Proof of Heaven (9 page)

Make me an instrument of your peace;

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love;

for it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

—Prayer attributed to St. Francis of Assisi

B
y all counts the surgery had been a success. The boy had not died once in the entire year since Dr. Basu put in his pacemaker. Colm and his mother came in every six weeks to see the doctor, although he knew this many visits was a little excessive. Most pacemaker patients only came in every six months and could phone in their readings every three months. It could all be done remotely—saving the doctor and his patients time and money. But Dr. Basu looked forward to seeing Colm and Cathleen. It was the highlight of his day, of his life really, which had found a new purpose since the day the two had walked into his office.

But more than his personal reasons for seeing the boy and mother, the doctor was fascinated by what he observed. The boy's heart was, he thought, like that of a healthy ninety-year-old woman's—strong, but slow, barely pumping on its own, and unpredictable. No one knew when it would stop. He was surprised the boy could stand up, let alone bounce around and fidget the way he did when he was in his office. The boy was so full of energy and life.
How could he be dying?

He had many frank conversations with Cathleen. The pacemaker was working, but he warned her he didn't know how long that would last. He reminded her to be consistent with Colm's medications, and to watch for other symptoms of distress, things the boy wouldn't naturally notice himself. Was he urinating too much during the day? Was he eating OK? Were there other signs that things might be going awry? He took careful notes and documented everything. Any of the tiniest changes or shifts in behavior or activity, he noted. Colm was a curious case. There was so much to take note of, in fact, that his receptionist started to block out an hour of time for Colm's visit. Most of that hour, Dr. Basu would spend talking with Cathleen. Not just about Colm, but about ideas and theories. “The human body is already a mystery on its best day, unfathomably complex on its worst, Cathleen,” he said once to her, launching them into a discussion in which Cathleen became completely enthralled. She connected with Dr. Basu and couldn't wait to find out what he was thinking next. Like him, she wanted to understand it all. He too was determined to find some way to stop the disease from playing out. Every time he saw the two in his office, he set about looking for clues, symptoms, little revelations that might lead to some scientific breakthrough.

But Cathleen only noticed two things different about her son—his hands, usually so steady, now shook constantly. And his body, which she once thought often seemed to be on fire, had now turned cold and numb, especially his head, hands, and feet. When she went to hug him, his middle still felt hot—as if he had no ability to sweat or output heat. He seemed to contain it all. But she noticed his nose and face were freezing. “Like there is no blood in them, Mama,” he would say.

He was impossible to keep comfortable. He had taken to wearing a navy blue New York Yankees hat that covered his eyebrows, ears, and most of his auburn hair, which wisped out the sides and along the nape of his neck. He had to take it off when he was at school, but as soon as he was able he put it on, day and night, everywhere he was—even in the apartment. At night when she sat on his bed watching him sleep, she took his hat off to brush his long hair away from his eyes and to feel the strands in her fingers. She could never bring herself to cut his baby curls, which had long since grown into messy, wavy strands. She always put the hat back on—to keep his head warm and to keep him from knowing she had been there. Sometimes she would pull the blankets up from the end of the bed, take his small, smooth feet in her hands, and rub them—attempting to warm them—but nothing seemed to help.

Colm's handwriting was also a mess. His teachers sent home pleasant notes asking Cathleen to work with her son on his penmanship, but he could only stop his hands from trembling by making a fist or shoving his hands into his pockets. When he built with blocks, she noticed he got frustrated when he was unable to steady his hands long enough to place one block onto another. Still he persisted in building whatever it was he set out to make.

Dr. Basu did not like these reports. Though such things were expected if the diagnosis of MSA was correct, he still didn't want to hear that they were happening. It meant that Colm's brain was taking over—winning the battle against his heart and body. He prescribed more medication to help alleviate the symptoms and monitored Colm closely for changes. He called neurologists, the world-renowned Drs. John Jager and Joseph Wilson, two of the wisest and most published men in the field of autoimmune and autonomic disorders, as well as young medical students, residents, and research assistants to review the boy's chart, hoping that one of them could offer new insights. Many of Dr. Basu's peers wanted him to publish his findings about the boy's previous collapses and revivals, but Dr. Basu refused. There was nothing to report—yet. He still had no idea what caused the boy's curious condition.
Idiopathic. No known origin,
he would say. No one could know for sure what was happening. No diagnosis seemed absolutely precise.

Colm was one of a kind.

Meanwhile, Cathleen needed a way to diminish her own nervous energy, so as always, she prayed and on Sundays, she took Colm with her to Mass. He hated going. It was a slow form of torture for him. The church was cold, and he had to take off his hat. He couldn't move or try to warm himself. He never said anything to his mother, because he knew she would make an excessive fuss—like she had before when she would use the familiar line, “If you're too sick for church, let's just stay home today. I'll call your uncle and tell him to pass on the museums, too. It's more important that you get your rest.” He didn't want to miss out on going with his uncle Sean, so he knelt while he silently cursed church.
It is all so stupid,
he thought. He could have been warm, sleeping underneath his mountain of covers instead. He could have been playing with his toys, his imaginary father, doing anything else but praying.

One day after Mass the monsignor came to Cathleen in the pew, just as she was about to get up and leave.

“I have some amazing news, Cathleen! Do you have a second to sit here with me?”

“Yes . . . for a second—we're meeting Sean today after he gets off duty.”

“Yes, it won't take long. I just wanted to let you know that an anonymous benefactor wants to send you, Colm, and Sean to Assisi on a pilgrimage for healing!”

Cathleen stood dumbfounded and confused.

“What?”

“You don't have to do it. Someone in the parish offered to send you. They went on the pilgrimage last year, and I told them about you and Colm—and they want to send you.”

“Oh, that's awfully generous. But I don't know. I'm not sure Colm will be up for traveling.” She was working through the obstacles in her mind.

“It's only a weeklong trip. You would love it, Cathleen—and so would Colm. I have heard many stories of healings at the Friary of San Damiano. Thousands of people have gone there seeking healing and have found it. I am certain that if you take Colm there, he will be transformed.”

“Monsignor, this is so kind of you. But why? Why us?”

“Because, Cathleen, people are generous—and God is good. Don't think too much about it. It's a trip of a lifetime.”

“Oh, Monsignor. Thank you so much. That's very kind. Let me give this some thought. Colm's been doing well—no collapses, but you know his trembling and temperature control is a bit off.”

Colm could see his mother thinking and seriously considering the trip and was waiting for her to say no.

“Yes, I have heard that anything is possible on these sorts of trips, but of course, there is no guarantee.”

“Well, I have to talk to Colm's doctor, and I have to talk to Sean. I need to see what they think.”

D
espite always looking forward to seeing Cathleen and her son, Dr. Basu was shocked when he heard his nurse say that Colm's mother was in the waiting area. The boy didn't have an appointment for another two weeks. Dr. Basu asked nervously: “Is everything all right with Colm? If there is an emergency, why didn't she take him to the ER?”

“Relax, Dr. Basu. I don't think anything is wrong with Colm. He's not even here. Cathleen's here alone. She said she is here to see
you.
” The nurse winked at him, implying she knew he had a crush on the young woman. Dr. Basu, embarrassed by the nurse, pretended to ignore her and fidgeted with the files on the desk in front of him.

“Very well, then—does she look angry about anything? I don't know why she would just show up. It's not like her to come without an appointment.”

“No, Dr. Basu.” The nurse laughed. “I don't think she's here to complain about anything today. She seems to be in a good mood.”

Over the past year, Dr. Basu and Cathleen had had their fair share of ups and downs and had not always seen eye to eye on Colm's treatment. In moments of panic or anger, she had often called demanding to speak to Dr. Basu. He would always take her call, and he was always kind and patient and ready to assuage her. However, she was never easy to convince—
Can we please put him on a beta-blocker, Cathleen? I think it would be best.
No, she'd say, armed with research she'd found on a medical website.
Have you read about these side effects, Dr. Basu? I want to make him better, not sicker. Studies are finding that these drugs are ultimately ineffective. Find something else.
He couldn't figure out why he, with his degrees and his proven track record caring for her son, had to debate her every time he wanted to change any little thing, while the monsignor had persuaded her so easily that Colm could be cured with a miracle if she just prayed. Eventually he won the battles over Colm's treatment, but he just wished she would make it easy on him. Just once.

The doctor pressed his nurse. “Did we call in the boy's prescriptions? Did we screw up his time at the pacemaker clinic?” He had heard these particular complaints before.

“I'm telling you. She's not angry. I think she even has a present in her hand.”

“When it's not even my birthday or a holiday?”

“Who knows. Maybe she's just trying to be nice?”

“OK. Go get her. I'll see her in my office, please. I'll be there in a minute.”

As soon as the nurse left, he went to the examining room sink and splashed cold water on his face before taking a quick look at himself in the mirror. His hair was still thick and mostly black. His skin, a golden caramel color, was smooth. Dr. Basu's face, like Cathleen's, belied his age. While Cathleen was an old twenty-eight, he was a young forty-five. On a good day, after a good night's sleep, he could even pass for being in his midthirties.

He looked over his clothes, straightened his white lab coat, and made sure his tie was straight. He stood up straighter and stretched his neck to make himself look taller. He tried to smile and show his teeth, but it seemed so unnatural, he thought it best not to smile when he saw her. He practiced.
Hello, Cathleen. What a surprise!
He grimaced. It was hopeless, he thought.

Cathleen was sitting in the chair in front of his desk already, with her back to the door, when Dr. Basu walked into the office. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail away from her face. He noticed a small, almost invisible tattoo on the back of her neck. It was odd—most tattoos he had seen were black or pigmented, but hers looked white. He had never noticed it before, even though he had seen her several times in his office with her hair swept back. As he approached her, he made out that it was indeed white, a small white dove. He tried to get a closer look as he passed her to get to his desk. When he did, she looked up and smiled. She was fiddling with a red bow that was wrapped around a rectangular golden box.

“Hello, Cathleen! What a surprise!”

“Hello, Dr. Basu. I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“Nonsense, I always have time for you—and your son. Where is Little Dove?” The doctor winced as he said it. He overpronounced the
t
's in
Little
. He hated when he did that.

“He's at school today. He's fine. He started the first grade last week.”

“Wonderful! Then to what do I owe this special visit from you?”

As he spoke the words, he knew he sounded too uptight and proper—too Indian, pronouncing every syllable and emphasizing every other word in a singsongy fashion. He had tried for so long to rid himself of the accent, but it was so much a part of him. He was trying to impress her.

“I came to give you this.” Cathleen slid the present across the desk.

“For me? Why? What did I do?”

“It's for all you have done for Colm . . . for me over the past year.” She twisted her hands in her lap and avoided his gaze. “I know I don't make it easy, but I know you only have Colm's best interests at heart. He adores you. When I told him I wanted to get you a gift, he said he knew exactly what he wanted to get you. He saw it at the Natural History Museum gift shop and thought of you. He asked me to bring it to you as soon as possible. He was so proud of it!”

Dr. Basu ripped into the paper like a child on Christmas morning. He could not remember the last time anyone, a patient or otherwise, had given him a gift for any reason other than an organized office party.

He opened the box and pulled out a midnight-blue-colored tie. On it was the pattern of the constellation Ursa Major, which pointed to a bright white North Star. He gasped.

“What, you don't like it?” Cathleen asked.

“No, no. I love it. Why? Why did he pick this tie? For me?
How could he . . .”

“It's because you told him your first name was Gaspar—one of the Wise Men who followed the bright star to the baby Jesus. Don't you remember our first visit?”

“Oh, why, yes. Yes. Of course that's why. Of course.”

“What did you think he meant by it?”

“Oh, nothing at all. I was just surprised. It's beautiful. I love it. I'll put it on right now. I'll wear it every day, right here, close to my heart. Please tell him.”

“OK, I will.”

“Thank you.”

“Dr. Basu?”

“Yes?”

“I have a favor to ask you.”

“Whatever it is, I promise I will do it.”

“But you don't even know what I am going to ask.”

“I would do anything for you . . . for Colm.”

Cathleen blushed. She felt guilty now for coming, for giving him the gift. Even though she meant every sentiment behind the gift, she had brought it knowing that she needed this favor from him.

“Dr. Basu, I need your opinion on something.”

“About Colm?”

“Sort of. It's about a possible treatment—sort of treatment.”

“What? Did you find something new you would like me to try?”

“No, the monsignor says there is a benefactor at my church who wants to send Colm and me to Assisi, Italy. There is a friary there where miracles have been said to happen. This benefactor went himself, and I guess a miracle took place. I guess the monsignor had told him about us, and he wants me to take Colm.”

“I see. And what type of miracle are you looking for?”

“A complete cure, of course. No more doctors, medicine, pills, nada.”

“I see.” Dr. Basu closed his eyes and tried to think of the best way to say just how crazy he thought she—more aptly the monsignor—was.

“I know you must think I'm nuts. But I'm at my wit's end. I'll do anything. Anything at all for Colm, if I thought it might help. That's all. But if you think it would be dangerous to even put him on a plane and take him, then I won't. Just say the word.”

“I do think it seems like an awful lot for him to go through. Traveling is exhausting, and I am not sure—it would be—how should I say this . . .”

“Worth it?”

“Yes. Worth it.”

“I know. I have the same doubts, and so does Sean. In fact, Sean says the only way he would let me get on a plane with Colm was if you were on it with us. Isn't that funny?” Cathleen giggled and looked at Dr. Basu to read his reaction.

Dr. Basu was totally taken aback. He barely knew the woman or her son. Yes, he had spent time with them and come to know them through their visits to the office and hospital, but could he be hearing her correctly? Was she asking him to go on a pilgrimage—for all intents and purposes, a vacation—with her?

“I know it sounds crazy, I can tell by how you're looking at me,” Cathleen said as she began to ramble. “But, you see, Colm can be completely cured. I have been praying for a miracle—for some time. But I am not crazy. I know I have to be responsible, too. I need to have a doctor with me, just in case something terrible were to happen on the plane or what have you . . . I know it's a lot to ask, but would you please, please consider it?”

Dr. Basu could barely contain what he was thinking any longer.

“Why, Cathleen, this is all ludicrous!” Dr. Basu couldn't believe he said it.

Cathleen stiffened and immediately started for her purse. “I'm sorry, Dr. Basu. I made a terrible mistake. I knew you wouldn't understand.”

“No,
I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to offend you—or your beliefs. I want to understand. I do. I just don't know if I am the right, or the best, person to help you. What is it exactly you want me to do?” Dr. Basu didn't really want her to go on, but he didn't want her to leave, either.

Cathleen hesitated and then started to explain. “I'm grateful for all you have done, Dr. Basu. Truly. But I can't help but wonder whether there is something else out there. Something else we ought to try. Colm is an angel. He's special. I know most moms say that or feel that. But I mean it. I always thought that, from the first moment I held him. What if he knows something we don't? And I have been thinking about this for a while—ever since that day in the hospital when the monsignor was reading Colm his last rites and he woke up. We all thought he was brain-dead—you did too—but the monsignor prayed over him, and wham-o, Colm woke up. And then I got to thinking. Every time Colm collapsed before that time I just started to pray. I'd pray like crazy, and he eventually just woke up. So I have to believe that maybe, just maybe, a miracle is not out of the question.”

Dr. Basu sat silently listening to her as she went on. He knew every mother felt her child was an angel without wings—a miracle with messy hair, scratched knees, and dirty fingernails. He knew every mother would be willing to believe anything or do anything if it meant saving her child. So even though he could not believe what he was about to say, and every fiber in his being knew that it was a lie, he admired and understood her enough to say it anyway.

“You could be right. I will go. I'd go anywhere with you for the boy. If it means that much to you, I will go. I will begin to make arrangements.”

“Oh, Dr. Basu, that's wonderful! And you don't have to worry about money. Monsignor says the benefactor has plenty.”

“So this benefactor—what does he get out of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am just curious. Why would an anonymous person spend a lot of money to help some people he barely knows—and to pay for someone who doesn't even believe in the same things he does?”

“I guess, the same reason you're a doctor.”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you get out of healing, fixing, and treating people day in and day out?”

“For one, doctors get paychecks.”

“Yes, but so do I. Why do you get your paycheck by saving other people's lives?”

“Because, I suppose, it makes me feel good. Like I have a purpose.”

Cathleen smiled. “See.”

“See what?”

“You understand what a benefactor is.”

“I do?”

“Yes. A benefactor just wants to do good—just to be good. Someday I'll pay whoever this person is back—tenfold. I believe that. And I think this person has enough faith in me to know that I will, but he doesn't expect it. That's what the monsignor says.”

“Do you think this anonymous benefactor is the monsignor, Cathleen?”

“No. Oh, I don't know.” Cathleen squirmed. It hadn't occurred to her. But it made a lot of sense now. “Even if it was him, he obviously doesn't want me to know, and he wants Colm to get better. He wants that for me.”

“I know, Cathleen. I know.” Dr. Basu nodded with his eyes closed. He could hear her desperation.

If nothing else, Dr. Basu's intellectual curiosity was piqued. What was this magical place where people could be healed? More than anything, he worried about Colm. His mother was not thinking straight. She was so determined to cure him she was willing to try anything—believe anything. He had seen it all before. He had done it himself at one time. He didn't want anything to happen to Colm. He knew someone with common sense had to be standing beside him. More over, he knew Colm would not be happy about any of this.

In her excitement at his acceptance, Cathleen went on, “Thank you so much. I am sure it will thrill Colm to know you'll be with us.”

“Will your brother come?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Oh, so he hasn't agreed yet? Why not? I thought you were all so close—and the boy is so fond of him.”

“Colm is. It's just that we, Sean and I, disagree about some things. He doesn't believe in all of this. I mean he goes to church. Don't get me wrong. I just think he's employing Pascal's wager . . . hedging his bets. Besides, I don't see him much now. He comes over sometimes to see Colm and take him out on day trips, but things are different between us.”