The first words I said were, “Is she going to die, Mom?” My mom said, “I don’t know, Stacie.”
At that moment, I knew that she meant “yes” in a nicer way. I ran up to my room and started crying and crying until I fell asleep.
The next day, I didn’t get to see Kiki at all. When a few days went by, I got a call from Kiki telling me that she was in the hospital. She told me that she had to go in for a bone marrow test with her brother, Sam. If this test matched, she would have a good chance of surviving. Sadly, there was no match.
Because we felt so helpless with the situation, my two sisters and I decided to do something to try to help. We called the Children’s Leukemia Center, and asked for some banners and money jars to use for a bake sale to try to raise funds for the center. We sold lemonade and cookies and made over sixty dollars. It made us feel like we were at least making a small contribution. What we really wanted was for Kiki and the other children to get well.
Months went by, and Kiki was still not getting any better. She had lost all of her hair. It was very hard for me to see her as sick as she was. But I went to see her almost every day.
The day before Kiki died, I was in school and got a message to come to Kiki’s house to say my final good-bye to my best friend. My mother came to the school to drive me to Kiki’s house. She told me that Kiki wanted to see me really badly. In the car, I was crying a lot.
I got to Kiki’s house, and I went up to her room, and everyone left so that we could talk together. We talked about everything, and I think it made Kiki feel better. Kiki seemed so brave and so unselfish, because her biggest concern was for her family. She asked me (and later, we found out, many people who knew them) to be sure to take care of her mom and dad and Sam. My last words were “I love you,” and she said, “I love you, too.”
That night I could not sleep, so I went downstairs. I had prayed every night that Kiki would get better and not die. My wishes and my praying did not help because Kiki died on that Thursday in January. It was six in the morning when my mom came down and said to me, “Stacie, she is gone.” I cried more than I ever had in my life. I could not believe that my best friend was gone. Days later, I went to Kiki’s funeral and cried even more.
One year passed, and we were having an anniversary memorial service. I have a pretty good voice, so Kiki’s mother asked me if I would sing a song from The Lion King at the service. I said yes and that I would sing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” by Elton John.
I sang it, and everyone thought it was really good. I felt that when I sang that song, Kiki was singing it with me. The first movie Kiki and I saw together was The Lion King. That was our favorite movie. When I went to say my final good-bye to her, I was wearing my Lion King sweatshirt.
Two years have passed, and I still remember Kiki. I can remember very special things about Kiki: her warmth, her big heart, and her cute laugh and smile.
I sing a lot at talent shows and plays, and every time I sing, I know that Kiki is with me. I will never, ever forget Kiki because she was so special to me. I feel that she watches over me and that she is my guardian angel. I would call her the Perfect Angel, wouldn’t you?
Stacie Christina Smith, age 12
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For support in dealing with the illness or loss of a loved one due to an illness, call Kids Konnected at 800-899-2866.]
Someone to Hold Onto
The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing—and face with us the reality of our powerlessness—that is the friend who really cares.
Henri Nouwen
Strange that I can still remember the doorbell ringing late that afternoon. I was twelve years old, and the everyday sound of that two-tone chime interrupted the gray February day.
Mom wiped her hands on the bleached dish-towel, throwing it over her shoulder as she left the kitchen. I abandoned my math homework somewhere in the “hundreds” column and raced my younger brothers to the door. We came to the required halt just as Mom entered the living room.
Waiting by our heavy front door, I could feel the wet Missouri cold pressing in from outside. I was tall enough to see through the top half where the window was. Standing on our red cement porch, just one pane of glass away, was Barb Murphy—the teenager I most admired in the whole neighborhood and in the entire world!
But Barb’s usually vibrant cheeks were drained, her perfect skin pulled tightly across her strong jawline. She kept her lapis blue eyes on my mom, who opened the door enough to greet her, but not enough to let the dog out.
There were whispered words, quick, jerking glances toward my brothers and me, and then Barb was spelling a word. It didn’t sound like any word I knew. Bits and pieces of my mother’s conversation with Barb kept distracting me, jumbling the letters. I struggled to make sense of that word. S-u-i-c-i- . . .
“Oh no, dear, not Bruce Garrett. When? Where did they find him?” And finally, the part I was straining to hear: “How did he do it?”
The mysterious letters became a black-hearted word that hit my stomach hard. I knew this word suicide, after all. Mr. Garrett, Cindy Garrett’s father, was dead. He had killed himself.
Cindy and I had played together every possible day of every summer, for all the years we had both lived in the neighborhood—since kindergarten. Mr. Garrett had built a playhouse for us, and when he made wooden stilts for Cindy, he made a second pair for me. When we were older, he bought real canvas bases for our neighborhood softball games. He drew a chart and showed us how to keep score, with all nine innings and each person’s name listed in his strong, black printing.
I think that Mr. Garrett really wanted to be accepted by us kids. If he drove up during one of our dodgeball games in the street, he would turn his radio to a rock ’n’ roll song, as loud as it would go, and wave at us as we stood by the curb. There’d be a dozen high-pitched voices overlapping one another, chorusing back, “Hi, Mr. Garrett!” as he drove by.
I tried to picture his tan face, straight nose and the shiny black hair that made him look like an Indian—without seeing the bloody mess that a bullet had made. I couldn’t do it, so I tried to stop seeing him at all.
My mom turned to me. “Annie, get your shoes and coat on, and go up there.”
What could my mom possibly mean? I stared at Barb, wondering if she would translate for me.
Mom’s voice came again. “Go stay with Cindy, and ask Mrs. Garrett if there is anything I can do. Tell her we are praying. . . .”
Finally hearing Mom’s words, I obeyed. Under my brothers’ silent stares, I got ready fast enough to catch up with Barb as she was leaving our house. But when we reached the sidewalk, she turned the other way, toward our next-door neighbors’.
“I have to tell the Parkers,” Barb told me. It sounded like she was talking to herself. She pulled a pair of knitted gloves from the pocket of her camel-hair coat and simply walked away.
Left with no alternatives that I could think of, I headed toward the Garretts’ house. I don’t remember walking up the street. I only remember following the sidewalk to the white police car and turning in there.
I went up the dark green steps to Cindy’s screened porch door and opened it as I had hundreds of times before. I stepped onto the rug made of scratchy straw squares, all woven together. I wanted my walk across that rug to the front door to last forever so I would never have to arrive within arm’s reach of the doorbell.
But the full-length glass of the Garretts’ storm door somehow came to meet me. I looked away to avoid my reflection. With the thumb of my left mitten, I punched at the doorbell twice before it actually rang. When it did, my stomach felt like Alka-Seltzer dropped into a glass of water.
What will I say to Cindy? Why am I here, anyway? What am I supposed to do?
I hadn’t thought to ask my mom about any of this. For a moment, my bewilderment outweighed my panic. I heard slow foots
teps on the other side of the white colonial door. Terrified, I watched the brass doorknob turn and tried to remember how I normally greeted my best friend.
Struggling to see through my own reflection in the glass, I didn’t even recognize her at first. In the widening space inside stood not Cindy, but Mrs. Garrett. She pushed open the storm door with a force that belied her small frame. Her eyes were wild and red, and there was a desperate sagging to her face, with lines I had never seen.
“Annie!” she cried, as she grabbed me and clutched me to her bony, collapsing chest. It was the first time that I realized Mrs. Garrett was not much bigger than I was. I let her surround me with her shaking arms, until her sobs finally quieted. She held onto me for what seemed a long time.
I didn’t know what to say or do next, but I knew this woman’s life was broken apart, shattered now like the windshield of Mr. Garrett’s blue station wagon. I was just twelve years old, but I was someone to hold onto.
During the long months that followed, I would be with them often. I learned to spend more time greeting Mrs. Garrett and to use a softer voice. I remembered to have tissues on the floor next to every board game Cindy and I played, and I knew that if my dad walked into the room, Cindy would cry harder.
More than a year later, I explained to the librarian why Cindy had walked out in tears, leaving her application for a new library card unfinished at the section that said “Father’s Occupation.”
Knowing how to be with a family in pain never became easy. But from those first moments in Mrs. Garrett’s arms, I learned that my awkwardness didn’t matter. I was there, and that’s what counted.
Ann McCoole Rigby
Rebecca’s Rainbow
O Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved, that they may tell us
What and where they may be.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
From the time she was a small girl, eleven-year-old Rebecca loved to paint rainbows. She painted rainbows on Mother’s Day cards, rainbows on valentines, rainbows on drawings she carried home from school. “You’re my Rainbow Girl,” her mother would laugh, as she stuck another picture on the refrigerator with a big rainbow magnet.
Each bright band of color reminded Rebecca of something special in her life. Red, the color at the top, was like the sweet red ketchup she dumped on top of her favorite thing to eat, french fries—and anything else she could think of. Red was also the color of her other favorite food, lobster, which her mother rewarded her with at the end of every school year for a good report card. Orange made her think of pumpkins and the holiday she liked best, Halloween, when she could dress up and be whatever she chose. Yellow was the color of her hair—long, straight, fairy-tale princess hair that hung down her back like Rapunzel’s. Green meant the tickle of grass under the palms of her hands as she turned cartwheel after cartwheel, stretching her long legs toward heaven. Blue was the color of the morning sky, which she glimpsed from the skylight over her bed. Blue was also the color of her eyes, and the color of the ocean she lived near. And purple, the band at the heart of each rainbow, was her mother’s favorite color and always reminded Rebecca of home.
It was the last weekend in May, and Rebecca was looking forward to all her end-of-school-year activities. In a few days, she would be center stage, making all her friends laugh as “the nerd” in the school play. Shortly after that, she would be doing arabesques in her annual dance recital. Her father was about to host his famous Memorial Day weekend cookout. The only unhappy note was that Rebecca’s mother was going on vacation for a few days. It was the first time her mother had been away from home since Rebecca’s parents had divorced. Rebecca was unusually anxious about the separation and cried when they had to say goodbye. Perhaps she sensed something was about to happen.
Coming home late one night over the Memorial Day weekend, Rebecca, her father and his new wife were killed when a drunk driver traveling the wrong way down the highway hit their car. Only Rebecca’s nine-year-old brother, Oliver, survived the crash, protected by his sister’s body.
Rebecca’s funeral was held on the day that she was to have starred in the school play. It was a beautiful spring day, as bright and sunny as Rebecca herself. Rebecca’s mother closed her eyes and prayed. “Rebecca, I need to know that you are at peace. Please send me a sign. Send me a rainbow.”
After her funeral, Rebecca’s grieving friends and relatives were gathered with her mother at her grandparents’ house when, unexpectedly, it began to rain. It rained hard for a while. Then all at once it stopped. Suddenly, from the front porch of the house someone shouted, “Hey, everybody! Look! Look what’s out here!”
Everyone ran outside. Out over the ocean, a rainbow had appeared. It was a great big, magnificent array of colors that came down out of the clouds as if by magic. Every hue was bright and vivid and true.
As aunts wept and uncles jostled each other to get a better look, Rebecca’s mother gazed up at the beautiful picture her Rainbow Girl had painted in the sky and whispered, “Thank you.”
Tara M. Nickerson
One Rainbow Wasn’t Enough
Think of him still as the same, I say, He is not dead; he is just—away.
James Whitcomb Riley
The day that Grandpa came to school to pick me up, I knew something was wrong because Mom was supposed to be there. We were all supposed to go out to dinner that night to celebrate our friend Sherry’s birthday. When Grandpa told me that you had a heart attack, I thought he was just kidding. When I could see that he was serious, I thought I was going to die. I was too shocked even to cry. I felt so numb and helpless. I just sat there, thinking, Why? You were so big, strong and healthy. You worked out every day. I thought you would be the last person, ever, to have a heart attack.
Being in the hospital was terrifying. You were in a coma. You had so many tubes and machines all around you. You didn’t look at all like yourself. I could feel myself shaking. I just wanted you to wake up from this horrible nightmare and take me home.
The whole hospital was filled with many people who came to see you. They treated me very nicely. I never knew you had so many kind friends. Sherry was there, too, but we didn’t celebrate her birthday.
That first day was followed by a couple of days of restless sorrow, sleepless nights, and lots and lots of praying. None of it worked. On February 26, the most tragic thing of my entire ten years of life, and for probably the rest of my life, happened to me. The one person I looked up to more than anyone else in this world died. I don’t even know if you heard me tell you good-bye.
I had never been to a funeral before. I was astonished to see that over a thousand people came. All our family and friends were there, and a lot of people I didn’t even know. I figured out afterward that you must have treated them the same special way you treated me. That’s why they all loved you. Of course, I always knew you were so special, but you were my dad. On that day, I found out how special you were to so many other people.
Even though it has been over a year, I still think about you all the time and miss you very much. Some nights I cry myself to sleep, but I try not to get too downhearted. I know I still have a lot to be thankful for. You gave me more love in ten years than a lot of kids probably ever get in their whole lives. Sure, I know you can’t play ball with me anymore on the weekends, take me to Denny’s for breakfast, tell your corny jokes or sneak me doughnuts. But I also know that you are still with me. You’re in my heart and in my bones. I hear your voice inside my head, helping to guide me through life. When I don’t know what to do, I try to think about what you would tell me. You are still here, giving me advice and helping me figure things out. I know that whatever I do, I will always love you and remember you.
I’ve heard that whenever someone dies, God sends a rainbow to take the person to heaven. The day you died, a double rainbow appeared in the sky.
You were six foot four. I guess one rainbow wasn’t enough to carry you al
l the way to heaven.
I love you, Daddy.
Matt Sharpe, age 12
A Nightmare Come True
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me!” Words can never hurt me? During my life I’ve wondered—is that myth or reality? Now I know the answer.
When I was born, my dad and mom were very young. All they wanted to do was party, and they based their lives on alcohol and drugs. As I began to grow up, I spent most of my time with my grandmother because my parents weren’t able to help raise me.
Finally, when I was about five, my dad stopped doing drugs. He went to a place to get detoxed so he could be a real father to me. My mom tried to do the same thing, but she couldn’t stop drinking.
For years I lived happily with my dad. I saw my mom off and on. It made me sad when I stayed with her because she was always crying or making promises she couldn’t keep. It was rare to see my mom without a beer in her hand. Sometimes she had this blank look in her eyes. I knew that when she looked that way, she was trying to block out all her feelings. It was the way that she hid her pain.
One day I was in the front yard when my uncle Tommy drove up. I was excited to see him, and I went up to him to give him a hug. My uncle sort of pushed me away and told me he needed to talk to my dad. Later, he left without saying good-bye to me.
I tried not to think about what he and my dad might have discussed, but after that day I started having nightmares. I was dreaming really crazy stuff, trying to figure out what my uncle had said. Night after night it went on.
My dad would wake me up, telling me it was just a dream, but the dreams felt like reality to me.
Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul: 101 Stories of Courage, Hope and Laughter Page 14