The Color of Heaven (2 page)

hair and puffy eyes, her sweet knees and plump bel y, and her miniature little fingertips and nails. She was the most exquisite creature I had ever

beheld, and my heart swel ed with inexpressible love every time she squeaked or flexed her hands.

How clearly I remember lying on my side next to her in the hospital bed with my cheek resting on a hand, believing that I could lie there forever and never grow bored watching her. There was such truth in the simplicity of those moments.

Michael, too, was captivated by our new daughter. He went to work during the days, but spent the nights with us in our private room, sleeping in the

upholstered chair.

When we final y brought Megan home, I came to realize that Michael was not only the perfect husband, but the perfect father as wel .

He was nothing like my own father, who had always maintained an emotional distance. No… Michael changed diapers and couldn’t seem to get

enough of our baby girl. He carried Megan around the house in his arms. He read books to her and sang songs. A few times a week, he took her

for long walks in the park so I could nap or have some time to myself, simply to shower or cook a meal. I felt like the luckiest woman alive.

Later, when Megan was out of diapers and had final y given up drinking from a bottle at the age of two, I began to feel that I was ready to start

writing again.

Michael – always so generous and supportive – suggested that he take Megan to Connecticut every Sunday afternoon to visit his sister, Margery.

It worked out wel . Margery was thril ed to spend time with them, and those happy day trips out of the city created an even stronger bond between

Michael and Megan.

It wasn’t long before I was submitting feature stories to a number of national parenting magazines. Always, in the back of my mind, however, was

the dream of returning to the New Yorker, perhaps when Megan was older.

Sometimes I wonder if I would have done anything differently in those blissful days of new motherhood if I had known about the bomb that was about

to drop onto our world. I believe I wil always wonder that, and there wil be no escaping the regrets, rational or otherwise.

When Megan was three-and-a-half years old, my father came to visit us in New York. It was the first time he had seen our house (we lived in a

brownstone in Washington Square), and he mentioned repeatedly that he was sorry for not coming sooner. He said he was a “terrible grandfather.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dad,” I replied as I passed the salad bowl across the table. “I’ve been terrible about visiting you, too. Life just gets so busy sometimes. I understand. It’s hard to get away.”

It was a lie, casual y spoken, and we both knew it. Nothing had ever been easy between the two of us. There was an awkward tension that was

obvious to everyone, including Michael, who was the one person in my life Dad actual y approved of.

“You caught yourself a good man there,” he gruffly said on our wedding day, then he patted Michael on the back and left early.

But of course he would love Michael.
Everyone
loved Michael. He was a handsome, charming, witty, Harvard-educated lawyer. A good provider

and a devoted husband. As far as my father was concerned, Michael’s smal -town upbringing on a farm in the Midwest was the icing on the cake. I

think Dad was stil in shock that I had managed to marry such an amazing man.

We finished dinner and dessert, then Dad went off to bed at nine, not long after Megan fel asleep.

He planned to stay only twenty-four hours.

The fol owing day, I worked hard to keep him busy and avoid any awkward silences or conversations about the past. Mom especial y. It was not

something we ever talked about.

Megan and I took him to the top of the Empire State Building, then we visited the Museum of Natural History, and of course, Ground Zero.

As he drove away, waving out the open car window, Megan slipped her tiny hand into mine, looked up at me with those big brown eyes and asked,

“Wil Grampy come back again?”

I hesitated a moment, then wet my lips and smiled. “Of course, sweetie, but he’s very busy. I’m not sure when that wil be.”

We went back inside.

Michael was at work. The house seemed so empty and quiet.

“Want to make some cookies?” I cheerful y asked.

Megan gave me a melancholy look that wil stay with me forever, because it was the first sign of the terrible nightmare that was about to befal our

family.

I didn’t know that then, of course. At the time, I didn’t know
anything
.

“Okay,” she replied.

I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen.

o0o

The fol owing morning, Megan didn’t wake until 8:30, which surprised me, because she was usual y climbing onto our bed at six a.m. sharp. She

was more dependable than our digital alarm clock.

When eight o’clock rol ed around and she was stil sleeping, I assumed she was tired from our sightseeing trip the day before.

I was wrong about that. It was something else entirely – something I never imagined would ever happen to us.

That was our last day of normal.

Over the next seven days, Megan grew increasingly lethargic and took long naps in the afternoons. Her skin was pale and she slumped in front of

the television without ever smiling – not even for Captain Feathersword.

By week’s end, she was irritable and couldn’t bear it when I touched her, so I made an appointment with our doctor, who told me to bring her in right away.

As I was dressing Megan for the appointment, I noticed a large bruise on her left calf and another on her back. I mentioned this to the doctor, who

sent us to the hospital for blood work.

Everything happened very quickly after that. The results came back an hour later, and Michael and I were cal ed into the pediatrician’s office for the results.

o0o

“I’m so sorry to have to tel you this,” Dr. Jenkins said, “but Megan is very sick. The tests have indicated that she has acute myeloid leukemia.”

She paused to give Michael and me a moment to absorb what she had told us, but I couldn’t seem to process it. My brain wasn’t working. Then

suddenly I feared I might vomit. I wanted to tel the doctor that she was mistaken, but I knew it wasn’t true. Something was very wrong with Megan,

and I had known it before the blood work even came back.

“Are you al right, Mrs. Whitman?” the doctor asked.

Michael squeezed my hand.

I turned in my chair and looked out the open door at my sweet darling angel, who was lying quietly on the vinyl seats in the waiting area with a social worker. She was watching television and twirling her long brown hair around a finger.

I glanced briefly at Michael, who was white as a sheet, then faced the doctor again.

“I’d like to admit her through oncology for more tests,” Dr. Jenkins said, “and start treatment right away.”

No. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t happening. Not to Megan
.

“Mrs. Whitman, are you al right?” Dr. Jenkins leaned forward over her desk.

“I’m fine,” I said, though I was nothing of the sort. There was a crushing dread squeezing my chest as I imagined what was going to happen to

Megan in the coming months. I knew enough about cancer to know that the treatment would not be easy. It was going to get much worse before it

got better.

She was just a child. How was she ever going to cope with this? How was I going to cope?

“You say you want to begin treatment right away,” Michael said, speaking up at last. “What if we don’t agree? What if we want to get a second

opinion?”

I glanced quickly at him, surprised at the note of accusation I heard in his voice.

“You’re welcome to get a second opinion,” Dr. Jenkins calmly replied, “but I strongly recommend that you al ow us to admit Megan today. You

shouldn’t wait.”

Michael stood up and began to pace around the office. He looked like he wanted to hit something.

“Is it that bad?” I asked. “Is there no time?”

There was an underlying note of confidence in the doctor’s eyes, which provided me with a smal measure of comfort. “Of course there’s time,” she

said. “But it’s important that we begin treatment immediately. It’s also important that you try to stay positive. You’re going to have a difficult battle ahead of you, but don’t lose hope. The cure rate for leukemia in children is better than seventy-five percent. As soon as we get her admitted, we’l

prepare the very best treatment plan possible. She’s a strong girl. We’re going to do everything we can to get her into remission.”

My voice shook uncontrol ably as I spoke. “Thank you.”

I stood and walked out of the office in a daze, leaving Michael behind to talk to the doctor. I wondered how in the world I was ever going to explain any of this to Megan.

There is nothing anyone can say or do which wil ease your shock as a parent when you learn that your child has cancer.

Your greatest wish – your deepest, intrinsic need – is to protect your child from harm. A disease like leukemia robs you of that power. There is no

way to stop it from happening once it begins, and al you can do is place your trust in the doctors and nurses who are working hard to save your

child’s life. You feel helpless, afraid, grief-stricken, and angry. Some days you think it can’t be real. It feels like a bad dream. You wish it was, but you can never seem to wake from it.

o0o

The first few days in the hospital were an endless array of X-rays, blood draws, intravenous lines, and lastly, a painful spinal tap to look for leukemia cel s in the cerebrospinal fluid.

Not only did Michael and I have to get our heads around al of those tests and procedures, we had to educate ourselves about bone marrow

aspirations, chemotherapy and al the side effects, as wel as radiation treatments and stem cel transplants. In addition, we had to notify our friends and family. Everyone was supportive and came to our aid in some way – everyone except for my father, who remained distant as always.

He sent a get wel card. That was al .

I pushed thoughts of him from my mind, however, because I had to stay strong for Megan.

I promised myself I would never cry in front of her. Instead, I cried every time I took a shower at the hospital (I never left), or I cried when Michael arrived and sent me downstairs to get something to eat. During those brief excursions outside the oncology ward, I would take a few minutes in a

washroom somewhere and sob my heart out before venturing down to the cafeteria to force something into my stomach.

It was important to eat, I was told. The nurses reminded me on a daily basis that I had to stay healthy for Megan because she would be very

susceptible to infection during treatment, and a fever could be fatal.

So I ate.

Every day, I ate.

o0o

Michael had a difficult time dealing with Megan’s il ness. Perhaps it had something to do with the loss of his brother when he was twelve. Some

days he wouldn’t come to the hospital until very late, and a few times I smel ed whisky on his breath.

One night we argued about what we should say to Megan. He didn’t want me to tel her that the chemo drugs would make her throw up.

I insisted that we had to always be honest with her. She needed to know that she could trust us to tel her the truth and be with her no matter how bad it got.

We never did agree on that, but I told her the truth anyway.

Michael didn’t speak to me for the next twenty-four hours.

o0o

“I don’t want my hair to fal out,” Megan said to me one afternoon, while we were waiting for the nurse to inject her with a combination of cytarabine, daunomycin, and etoposide. “I want to go home.”

I dug deep for the strength to keep my voice steady. “I know it’s going to be hard, sweetie,” I replied, “but we don’t have a choice about this. If you don’t have the treatment, you won’t get better, and we need you to get better. I promise I’l be right here with you the entire time, right beside you, loving you. You’re a brave girl and we’re going to get through this. We’l get through it together. You and me.”

She kissed me on the cheek and said, “Okay, Mommy.”

I held her as close as I could, kissed the top of her head, and prayed that the treatment would not be too painful.

o0o

Megan’s hair did fal out, and she was extremely il from the chemotherapy, but within four weeks, she achieved complete remission.

I’l never forget the day when those test results came back.

Rain was coming down in buckets outside, and the sky was the color of ash.

I was standing in front of the window in the hospital playroom, staring out at the water pelting the glass, while Megan played alone at a table with her dol . I told myself that no matter what happened, we would get through it.

We would not stop fighting.

We would conquer this.

Then Dr. Jenkins walked into the room with a clipboard under her arm and smiled at me. I knew from the look in her eye that it was good news, and

my relief was so overwhelming, I could not speak or breathe.

A sob escaped me. I dropped to my knees and wept violently into my hands.

This was the first time Megan saw me cry. She set down her dol and came over to rub my back with her tiny, gentle hand.

“Don’t cry, Mommy,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’l see.”

I laughed as I looked up at her, and pul ed her into my loving arms.

After a short period of recuperation, Megan entered a phase of post-remission therapy, which consisted of more chemo drugs to ensure that any

residual cancer cel s would not multiply and return.

I wish I could say that our lives returned to normal, but after facing the very real possibility of our daughter’s death, I knew the old “normal” would never exist for us again. Our lives were changed forever, and some of those changes were extraordinary.