that addiction is not possible for someone who is dead.
I continued to rock back and forth. A stack of books on the dresser with titles like Living With Death and Dying, Embraced by the Light , and How to Go on Living When Someone You Love Dies was as neglected as the shriveled piece of cheese that Hannah had requested and then refused to eat. Even her Christmas dress, which she had asked me to hang on the curtain rod where she could see it, seemed to be holding its breath.
I closed my eyes. My lids felt heavy and warm from too little sleep. I could feel Hannah looking at me. I opened my eyes slowly. Her arms were outstretched, reaching for me.
“Mommy, I want you to carry me to my room.”
I came alive. It was the first time in days she had asked to go anywhere other than the bathroom. Perhaps this was the moment everything had been waiting for. Hannah was taking an interest in life again. I gently and gingerly ran my hands under her bony hips and back and lifted her from the bed. I moved slowly to give her body time to adjust. I could almost hear her internal organs groan as the tumor shifted its bulk inside her. Hannah wrapped her thin arms around my neck and locked her legs around my hips. She pinned herself against me with a strength that surprised me. Her head rested on my shoulder. I breathed her in, felt her soft, “woolly mammoth” hair against my cheek. Her body was unnaturally warm given the coolness of the room. She was burning with a fever that would not break. Her chestrose and fell against mine, and I could feel both of our hearts beating—mine slow and deep, hers quick and light.
As I lifted her from the bed, I tried to imagine her sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by baby dolls and dress-up clothes. I knew the image was as fragile as a painter’s wet canvas. As I adjusted Hannah’s position on my hip, she winced. The image slid out of my mind. I tried desperately not to jiggle or jar her too much as I carried her down the stairs. When we got to the doorway of her room, Hannah reached out and grabbed the wooden molding.
“Don’t put me down and don’t go in,” she said. “I just want to look.”
The two of us stood on the threshold, watching dust dance in the late afternoon sun. A pink comforter and her cow-jumping-over-the-moon quilt stretched neatly, without wrinkles, across her bed. Dolls and stuffed animals stared blankly from their perches on the shelf. Two seashells from a preschool field trip leaned against each other on top
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