Hannah's Gift

by Maria Housden

  I wasn’t even aware of having forgotten. It was as if I had been sucked out of the story of cancer, treatment, worry, and death. Hannah was playing in the dirt, and I was visiting with a friend. It was a moment of nothing special, of nothing going on.

  In a flash, whatever had sucked me up spit me out again. Even so, something felt different. Although I remembered now that Hannah was sick, some part of the stillness had remained.

  Later, I sat on the front porch, in the residue of that stillness, peeling away the layers of night sky. I noticed first the moths, beating their powdery bodies against the bulb of the porch light, then bats, with aerial precision, whiffing past. Beyond the bats, the moon, with its huge, unblinking face, then the planets flickering and galaxies spinning on an endless carpet of stars.

  Listening to the night, I felt poised on the edge of greatness, certain that the silence I was feeling was God.

  Celebrate

  I HEARD HANNAH PADDING UP THE STAIRS. I OPENED MY eyes and stretched. It was time to get up. I heard the shower running; Claude had managed to get out of bed without waking me. God bless him.

  The door to our bedroom burst open.

  “Mommy,” Hannah cried, “isn’t this a great day to be alive?”

  She had stopped in the doorway, bright-eyed and beaming, her pink blanket dragging behind her. A puff of inch-long, fine blond hair stuck out every which way on her head. Her cheeks were full and pink. I noticed, for the first time, that the ruffled hem of her nightgown no longer pooled on the floor. I could see tiny, pink-polished toenails where it brushed the tops of her feet. As I smiled at her, she let go of the doorknob and her blanket, ran across the room, and flung herself onto the bed. Crawling toward me, she burrowed under the covers and nestled her head in the space between my neck and shoulder.

  “Yes, Hannah,” I said, burying my nose in her hair. “This is a great day to be alive.”

  JOY IS THE MAGIC and stillness that stand on the threshold of every moment, the experience of giving and living fully, without expecting anything in return. Because joy knows no rules, it isn’t afraid to be imperfect, and it can surprise us even in the darkest places.

  Faith

  from “my will be done”

  to “thy will be done”

  Every time that we say ‘Thy will be done,’

  we should have in mind all possible

  misfortunes added together.

  —Simone Weil

  Thy Will (and Mine) Be Done

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS SPRING DAY, A WEEK BEFORE EASTER. Hannah and I had decided to walk to church. Will had ridden his bike ahead, and Claude, who had slept in, said he would join us later. Hannah and I held hands. Bulbs and buds, dormant all winter, were bursting into life. One magnolia tree, in particular, caught my eye. It was taller than the houses on either side; its branches, covered in enormous white-and-purple blooms, stretched upward, into forever.

  “Mommy,” Hannah said, pointing to it, “those are the flowers I’m going to have at my wedding!”

  “They’re beautiful, Hannah,” I said, exhaling a prayer for it to be true. “Who are you going to marry?”

  “Daddy, you silly.” Hannah laughed.

  These days, Hannah looked too healthy to be sick. She had already worn through her first pair of red shoes, and when we went to replace them, her foot was a half-size bigger. In the three and a half months since her transplant, our lives had once again settled into a deceptively normal routine. I wanted to believe it was going to last, but I smelled the not-knowing in the air. Dr. Kamalaker had scheduled a routine X-ray and CT scan for the following week.

  Sitting in church, I stared at the huge cross that hung from the ceiling behind Laurajane. I had never appreciated more fully the Christian story of the Easter resurrection. If God was capable of raising Jesus from the dead, couldn’t He save Hannah, too?

  And if He could, what was He waiting for?

  “Thy will be done,” I prayed from the bottom of my heart, knowing even as I said it that what I was really trusting was that His will was also my own.

  Say Yes

  CLAUDE’S SNORES WERE COMING FROM HANNAH’S ROOM; the two of them had fallen asleep halfway through her bedtime story. Will was waiting for me to tuck him in, and I knew why.

  Less than a week ago, a few days after Easter, Dr. Kamalaker had slid a piece of film under the clip of a light board and pointed to the spot where the cancer had metastasized. At the time of Hannah’s transplant, Claude and I had made a commitment not to subject her to any more treatments, but that was then; we asked Dr. Kamalaker to schedule another surgery immediately.

  Early this morning, Claude had loaded our suitcases, Hannah’s and mine, into the minivan for the trip to the hospital. I had walked Will to his friend Jeff’s house, given him a kiss, and reminded him that Lili would pick him up after school. But when school was over, Lili was not there; Claude, Hannah, and I were waiting instead.

  Now, as Will tossed his pile of stuffed animals onto the other twin bed to make room for me, I could see he had been crying. Easing my pregnant body next to him, I gathered him into my arms.

  “Oh, Muffin,” I said, kissing the top of his head, savoring his little-boy softness.

  “Mom,” he said, his voice muffled against my chest, “why didn’t the doctors do Hannah’s surgery?”

  Part of me was desperate to avoid this conversation, but I knew Will was trusting me to be honest with him, and he deserved to know.

  “Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “Hannah’s lump is in a different place this time. It has grown very close to Hannah’s spinal cord and is wrapped around some very important veins. The doctors can’t take this one out.”

  “But, Mom,” Will cried, lifting his head to look at me, “can’t they at least take out part of it?” He paused. “If they don’t,” he said slowly and deliberately, “Hannah’s going to die.”

  My eyes filled with tears. I took a breath and choked them back. I wanted to be with Will in his pain. I didn’t want to overwhelm him with my own.

  “The truth is, Will,” I said, picking my way slowly through the darkness that was threatening to engulf me, “no matter what we do, the doctors think Hannah only has a few months to live. If we do surgery, even to take some of the lump out, it means Hannah will be in a lot more pain between now and when she dies than if we do nothing.”

  Will threw his arms around my neck and sobbed. I felt as if my heart might drown in his pain. Waves of anger surged through me. Wasn’t it enough for God that Hannah was going to die? Did He have to take Will’s six-year-old innocence, too?

  From infancy, Will had seemed more mature than other kids his age, but now, I would have given anything for him to know much less than he did. Months before, when Hannah first got sick, I had given him a blank journal and encouraged him to draw his feelings in it. For a long time, he hadn’t made any entries. Recently, though, he had begun to share some of his pictures with me. The earliest ones were mostly intricate sketches of wounded or bleeding baseball players or American Indians, but just before Easter he had drawn an elaborate cross alongside what looked like a war memorial with an American flag. Underneath, he had carefully printed Hannah’s name.

  “I am so sorry, Will,” I said when I finally felt able to speak. “I wish I could have told you anything else, but I believe you deserve to know the truth. That way, you have the same chance that Dad and I have to appreciate Hannah while she’s here.”

  “It’s just not fair,” Will cried, shaking his fists in the air. “Hannah wants to be a big sister so much. Is she going to live long enough to see our new baby?”

  “I don’t know, Will,” I said, amazed by how much he had already thought through. “The only thing I know to do is pray that she does.”

  “I have been praying, Mom,” Will cried, “but how can God expect us to believe in Him if He’s going to let Hannah die? I’ll hate Him if He does.”

  I nodded, admiring his courage for having said it ou
t loud, but offering a prayer to God just in case. I was feeling less and less sure of my faith. I wasn’t about to run the risk of pissing Him off.

  “Mom, does Hannah know she’s going to die?” Will asked, his sobs subsiding.

  “I’m not sure, but I think she does,” I told him.

  “Well, I don’t want anyone to tell her, because I don’t want her to be scared.”

  “I can appreciate that, Will,” I told him, “but I also believe that if Hannah doesn’t already know, she’s going to figure it out. If she asks me, I’ll have to tell her the truth. I don’t want her to know she’s going to die and not be able to talk to someone about it.”

  Will thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess that’s okay,” he finally agreed. “But Mom, when you know that Hannah knows, will you tell me? I want her to be able to talk to me about it, too.”

  “It’s a deal,” I said, hugging him.

  He was quiet.

  “Mom, if all of our grandmas and grandpas are still alive, who is Hannah going to know in heaven?”

  “Hmm,” I said, shaking my head, “that’s a good question.” I paused. “Well, your great-grandparents are in heaven, right?”

  “Yes, but Hannah probably won’t know them.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I said, thinking as fast as I could. “I wonder if Bub, our kitty that died, will be there?”

  Will rested his chin in the palm of his hand and stared into space.

  “Yes, I think Bub will be there,” he said finally, “and I guess, if you believe the Bible, Jesus will be there, too.” He sounded skeptical.

  “Don’t forget the babies you miscarried, Mom,” he added, his eyes wide open with excitement at the thought. “Even though we never met them in person, they’re our brothers and sisters, too. Wow, that’s cool! Hannah’s going to get to meet them before we do!”

  He threw his arms around me.

  “Thanks, Mom. I feel a lot better.” He was quiet for a moment. I waited.

  “Actually, Mom, I’m glad you told me,” he said finally. “You know how Hannah always wants to sleep in my other bed and usually I say no? Well, from now on, I’m going to say yes whenever she asks.”

  Healing Service Hypocrite

  CLAUDE, WILL, HANNAH, AND I FOLLOWED LAURAJANE DOWN the center aisle to the chairs that had been reserved in the front row. Hannah was wearing her new red-and-pink-flowered Easter dress, white tights, and her red patent leather Mary Janes. She held my hand while we walked, barely able to contain her excitement; she knew this service was for her. Will, looking handsome and serious in his freshly ironed shirt, blue jacket, tie, and crisply creased chinos, followed behind with Claude. His crew cut had grown out, and although his hair was still short, he had spent a lot of time in front of the bathroom mirror earlier, parting, wetting, and combing it.

  As we reached our seats, I turned to look at the congregation. The sanctuary was filled, mostly with people we knew. The crowd had fallen silent when we entered, their hush respectful and curious. I was grateful for the attention. Hannah’s cancer was now the center of my world; I appreciated that, at least in this moment, it seemed to be the center of everyone else’s, too.

  The news of Hannah’s inoperable tumor had shaken our community. So many people had asked Laurajane what they could do to help that she thought of offering a healing service for Hannah at our church. When she first told Claude and me about it, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Although I loved the idea of people gathering to support one another, I was afraid that calling it a “healing” service would create impossible expectations. To me, “healing” meant a cure; I didn’t want anyone to consider Hannah, Laurajane, or themselves a failure if Hannah died.

  I was worried about Laurajane, too, concerned that she was putting too much pressure on herself, perhaps even challenging God. I remembered our conversation in the intensive care unit, when she had wondered about how well she knew Him, whether she was up to the task of being a minister. I hated the thought of her or anyone else using Hannah as a test case for their faith.

  I also believed that, no matter what we did, prayer was not going to save Hannah.

  Still, sitting at the front of the church, I could feel a genuine sense of love and care coming from everyone in the room. I wished I didn’t feel like such a hypocrite in their midst. Glancing over at Claude, his fists clenched, his eyes tightly closed, tears sliding down his cheeks, I worried that he might accuse me of poisoning the whole pot if he knew what I was thinking; I also worried that he would be right. For the first time in his life, Claude had been reading the Bible and praying every day. I knew he would let Satan suck the heart out of his chest if it would save Hannah’s life. My faith felt hollow and small compared to his.

  The organist started to play, and everyone stood to sing. Hannah tugged at the hem of my dress.

  “Pick me up, Mom,” she said. “I want to see who’s here.”

  Lifting her onto my hip, I balanced the hymnal on my burgeoning belly. Will took the book from my hand and held it up for me to see. I smiled at him gratefully.

  “Oh, Mommy, look,” Hannah whispered loudly, peering and pointing over my shoulder, “there’s Nurse Amy, Dr. Kamalaker, Dr. Edman, and Dr. Markoff … and Mrs. Fisher and Mrs. Forsythe, Jackie and Jeff and their mom and dad …”

  She squirmed and twisted to get a better view. Laurajane began her message, but it was hard for me to hear. Hannah was still whispering the names of everyone she recognized in my ear. Finally, when Laurajane began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, Hannah paused. Turning to face the cross, she clasped her hands, bowed her head, and in a loud, clear voice, recited the prayer word for word. Hearing her, I felt proud and oddly reassured. If Hannah was going to die, surely it would count for something that she knew the Lord’s Prayer.

  It was time for the children to sing. Hannah and Will joined the others on the carpeted steps at the front of the church for a rousing rendition of “Jesus Loves Me.” Will stood proudly and protectively behind Hannah, resting his hands on her shoulders. I felt proud of the two of them, and grateful to see so many children at this service. It seemed a fitting tribute to the way that Hannah’s illness hadn’t been hushed up and tucked away as if being sick were something to be afraid or ashamed of.

  Rick, one of the more conservative members of our congregation, stood and asked for a microphone. My smile froze on my face. Every cell in my body screamed “Warning, warning.” Rick started speaking.

  “God is capable of working a miracle, right here, right now.”

  This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. Our faith was being hijacked; it was all on the line. I breathed deeply into my rising panic, and let myself hear Rick’s words.

  “… Love,” he said, “is the source of all healing.” I exhaled and felt my resistance begin to slip away.

  He motioned for us to come up to the altar. Hannah bounced out of her seat. She was loving being the center of attention. Will followed close behind, Claude and I more slowly. Laurajane stood, placing her hands on top of Hannah’s head. Hannah closed her eyes. Offering a prayer for Hannah’s healing, Laurajane invited Claude, Will, and me to join her. When all four of us had placed our hands on Hannah’s head, Rick motioned for everyone in the second row to come up. They gathered in a circle around Laurajane, Claude, Will, and me, placing their hands on our shoulders. Gradually everyone in the sanctuary rose and came to the front of the church, forming circles around circles.

  While death is inevitable, knowing you are loved is not. When I saw Hannah’s radiant face in the center of that circle, I realized that healing can happen even without a cure. No matter when Hannah died, she would die knowing that her life had mattered, that she was completely loved. I couldn’t imagine a more profound healing than that.

  … And the Cow Jumped over the Moon

  A FEW DAYS LATER A PACKAGE ARRIVED, ADDRESSED TO “Miss Hannah Martell.” It was from someone in Colorado. Curious. I didn’t think we knew anyone in Colorado. Hannah unwrappe
d and opened it.

  “Oh, look, Mommy,” she said, “it’s the cow jumping over the moon!”

  She lifted a beautiful, child-size quilt into the air for me to see. It was an exquisite piece of work. The fabric on one side was cream with light pink flowers and moss-colored ivy. The other side was a delightful patchwork of green, orange, lavender, and pink, surrounded by a border with green, purple, and blue cows leaping over crescent moons and white stars in a pink sky. Someone had put a great deal of time and effort into making it. I wondered who.

  At the bottom of the box was a manila envelope containing a handwritten note and a cassette tape. I scanned the note and then ran to the garage where Claude was changing the oil in his car.

  “Read this,” I said breathlessly, handing him the note and the tape. He frowned and wiped his hands on a towel. I watched his eyes scan the note as mine had done and then return to the beginning, taking his time. Halfway through, he started to cry.

  The note was from one of Claude’s cousins, someone he hadn’t seen in years. She told us that when she first heard that Hannah was sick, she had decided she would make a quilt for her. As the months passed, her life had become busier and her heart heavier; she had begun to think she would never get to finish the quilt before Hannah died. Then, a week ago last Sunday, she wrote, she had gone to church. As soon as the service was over, an elderly woman she recognized but didn’t know had approached her.

  “I know you don’t know me,” the woman said, handing Claude’s cousin a package, “but for some reason I can’t explain, I know I need to give this to you.”

  She continued, “I make quilts, and some time ago, I felt compelled to make this one. It’s for a young child; that’s all I know. The whole time I was making it, I was wondering whose it was. I still don’t know, but as I sat in church last week, something told me that you do.”