The Question

   He lay at the foot of the bed staring intently.  Unaware, I had been absorbed into the books that were scattered about me.  Just a few years earlier I had learned about this very thing and I was desperate to refresh my memory. In my quest for information, I had not noticed that his full attention was on me.  I peered around the edge of the book, that I had propped upon my chest, and with the straightforward innocence of a child he asked, “Are you going to die?”

   For a moment the air left the room.  There it was…the question that had yet to be voiced.  It had been a grueling few weeks of tests, doctors’ appointments, and hospital stays. With a definitive diagnosis in place, the news had come as quite a shock.  The whole experience had been surreal.  One day I had walked into the hospital perfectly healthy, and the next, I had walked out gravely ill. 

   Just the day before, the doctor had stood at the foot of my hospital bed and asked if I understood the seriousness of my condition and the reason for the rapid pace at which testing and treatment were being implemented.  I nodded without speaking.  It was not lost on me that she turned to the nurse and asked her to draw up my discharge papers so that I could go home and spend time with my family.  And now the question that had tip-toed around the edges of my mind, had been asked aloud.

   He had just turned 10.  He was the sensitive one, the thinker.  And now, I knew he was worried.  The one thing in this ordeal that I had been adamant about was normalcy for my children.  Despite my efforts, he had sensed trouble.  And now, how could I possibly answer a question that I was asking myself?