Parents and Children

The other day we were all gathered at Dana Farber to be there for Patty and Dad as the doctor let us know what, if anything, further can be done to help Patty beat the leukemia. As we waited, along with all of the other families of patients with double-booked appointments, the one thing that I consistently saw throughout the day were all of the parents there with their children. It did not matter whether the "children" were full grown adults, young, old, infants, toddlers, teenagers, or had children of their own; the looks upon the faces of the parents was universally the same - they were all watching as their children fight deadly diseases and some, as their children succumb to those diseases.

Part of their creation, our parents anticipated the births of each of us. Sometimes the father was witness to their child's birth as their mother went through the labor of giving life to each one. Such a moment is the only time in our lives that "normal" is actually seen as being perfect - ten little toes, ten fingers, tiny fingernails, beautiful ears, eyes, and limbs, soft skin with the glow of being just born. That first tiny yawn as the little fist comes up under a tiny chin for the first time in full view of their mom and dad. Parents have loved and cared for each of us, although some have had to make their ways in this world without that love to help them. Our parents have held us, cared for us, taught us and delighted in our being able to learn new things at each step. They hold our hands as long as they possibly can, with only death finally preventing them from being there, forever, for each of us so loved.

From the first moment they knew us, our hands were in theirs. Our tiny fingers grasped their much larger fingers before we even knew we were beings unique and wonderful, at least in the eyes of our parents.

We return to the hospital tomorrow to see the doctor Patty could not see because of all the chaos on Monday. All of us will be there, with those too far away to attend with us present in heart and mind if not in body, and we will be ready to hear what the doctor has to say, maybe. To be there is the only gift we can give at times like this and to stand by the only right thing to do. If any knees buckle with bad news, others of us will be there to catch the sufferer on the way to the floor. Our tears may mingle or we may be given some fresh hope that this disease may not yet have won its deadly battle with my sister's body. Whatever the case, I will be watching our dad; watching him gaze at one of his children who he held in his arms when they were tiny, who he brought that last glass of water at bedtime on so many nights, who he helped teach to walk and talk, whose funny little thoughts and verbal gaffs he faithfully recorded in his diary. He took pictures and movies of each of us; his sense of humor showing through on the film on many occasions; bald headed babies in boxes with pictures of Mr. Clean on them; and each picture, each movie, each memory, will be there in his mind as he listens to what may well be a death sentance for one of his beloved children.

A woman sits watching as her two daughters giggle and laugh together, one with a scarf around a bald head. Another woman tenderly helping her young adult son as he waits in his wheelchair for his turn in the line up of cancer victims. A little beauty in boldly striped jammies with a headband around her hairless pate, grinning up at her mother and father as they get ready to go into the clinic brothers and sisters in tow, and my Dad looking at my sister, quite possibly wishing it was he who was going through this instead of one of his children. Of the four of us, Patty is the one most likely to understand that look, the anguish and the pain, as she prepares to possibly say a far too early "good bye" to her own children, the only grandchildren in our immediate family. I wish I could somehow protect them all from this pain, these moments of impending loss that have haunted us with each step this disease has forced our family to take in directions we would never have chosen to go. It is a frightening thing, yet so simple and human it transcends a description of mere words. A parent is so in essence and not merely because of biology, and this has to be the hardest thing I have ever had to witness: the one who held a tiny hand when the owner was newly born now holding it as their child, their precious infant, faces death. It is a journey I hope fewer and fewer parents will have to make as science and faith continue to work together to overcome this death, this terrible unfolding of nature,this ending to all hope and life.

My Dad once said to me that no parent should have to bury their child. I think I am beginning to understand how he feels.