Yesterday morning at work I read a story in The Wall Street Journal about a little girl named Penelope who is fighting what will likely be a fatal cancer.
The purpose of the story was to report how difficult it is (even for a millionaire like the father) to get access to experimental therapies in dire circumstances like Penelope’s. But that’s not what drew me to the story. I don’t know why I read it. I don’t know why I read any stories like this. I could feel my back tightening with every word, and by the time it was over, I was near tears. All I could think about was Ava. Well, Ava and myself. How would I ever be able to watch Ava in that much pain, knowing the only way to end it was to end Ava’s life? How would I ever support Leah through such a trial?
The reality, of course, is that there are thousands of parents who live with this situation every day. And not just with children. No doubt the pressure involved buckles some lives, but far many more people go on and face this challenge with strength, courage, and love. I just can’t figure out how they do it. Maybe they don’t know, either, and it just happens the way all heroic acts happen to otherwise normal, ordinary people.
I spent the rest of the day at work pining for Ava. I imagined the way she sneaks out of the house now after her bath, still naked, and takes a walk up the street. I thought about her running down the sidewalk with her blond curls bouncing against her shoulders, and the way she cuts paper at the dining room table with her little pink scissors, always making triangles.
Last night I got to lie with Ava while she went to sleep. We’d finished reading books, and it was dark in her room. I rolled up next to her on her pillow and put my forehead on her cheek. I had to say something to her about Penelope. I told her that I’d read a story that day about a sick little girl, and how that girl’s daddy was doing everything he could to make her better. Ava asked where the little girl lived, and I said she lived in a hospital. She asked where the girl slept, and I said she slept in her own bed in the hospital. Ava asked where the girl’s mommy and daddy slept, and I said that her mommy slept in bed with her, and her daddy slept on a couch nearby. I was glad Ava couldn’t see the tears on my face. She said, “her daddy’s going to take good care of her.” No doubt, Ava.