The Chicken Who Saved Us

by Adams, Kristin Jarvis;

  “Actually, I was thinking of a hat,” I told her.

  I described what I had envisioned. Although she looked skeptical, she didn’t discourage me. Handing me a set of circular needles, she carefully taught me how to cast-on stitches to begin, and showed me the difference between a knit and a purl stitch. My grade school lessons came flooding back as I remembered the gentle hands of my neighbor holding my awkward eight-year-old hands tightly in hers, directing the needles to tie their intricate knots. I concentrated on my new needles with the same expression of delight as my new companions. I listened to the women’s voices, woven together in a disorganized song of relief. We shared our stories while twisting yarn into a tangled shape we could hold onto while our lifeboats teetered on the waves. It was like God had taken the deepest part of our sorrow and knit it into a pattern of hope. The beauty of it all left me with a feeling of joy.

  Hours later, while Andrew slept, Stuffed Frightful and I practiced the art of being still. I focused on my belief that God was the great art director—knitting the new cells into Andrew’s weary body. I also finished my first hat.

  On Day 10, Andrew’s immune system was wiped out.

  “He is vulnerable,” Dr. Burroughs said, “An infection would be bad.”

  His organs—especially his liver—were closely monitored. He received his first blood transfusion. I closed my eyes, becoming as small as the cells, entering the battle on his behalf. And I prayed. Constantly. To the ears of the wounded man I had given my son’s life to:

  Lord, take my hand. Guide me on this narrow path. Don’t let me fall. Be my light when the way is dark, full of questions and fear. Help me understand your ways so I can know peace. Don’t let me give into despair. Give me rest in the chaos. Bring joy to my spirit. Allow me to comfort Andrew as I walk with him through this hell. And Lord, if this illness takes him, then please promise me you are real and we will meet again.

  To diffuse my growing anxiety, I was knitting hats as fast as I could get my hands on new yarn. While my fingers worked, I obsessed over my bold prayer: If this illness takes him...It was the first time I had actually said those words and I thought maybe I could survive that. As I finished each hat, I thanked it for keeping me occupied. Some hats I kept, while others found their way to the box at the front nurses’ station where people could donate small gifts for the patients.

  During this time, I learned that waiting was about being still. Waiting is not in anticipation of, but rather a deep inner stillness and acceptance, of what is occurring right now. Knitting became my waiting, my way to be entirely present. It was a time when the only thing that mattered was the next purl stitch, and then the next and the next.

  “When will you make me a hat?” insisted Julie during one of our daily phone conversations.

  “As if you would wear it in the Arizona desert!” I said.

  “That’s not the point and you know it,” she shot back.

  The truth was, they were really quite ugly. A mishmash of colors, textures, and yarn, the stitches reflecting my moods, sometimes tight and precise, more often uneven, with dropped stitches here and there.

  Julie’s phone calls were my escape to the outside world. After reassuring her that Andrew was okay, she described to me in detail the latest novel she was reading. We laughed and talked about all the inconsequential things in daily life. In my mind, I was with her in the sunshine.

  “I’d like to invite Hannah to stay with us for a while,” she said one afternoon. “What do you think? Do you think she’d be willing to come?”

  “She would love it!” I said, knowing I would have to nudge her out of the house for her own good.

  Two days later, Hannah was on a flight to Arizona. I hoped she would emerge from her shell enough to enjoy the change of scenery, and knew Julie’s family would be there to support her and dote on her in a way that Jon and I could not.

  Chapter 26

  Anne began sending me a schedule each day, outlining the details of my life. I reveled in having a life coordinator. It gave my mind a rest from having to make any more decisions than necessary. According to my notes, Diana was due to arrive at any moment to relieve me for the night. Andrew still talked about digging for pirate gold at Lake Michigan, and Diana had become synonymous with that memory. I hoped he would be happy to see her.

  I glanced up to see our nurse motioning to me from the hallway. “Diana is here!” I told Andrew.

  I began sorting through my overnight bag stuffed with skeins of yarn and copious amounts of dirty clothes that had mysteriously multiplied in our room. “She’s going to spend the night and hang out with you. How does that sound?”

  No response came from the pile of blankets.

  “She’s looking forward to reading to you. What sounds good? Maybe a Harry Potter book?”

  A bona fide grunt came from under the SpongeBob comforter, followed by Stuffed Frightful, who was suspended by her scrawny neck. I took that as a positive sign.

  Diana walked into the room a moment later, shedding her coat and purse on the cot before going over to the bed. “Hey, buddy! Cory says hi!”

  Andrew poked his head out from under the covers at the mention of his childhood friend. Diana thumbed through our windowsill library, selecting a Harry Potter book with one of Hannah’s handmade bookmarks sticking out the top. I was so eager for my escape that I raced around the room, forgetting what I had planned to bring home and what to leave at the hospital. I must have been babbling out loud, because Diana caught me by the shoulders, forced me to look her in the eye, and told me to take a deep breath. Was I that fritzy? Had I forgotten to breathe again? I felt the prickle of crazy-tears at the back of my eyes, threatening to spill. Not today. I didn’t have the energy.

  Diana let go of my shoulders and took my hand in hers, opening my palm. Into it she dropped a flat, round stone—a Petoskey stone. “A promise to keep,” she said, folding my hand over the little stone.

  How different this stone was from Sue’s translucent agate. It was a solid brown stone—fossilized coral—with creamy clustered starbursts that reminded me of honeycomb.

  “Do you remember?” she asked.

  I did remember. Clearly. The trip that ended my innocence. Not only had I been wrestling with the reality of autism, but I was also reeling with the new diagnosis of Trisomy 8. They had both left a heavy burden on my shoulders, but for some reason, when I found that stone, a shred of hope entered my world.

  Andrew forced our attention back to the room with a rustling of sheets and a forced groan. “That’s one of Hannah’s rocks,” he said, waving a hand in my direction.

  “What is?”

  “Duh! The rock in your hand. The Petoskey stone,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Andrew! Please stop.” He had been grumpy all afternoon, and I was getting tired of it.

  Diana started to laugh. “I didn’t think you would remember.”

  “Aren’t you here to read?” He was sitting up now with Stuffed Frightful under one arm and Shadow clutched tightly in the other.

  Diana let go of my shoulders, but held my eyes with a look that commanded: Go. Relax. Breathe. Turning from me, she curled up in the rocking chair, opening the Harry Potter book to the last place marked. It was there she discovered Harry and his friends Ron and Hermione in the middle of one of their many escapades. She began reading.

  Andrew piped up after only a few short sentences. “Shadow was with them and he broke his arm. Hermione had to use a repairing charm to fix it, and Professor Snape almost caught them. Snape is bad.”

  “Who is Shadow? I don’t see him here,” Diana said, frantically looking through the pages.

  Andrew look annoyed. “You’re supposed to put him in the book. He’s a hedgehog anyway. Don’t you know that?”

  She stole a glance in my direction. “Okay. So, let’s see…. Shadow broke his arm.” She turned the page. “Oh, no! Hermione, I need help! My leg is hurt!”

  Andrew dropped Shadow and reached for the
book. “You’re doing it all wrong! Shadow doesn’t talk like that. He’s a baby.”

  Diana had barely begun reading again when he interrupted her. “Diana, I don’t think you can read like Sue. But you are good at other things,” he stated frankly. “I remember when we ate popsicles together. It was fun.”

  “Popsicles?”

  “Yeah. When you came over and put peanut butter in my mouth.”

  Diana’s eyes grew wide as the memory flooded back—a frustrated little boy strapped in a high chair, learning how to form words with his uncooperative tongue.

  “You remember that? You were only three!”

  Diana worked with Asperger kids frequently in her speech pathology practice, so she was familiar with their blunt, direct manner when addressing others. They generally had no filter, no manipulation, and no hidden agenda. It was annoying, uncomfortable, and refreshing to be with someone who was an open book—someone who told you the truth as they saw it. Andrew’s encounter with her was no exception.

  Unfazed by Andrew’s comments, Diana suggested he might like to hear a story from when he and Cory were little. “Remember when we were in Michigan and you kids were playing Hide and Seek?”

  Andrew nodded and settled into the bed, a hint of a smile lighting his eyes.

  Leaning back in the rocking chair, Harry Potter forgotten, Diana brought back that summer day. “Cory was the ‘finder.’ Do you remember that?”

  Andrew nodded as Diana watched the story unfold behind her closed eyes. “…seven …eight …nine …ten! Ready or not, here I come!” quipped Cory.

  Unfortunately, Andrew didn’t understand the concept of hiding, no matter how much we all explained it to him. Hannah, delighted to be included in the boy’s game, ran to the next room and hid in the closet behind a stack of board games. Cory took his hands off his eyes and turned around to see Andrew standing right behind him with a silly grin on his face.

  “Come find me!” he declared to the room at large. The four adults looked at one another, bewildered.

  Jon offered some coaching. “You’re supposed to hide someplace that Cory can’t see you. Then he’ll try and find your hiding spot.”

  Andrew looked mystified, the unspoken words scrolling across his face. Where would I go? Why would I want to be where no one can see me? Is this supposed to be fun?

  During the next round, Andrew found what he thought was the best hiding spot ever. Gleeful, he sandwiched himself between the cushions and the frame of the sofa like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A shock of red hair popped out between the cushion seams. He was far too big for the narrow seat, one skinny arm and one long leg hung out the side, dangling to the floor. Snorts of laughter made the furniture quake and could be heard in the next room where Cory was again calling out the number ten. Cory stomped into the room.

  “I can hear you, Andrew. Stop laughing!”

  He pretended to look everywhere, avoiding the lumpy sofa that contained a giggling boy. Finally, Andrew could stand it no longer. He jumped out of the couch and pointed at himself with both hands. “I’m right here, goofball!”

  The gallery erupted in laughter. Andrew looked around, a smile spreading across his face.

  On the last night of the trip, Hannah crawled into my lap, her blanket wrapped tightly around her. “I like the way my brother plays Hide and Seek. He does it his own way, and I always know what to expect.”

  During the drive home, I could feel the Petoskey stone in my front pocket right where the seatbelt crossed over it. A sunbeam of promise. A piece of hope. Something solid to hold onto. Diana’s gift was a treasure that I would carry with me for the next hundred days.

  Jon’s car was in the usual spot in the driveway when I arrived. He had picked Hannah up at the airport earlier in the evening. I hoped that the past few days in Arizona proved a refreshing break for her. Julie’s texts had all been positive, but Hannah’s messages to me had been a bit subdued. I was worried about her.

  “How’s brother?” Hannah asked as I walked in through the garage.

  She looked sun-kissed and relaxed. I hugged her tightly. She smelled…golden. Like sunshine and lemons and Coppertone. The thought melted away my irritation with Andrew.

  “He’s okay. Resting. I missed you huge.” I tugged at her ponytail, hoping to elicit a smile. “How was Arizona?”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” I hoped for more information.

  “Yep. Good.” She walked into the house.

  Both she and Jon began foraging through a refrigerator full of questionable leftover casseroles. Nothing must have passed Hannah’s sniff test, because she quickly migrated to the pantry. I watched her pull out pantry staples—Arborio rice, an onion, garlic and chicken broth. Jon tossed parmesan cheese on the table and scared up a bottle of white wine from somewhere.

  “Will you make risotto?” Hannah asked hopefully. “I just want some normal food.”

  Normal. There was that word that seemed to plague my thoughts. We were anything but the normal I had always expected my life would be. My Pollyanna dreams had evaporated when we were dealt the autism card. Now, in the middle of a transplant, when I wasn’t sure my son would survive, I felt anything but normal.

  “That sounds perfect,” I said, forcing a smile.

  Jon slipped out of bed early the next morning to go to work. As soon as he pulled out of the drive, I heard the hens stir in the coop. One announced she was on the nest with a tw-tw-tw-tw-tw, while the others chirped and chattered as they filed into the outdoor pen. A soft lonely warbling sound came through my open window, and I rolled over in bed to peer through the bare branches of a dogwood tree. Frightful stood alone at the gate, her beak poking through the hexagonal chicken wire.

  Coo-coo-rrr. Coo-coo-coo-rrr.

  I had no idea what she was trying to tell me. I wished I spoke chicken.

  Chapter 27

  Frightful was still singing her mournful song when I got out of the shower.

  “Will you pleeeeease let the chickens out?!” I called to Hannah as I combed through my wet hair. Finn was licking water off the shower basin with a slobbery tongue and I shooed him away with my foot. “Go drink your own water,” I grumbled.

  For whatever reason, I woke up irritated and pretty much everything was ticking me off, starting with the lamentations of a backyard chicken. I had promised to relieve Diana by 8:00 a.m. so she could get to work, and I was already late. I was poised to shout at the next person who dared get in my way.

  Dr. Burroughs and I met in the hall when I arrived at the hospital.

  “He’s still pretty wiped out,” I told her on my way into the room. Andrew was half asleep, picking at something on his lips.

  “There’s something in my mouth,” Andrew spat.

  “What is it?” Then I saw the tufts of hair stuck to his pillow and face.

  “I’m losing my feathers.” Andrew patted at his head.

  It was Day 13, and like Dr. Burroughs predicted, Andrew began losing his hair. Although I was expecting it, my heart sank as I thought about shaving off his remaining silky red hair.

  “Tell us how you’re feeling,” Dr. Burroughs said.

  Andrew poked a finger at his belly button, laid a flat palm across his abdomen and squeezed.

  “Can you describe it to me?” Dr. Burroughs asked.

  “I want Frightful,” he replied, screwing his eyes shut and rolling over.

  “I think that’s all we are going to get today,” I told Dr. Burroughs.

  During the next week, we began to see glimmers of improvement. Andrew’s ANC (Absolute Neutrophil Count—the measurement used to gauge immune system functioning) slowly began to rise, and the team felt confident this was an early sign of engraftment.

  Then something unusual happened. “Would you come in here, please?” I asked his nurse.

  I pointed to a rash that behaved like a constellation of the Northern Lights. While Andrew slept, a pattern of bright red blotches rose up the side of his torso and n
eck, then disappeared. Reappearing on the other arm and side of his torso, it cascaded down his legs and landed at the top of his foot.

  She looked perplexed. “I know the doctor is in the hall,” she said, and hurriedly left the room.

  Dr. Burroughs came in and watched as this random constellation continued for another five minutes while Andrew slept. Then, as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

  “I’m not sure what to think,” she said. “But I’m not worried about it. This is about the time we see funny things like this. I suspect it’s an early response of his sister’s cells. It’s an indication that Hannah’s cells are assimilating and active. That’s a good thing!”

  The next morning, Andrew’s lab results were dropped off in our room. Dr. Burroughs had scribbled in the top corner, “Yes! A good thing!” and drew an arrow to the numbers that indicated Hannah’s cells were doing their job.

  By Day 21, Andrew’s ANC had doubled, and the team felt confident this was the beginnings of engraftment.

  On Day 26, Andrew asked for a Big Mac.

  “What did you say?” I said, certain I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “I have a spot right here. See?” He brought both hands to his belly making an “O” with his fingertips.

  “Really?” He’d been on a feeding tube or IV nutrition for the better part of a year, and this was the first mention of food.

  “Yes. And the Chick-a-dee would like a vanilla milkshake,” he said, pointing to a picture of Frightful on the iPad.

  And that was that. Gone was his infatuation with binge-eating superstars on the Cooking Channel. In came a renewed interest in all things foodie. Soon he was talking about recipes for soup and steak and Mexican chili peppers. The hotter the better.

  “Do you know how many Scoville heat units a ghost pepper has? Over 2,199,999! That will melt your brain out!”

  When I looked unimpressed, he found articles on the Internet about people who had mistakenly eaten one. “Look! Dead. Deader than a doornail. Your throat seizes up. Where do you think we could buy some? They’re cool.”