And then she slept

                My daughter was fourteen when she was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer. We didn’t know anything was wrong until she suddenly passed out at supper one night. They held her in the hospital for a few days and ran a battery of tests. When they released her, they told us they thought it could be cancer, but they needed to wait for the results to come in to be sure. Those days waiting felt like decades. We were all stuck in a weird state of limbo; never knowing if the news would be good or bad. Hoping for the best, fearing the worst.

                I remember the office perfectly. The doctor’s degrees were framed, but placed out of direct eyesight. The walls were painted a light green, probably to seem soothing. The chairs were comfortable, and upholstered in red. On his desk sat a vase of flowers (from his girlfriend, he told us), pictures of pets, a framed photo of a beautiful woman, and an autographed picture of Deforest Kelly (the reason he became a doctor, because, dammit, he’s not an engineer!).

                The doctor himself had a kind face and was wearing a brightly coloured tie. His voice was strong when he spoke. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” he paused here and glanced at his notes. I think he just did this to give us a moment to prepare. “The tests came back positive for cancer. I had them run the tests again, just to be safe. Unfortunately, the results did not change. The results indicate that you have stage four ovarian cancer. The prognosis is not good, but there are a few things that we can try.” As he was speaking, my daughter reached over and grasped my hand. “I’m going to leave you alone for a few minutes to process, then when I come back, we can go over treatment options.”

                He gave us a small smile as he left the room. My daughter was still holding on to my hand, and her thumb was idly tracing up and down my own.

                She smiled at me when I looked at her, “It’s gonna be okay Mama. He said there are options. And if they don’t work, then I get to go home a little early.”

                I didn’t know how to respond, so I said some mindless words of comfort. I’m pretty sure it was more for my benefit than hers.

                After the doctor went over the various procedures and options, we went home. I was in a daze, just trying to process the abundance of thoughts running through my head.

                “Hey mom,” she said the next day while we were sitting on the couch, “I guess this means I won’t have to worry about having kids. That’s a load off.” I think she was trying to make a joke, but it just brought me to tears.

                It took months to go through all the different options available. Each one came back with the same results: the cancer was not slowing.

                I had to sit, helplessly, and watch my daughter, my only child, the only family I had left, waste away. As the months went on, she just got smaller and smaller. The multitude of treatments began to wear on her and her voice became weak. Still, every day, she would smile, hold my hand, and tell me that things would be okay.

                I wanted to believe her right up until the end.

                Six months after her diagnosis, I was sitting beside her hospital bed, as various machines did all they could to keep her stable. The doctor had told me this could be her last night.

                I raged, and cursed, and I swore. I screamed at God.  I screamed at all the deities I knew, and some that I didn’t. I prayed. I cried. And finally I went to her.

                She opened her eyes when I laid my hand on hers. “Hey mama,” she said. Her voice was so weak, but she smiled when she saw me. “Guess I’m goin’ home soon, eh? That’s okay. I’m ready. I’ll get to see Daddy again. I’m gonna miss you though, mama. But I’ll keep my eye on you, okay? I’ll still be with you.” She held my hand and tried to squeeze it. Tears were flowing freely for both of us. “I love you mama. I need you to be strong for me, okay?”

                I opened my mouth to reply, but I couldn’t speak. I took a breath, and tried again: “I’ll try. I promise. I love you so much.”

                She smiled softly, “Thanks mama.” Then she closed her eyes and slept.

                She passed a couple hours later in her sleep.

                I wasn’t really a religious person, but my daughter had believed and went to a local church. I asked her pastor to do the funeral, and he agreed. He also offered to give me grief counselling.

                “She was so young. And she got taken from me. I’ve lost everyone in my life, Pastor. My parents passed when I was twenty, and her father was killed when she was seven. And now she’s gone too! Why? Why would your god do this to me? How is this part of his will?” I raged one session.

                “I would not say that her death was part of His will, nor would I say that He did this to you. I know many who would take solace in believing that, but it’s not something that I personally believe in, nor do I think it will do you any good. Instead I will simply say this: the loss of your daughter is a great tragedy. It was not the act of some vengeful God, or part of some great cosmic plan. It just happened, and it’s horrible, but it is no one’s fault. Especially not yours.”

               

Maybe one day I can believe that.