Andrew was sleeping again when I slipped into the room. My dad was sitting upright in the chair, asleep too, with his briefcase on his lap, his C-Pap machine on the floor next to his feet.
I bent down to wake him. “How was the night?”
His head bobbed and he rubbed at his eyes. “Just fine. We did just fine.”
My dad slept though all sorts of chaos when I was young, so I wasn’t surprised he didn’t notice any disruptions throughout the night.
After he left, I made myself comfortable and began writing a few emails to friends and family to keep them up to date. Although I generally left out the gory details of our existence and shared only the surface facts, my closest friends knew how to read between the lines: Things were getting bad.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I was trying to compose a positive thought to complete an email to one of Andrew’s old teachers. I pulled out my phone along with a bunch of wadded up used Kleenex, and a slip of folded paper. I recognized it immediately. It was a few lines of scripture I had written on a grocery receipt: Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go. – Joshua 1:9
I remembered writing the note weeks before. It was intended for Hannah—words of encouragement for the times we were absent. But here it was, in my hand now, reminding me that God was somehow with us. I tucked it back in my pocket as a familiar voice came on the line.
“Hi, Kristin, how is Andrew? Is this a good time to talk?”
It was Carol, a long-time friend whom I hadn’t talked to since we moved into the hospital months before.
“Sure. Andrew is sleeping and I’m just writing some notes. How are you?”
“Well actually, I’m downstairs. Do you think you could get away for a short while to meet me for lunch?”
A lunch date? I was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing my friend as much as escaping the room. I checked in with the nurse, grabbed my purse, and quietly slipped from the room.
“I woke up this morning thinking of you,” she told me as we ate. “Suddenly I felt I should drive down here.”
I was speechless.
“Now tell me, how are you really?”
I felt my carefully put together facade crumble immediately. The walls I had built around me, to protect me from the reality of my life, were broken and I couldn’t contain the raw truth. “Not so good,” I admitted through a stream of tears.
We sat in the far corner of the coffee shop, hidden from others on their daily quest for a caffeine fix. “Just when I think it can’t get any worse, it does. Every night when I go to sleep, I wish I didn’t have to wake up.”
I began to tell my story through snotty sobs, tugging it from the deep, dark places inside of me, places I rarely went, places I avoided for fear I would never be able to return. I told her how one minute I felt so strong, my convictions feeling like peace, then the next moment I felt hope slipping from my grasp.
Carol paused, biting her lip and tucking her auburn hair behind her ears, measuring her words carefully. “Do you know the difference between the words resign, and relinquish?” she asked.
I shook my head. What did that have to do with anything?
“To resign, is to give up, or give into. It leaves you with a feeling of hopelessness. But to relinquish, that is the act of handing over.” She waited, forcing me to look up at her. “Like handing over Andrew, perhaps? It will give you room for acceptance and hope.”
I shivered. It was like she was inside my head. Like somehow she knew about my dream from the night before. I thought about how I had struggled for months to define that difference for myself, running from the feeling of hopelessness, afraid that if I let go of my hold on Andrew, it would be an indication of giving up. And I was not willing to give up. Handing over authority to not only Andrew’s medical team, but most importantly, wholly entrusting him to God, was my only avenue for survival. I couldn’t contain the fear anymore.
While we ate our lunch, Carol listened. And during that time, she was carefully picking up the pieces of my broken heart, handing them back to me with a renewed sense of hope. She offered me room to grieve, to share my fears, and to unravel in a way that I couldn’t do in my upside-down daily life.
When we finished, she handed me a little blue box. “I made this for you,” she said with a smile.
I opened the gift, hardly believing what was inside—a sterling bracelet with lettered beads that read, Light of the World.
After lunch, I called Julie, hoping for a generic conversation about the latest novel she was reading. Julie devours books like a chocolate lover eating a sheet cake in a single sitting. Her life changed the moment Amazon put books online and she cradled a Kindle in her hands for the very first time. Her husband is a jealous lover in a three-way relationship, always competing for her attention.
“Hi,” I said when she answered the phone. Tears were too close to the surface, so I didn’t dare say another word.
“I can tell something’s up. What’s going on?”
I hated it when she could read me so clearly. “I had a conversation with God this morning over my bowl of Cheerios.” It wasn’t the first time God had intercepted my path, but it was the first time I had ever heard the voice of the Divine.
“Well, what did He say?”
I told her about my morning, how I thought I might be losing my mind. Then I told her about my about my lunch with Carol.
I heard a smile in her voice. “Check your email, I’m forwarding something to you right now.”
I opened my laptop, waiting for the ping of an incoming email. When I opened it, there was a giant photo, a selfie, taken from the top of a mountain. A woman’s hand holding a cardboard sign read: ‘Psalm 34: 4-6, in honor of Andrew.’
“Who’s that?” I asked Julie.
“A new friend of ours. When I told her Andrew’s story, she felt helpless. She said she wished she could do something. So this morning, she hiked Camelback Mountain in Scottsdale, in honor of our Andrew. You’re not alone. Please don’t forget that.”
I hung up the phone and searched the Internet for the scripture. I found it and sat back in the rocking chair to read.
“I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me. He freed me from all my fears. Those who look to Him for help will be radiant with joy; no shadow of shame will darken their faces. In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened…” - Psalm 34: 4-6
Seek. Look. Cry out. It was clear that this God of the bible, the one I tried so hard to trust, had heard these pleas before. Had He heard my cries? Were they important enough? Was my faith strong enough? I didn’t know. I spent so much time wanting a God with skin on, one I could touch and see and feel and hear. I wanted to be scooped up in His arms and told that everything would be okay, and I was angry that that hadn’t happened. But then I remembered what Becki told me days before, “God will show up in the mess. Watch for it.”
While looking at the picture again and reviewing my day, I saw for the first time that the people in my life were the presence of God I longed for, carrying me when I was too weary to go on, holding my hand as I walked through hell. They showed up when I needed them most, even when I didn’t know I needed them. They were my living, breathing, skin wearing version of the flat-felted God I had given my heart to as a little girl. That night as I went to sleep, I thanked Him for showing up in my life in a very real way. And then I begged for mercy for us all.
Chapter 19
As I walked through the hospital lobby doors into the frigid December air, I calculated that six weeks had passed since Hannah’s blood work confirmed a match. I wasn’t sure what we were waiting for. Another surgery? A single doctor willing to put his or her career on the line for an experimental transplant? The stars to align?
Making my way to the parking garage, I noticed the planters outside the main entrance were devoid of flowers. In their place, construction paper Christmas trees and snowmen were glu
ed to the front of wooden tongue depressors and spiked into the frosty soil. A sign taped to the wall read: ‘Happy Holidays from Mrs. Grant’s second grade class’.
When I arrived home, our neighbor’s Boy Scout troop was scaling the front of our house with a colorful menagerie of Christmas lights. A lone Christmas tree stood in front of the garage door with tiny notes of encouragement tied to the end of each branch. Putting up a tree, or decorating for the holidays, was far from my mind, so when I saw the boy’s playful banter on my front lawn and realized my book club had decorated the tree, I nearly cried. I stood wondering if these were the ways God was showing up for me—a Boy Scout, a neighbor, my book club friends, the barista at Starbucks who knew I liked honey in my peppermint tea, even the stranger in the grocery store who bought our family dinner.
A rain-soaked boy approached, asking me where to hang the next string.
“Right around those windows,” I said, pointing to the kids’ rooms on the second floor.
Hannah would be thrilled. Our house had become an empty shell, a place for Jon and me to dump-and-run, leaving unopened mail, discarded clothes, and empty fast food containers in growing piles around the house. Neighbors were taking care of the animals, de-pooping the front yard, petting our lonely and surly cat, and collecting eggs from under two of our chickens that had gone broody on us and were violently pecking anyone who dared to come near. Even Frightful seemed out of sorts. Her usual barnyard chatter was all but silenced and her silky feathers were now splotchy and thin in places.
My mom dropped Hannah off one evening and hollered from her car, “The house looks beautiful! When did you have the time?”
I told her about the night I found the Boy Scouts climbing the front of our house. “They just showed up and lit up our world. It makes me happy when I come home at night,” I said.
“What a great idea!”
She flashed me a smile and gave me two thumbs up before backing down the driveway. It came as no surprise to me that my mom and six-year-old niece showed up at the hospital the next morning with wrapping paper, ribbon and stockings.
“We’re bringing Christmas to you!” she said.
My niece had made a fist full of cut-out paper snowflakes and a cross-eyed felt reindeer she named, “Moose.” Moose was roughly taped to the window below a cascade of snowflakes. He was missing a leg.
“He’s in the North Pole, Auntie. There’s lots of snow,” she offered as an explanation.
By that evening, each cabinet door was carefully wrapped in paper and shiny bows, creating a mass of giant presents across the room. Stockings hung from cabinet handles and a little tree was tucked in the corner by the window. Our room was a crazy rainbow of mismatched love, and I reveled in it.
The next afternoon, Grandma Connie brought Hannah to visit. Rounding the corner excitedly, Hannah held up her art project. “Hey, Andrew, I made an angel for the Christmas tree. Check it out!”
Andrew was awake, but made no reply from under the blanket. He had withdrawn so far into himself that we had a hard time eliciting any kind of response. When my mom and niece played Christmas music the day before, he had not uttered a word.
“Andrew?”
I watched as a mixture of frustration and fear passed across my daughter’s face. She stood frozen in place, her angel slipping to the floor, forgotten.
Connie handed Hannah a shopping bag. “Why don’t you give this to your brother?” she said.
Hannah dropped the bag on his bed and sat next to her grandmother. A pair of yellow-felted chicken feet poked out from a wad of tissue paper.
I opened the bag for Andrew, pulling out a life-sized stuffed chicken. “It’s Frightful!”
Andrew pulled the blanket from his face and studied the tawny brown mottled chicken. His slender hand reached out, squeezing thumb and first finger together. His remaining three fingers poked up in the air like a fan.
“You miss Frightful, don’t you?” I asked, acknowledging his symbol for bird. I carefully sat on the edge of his bed, moving the tubes and IV lines out of the way. “Should I tell you a story about her?”
He nodded, a look of anticipation spreading across his face.
“Well, I know she misses you, too, because every day when I leave home, she’s squawking at me. Just yesterday she was perched on your bicycle seat when I went into the garage. I could tell she’d been waiting all morning because there was a fresh smear of chicken poop down the side of your bike. She let out a low croon, like she does when she sings to you. I told her to be patient and that you would be home soon.”
Andrew placed his hand in mine, the bird symbol still pinched between his first finger and thumb.
“I’ll bet she wants to be held like this. Don’t you think?” I pulled his hand to my face, kissing the pad of his thumb—beak to lips. “We hold Frightful all the time, but it’s not the same. She flutters and complains. What’s your secret, Andrew? How do you make her so happy?”
Andrew’s face dropped. He pulled the sheet over his head, sinking back into the bed. I worried I had pushed him too far.
Hannah’s face turned pink and she stood up to leave.
“How about we put these lights on the tree?” Grandma Connie said, pulling out a colorful string of lights and handing them to Hannah. My mother-in-law glanced at me and mouthed the words, “She’ll be all right.”
Together, Hannah and I carefully placed the miniature lights on the tree. I picked up the abandoned angel, handing it back to her. She twirled it between her fingers while unspoken words flew back and forth between the two of us:
I’m scared.
I know you are, sweetheart. I am, too.
I don’t like being here.
I understand. I hate being here myself.
Everything sucks.
Yes. Yes, it does.
I grabbed my little girl in a tight hug, ending our silent dialog. I understood why she didn’t want to be in the room with a brother she hardly recognized. It tore at our hearts, causing us to grieve as if we had already lost him.
Searching out Connie on the other side of the room, I caught her eye. “Thank you,” I mouthed back to this kind mother who not only loved my children, but had raised her son to love me in the same way.
* * *
On Christmas Eve, my parents stayed with Andrew while we shared an impromptu dinner with Hannah at my in-laws house. Although I appreciated their gesture and attempt to normalize the holidays for us, it didn’t feel right.
“It feels strange to be here without Andrew,” I said to Jon as we were finishing up the dishes.
“I know. It’s too quiet,” he whispered back. “I keep expecting to hear Andrew making silly bird noises in the back room.”
“Or digging under the tree, while your mom hollers at him to stop shaking all the presents,” I added.
Connie’s Christmas tree sat in its usual place by the windows. Brightly colored gifts spilled out on all sides—a mockery of the holiday we were supposed to celebrate. Hannah had plopped down on the sofa, feigning interest in a book. My father-in-law tried to engage her in conversation all evening, but the one-word answers had become too tedious.
At one point, he coaxed her into the den. “Let’s see what crafts Grandma has stored away in here…”
Hannah leaned against the bookshelf, her arms folded tightly across her chest while Jon’s dad dove head first into the closet, pulling out a Thomas the Tank Engine book, an old baby doll, and a Ziploc baggie full of Legos. Hannah turned to leave.
“Wait a minute! There’s nothing too difficult for Grandpa Man. I’m part superhero you know.”
Jon’s dad had earned the name Grandpa Man, the day he tied a beach towel around his neck and flew through the house Superman-style in order to get Andrew to stop screaming in his bouncy seat. It worked, and the name stuck.
“It’s a fact,” he said.
Hannah scowled, but reached for the Legos. Her grandpa clasped her hand, searching her eyes, “It’s going to be
okay. We have to believe that.”
The two of them played together for a while, communicating with each click of a Lego:
I love you. Click.
I love you back. Click.
When it was time for us to leave for the hospital, I kissed Hannah goodnight and slipped out of her temporary bedroom. “Sweet dreams, love. I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, reaching for the door.
“Mom, will we all be home for Christmas next year?” came a voice from the dark.
It was the million-dollar question. I didn’t want to think about it. There was no room inside of me.
I walked back to the bed and smoothed a few wayward curls from her face. “It’s what I pray for every day, Hannah.” I left quickly so she wouldn’t see my tears.
Jon and I were quiet on the way to the hospital. He flipped on the radio. A jazz rendition of “Jingle Bells” assaulted my ears and I reached over to turn it off.
He caught my fingers, intertwining them with his own. “Let’s just pretend,” he said and started belting out a jazzy “Jingle Bells.”
“My ears! You’re hurting my ears!” I cried in mock pain, but when he didn’t stop, I decided to join him in a little holiday cheer.
Forty-five minutes later, we emerged from the elevators on the third floor, leaving behind a mural of a smiling pink hippo and a sign reminding us it was flu season. A note card clipped to the sign said they had not had a case in seventeen days. Someone had written across the top of the sign, “Wash your hands please!” We each added another squirt of Purrell to our hands.
Jon opened the door just enough to see my mom pressing the little Shadow action figure into Andrew’s palm. She had wrapped his fingers around the tiny body and held them there as if it would somehow ease the pain and bring him back from wherever he had gone. We paused to allow them a moment of peace. When we opened the door again a few minutes later, my mom’s phone cast a pale glow on her round face, illuminating her freshly pinked lips.
The Chicken Who Saved Us Page 15