The Color of Heaven

  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 all 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 allow 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 small 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’ll 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 uncontrollably 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.

  Chapter Seven

  There is nothing anyone can say or do which will 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 all 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.

  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 cells in the cerebrospinal fluid.

  Not only did Michael and I have to get our heads around all of those tests and procedures, we had to educate ourselves about bone marrow aspirations, chemotherapy and all the side effects, as well as radiation treatments and stem cell 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 well card. That was all.

  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.

  Michael had a difficult time dealing with Megan’s illness. 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 smelled whisky on his breath.

  One night we argued about what we should say to Megan. He didn’t want me to tell 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 tell 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.

  “I don’t want my hair to fall 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’ll 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’ll 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.

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

  I’ll 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 doll. 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 doll 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’ll see.”

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

  Chapter Eight

  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 cells 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.

  From that day forward, I saw more beauty in the world than I had ever seen before. I cherished every moment, found joy in the tiniest pleasures, for I understood this amazing gift called life.

  I gloried in the time we spent together, knowing how precious and fragile it all was. Sometimes I would look up at the sky and watch the clouds shift and roll across the vibrant expanse of blue, and I wanted to weep from its sheer majesty.

  We lived in a beautiful world, and I felt so fortunate to have Megan at my side. I had learned that I was stronger than I ever imagined I was, and so was Megan. She had fought a difficult battle and had become my hero. I respected and admired her – more than I ever respected or admired anyone. I was in awe of her.

  In addition, friends and family
offered us help and support, and I saw, through the eyes of my heart, how incredibly lucky we all were to be on the receiving end of all that generosity and compassion. It was something wonderful to witness, and I felt truly blessed.

  It may seem an odd thing to say, but I sometimes felt that Megan’s cancer, even though it was painful, had brought something good. It had taught us so much about life and love. I had grown – so had she – and I knew that this change in us was very profound and would affect both our futures.

  Later I would learn how right I was.

  For something both glorious and mystifying still awaited us.

  Chapter Nine

  Over the next two years, I helped Megan through her post-remission therapy and cherished every precious moment with her, basking in the joy of our existence.

  Michael reacted differently.

  He was overjoyed, of course, when Megan achieved remission. We celebrated and went to Disney World for the weekend. But slowly, over time, as the weeks pressed on and there was still no end to the doctor appointments and pills and blood work, he began to withdraw.

  Every evening when he came home from work, he poured himself a drink. Though he never consumed enough to become noticeably intoxicated, it was enough to change the core of the person he had once been.

  He smiled less often (oh, how I missed his smile) and he left all of Megan’s medical care to me. He didn’t attend any of her appointments, nor did he stay informed about her medications at home. I administered all of them myself.

  The Sunday trips to his sister’s house in Connecticut fell by the wayside as well, along with my writing.

  Not that I cared about that. Being with Megan was all that mattered to me – but perhaps that was part of the problem where Michael was concerned.

  In the early days of our marriage, when we were passionately in love, he was the center of my world. Maybe he couldn’t accept the fact that I had a new hero now, and there were things in life I revered more than his success at the firm or our expensive dinners out.

  These were things he didn’t understand.

  “They’re just clouds,” he would say when I wanted to lay on the grass and watch them roll across the sky. He would frown at me as I shook out the blanket. “Don’t be so emotional. It’s ridiculous.”

  Or maybe that was the heart of the problem. Maybe he couldn’t handle the complexity of his own emotions. We had come very close to losing our daughter, and sometimes it felt like we were still standing on a thin sheet of ice with a deep crack down its center.

  What if it happened again? What if Megan relapsed? What if we had another child and the same thing happened? How would we cope?

  It had been so difficult the first time. I couldn’t imagine going through anything like that again.

  I understood his fear. I felt it, too, but it didn’t keep me from loving Megan or spending time with her. It only intensified our bond.

  I wanted to be closer to Michael, but he was always too tired, not in the mood, or too busy.

  Once, I suggested that we try therapy together – surely a child with cancer was enough to warrant a few sessions with a professional – but he was worried that someone at the firm might find out, and he was determined to stay strong. He was a partner now and couldn’t afford to be weak.

  His behavior saddened and angered me, and I regret to say that this wedge in our relationship only grew deeper over time. I felt more and more disconnected from the love we once shared.

  Consequently, when the next bomb hit, our foundations were unsteady. As a couple, we were damaged and vulnerable, and it all went downhill from there.

  Chapter Ten

  On a snowy late November afternoon in 2005, I was putting away the dishes, and Megan screamed in the bathroom. As soon as I heard the terror in her voice, I dropped a plate on the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces on the ceramic tiles, and my heart dropped to my stomach.

  Please, let it be a spider, I thought as I ran to her.

  When I pushed the door open, I found her sitting on the floor with blood pouring out of her nose. She was slumped over, trying to catch it in her hands.

  Quickly I grabbed a towel, held it under her nose and helped her up. “It’s all right, honey. Mommy’s here now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  But I knew it was not that simple. She was not fine. She’d been fatigued for the past week and had lost her appetite.

  I don’t know how I managed to think clearly as I helped her out to the front hall. All I wanted to do was cry or yell at someone, but I could do none of those things because I had to focus on picking up my purse, locking the door behind me, buckling her into the car, and driving to the hospital.

  After two years in remission with normal blood counts and an excellent prognosis, Megan suffered a relapse in her central nervous system.

  The doctor explained that this type of relapse occurred in less than ten percent of childhood leukemia patients, and that Megan would require frequent spinal taps to inject chemotherapy drugs directly into her cerebrospinal fluid.

  I tried to call Michael on his cell phone, but he wasn’t answering and the receptionist couldn’t tell me where he was.

  I was enraged. I remember thinking, as I stood at the nurses’ station and slammed the receiver down, that I wanted to divorce him. Why wasn’t he here with me? Why did I have to shoulder all of this alone? Did he not care? Didn’t he love his daughter? Didn’t he love me?

  I sat down on a bench in the hospital corridor and struggled to calm myself before I returned to Megan’s bedside, but my heart was throbbing in my chest and I was afraid I might, at any second, start screaming like a lunatic.

  Why was this happening? Recently, I had begun to feel some security that Megan was going to be all right and live a long, happy life. She would go to high school, college, get married and have children of her own. I was certain that one day, all of this would be a distant memory, because we had fought hard and beaten it.

  But the cancer was back. The treatments had not worked. The leukemia cells were infecting her blood again.

  I stood up and ran to the nearest bathroom, where I heaved up the entire contents of my stomach.

  Sometime after eleven that night, Michael arrived at the hospital. I had no idea where he’d been all day or why he hadn’t answered his phone. I didn’t ask. All I did was explain Megan’s diagnosis in a calm and cool manner, because by that time, I had reached a state of numbness. Megan was sleeping and I couldn’t seem to feel anything. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t yell. I couldn’t even step into Michael’s arms to let him hold me.

  I suppose I had been enduring this alone for such a long time that I didn’t need him anymore. I didn’t need anyone – except for Megan, and the doctors and nurses who could keep her alive.

  When Michael absorbed what I told him about the nosebleed and the fatigue over the past week, and the spinal taps and radiation she would require, he pushed me aside, marched up to the nurses’ station, and smacked his palm down upon the countertop.

  A nurse was seated in front of a computer, talking to someone on the phone. “I’ll get right back to you,” she said, then set the receiver down and looked up at him. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

  “Where the hell is Dr. Jenkins?” Michael asked. “Get her out here. Now. She has a lot to answer for.”

  I rushed forward and grabbed hold of his arm. “It’s not her fault, Michael. She’s doing everything she can for Megan.”

  He roughly shook me away. “Everything? What kind of hospital is this? Why didn’t anyone see this coming?”

  “Keep your voice down,” I said. “You’ll wake Megan. She’ll hear you.”

  A baby started to cry somewhere down the hall.

  “I don’t care if she hears me! She needs to know that at least someone is looking out for her.”

  My stomach muscles clenched tight. I could feel my blood rushing to my head, pounding in my ears.

  “Someone?” I replied.
“Like who? You? Pardon me for saying so, Michael, but you’ve done nothing for Megan over the past two years. I’ve taken care of her every minute of every day, while you find other more important things to do. So don’t you dare pretend to be her savior tonight. I won’t let you make enemies out of the very people who are trying to save her.”

  I gestured toward the nurse – though I didn’t even know her name – and she slowly stood up.

  She was a tall, broad-shouldered black woman with plastic-rimmed glasses and a fierce-looking gaze. “Is there going to be a problem here, sir?” she asked. “Do I need to call security?”

  Briefly he considered it, then turned his back on her and faced me. A muscle twitched at his jaw as he spoke. “I told you we should’ve gotten a second opinion.”

  Michael reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a business card, and tossed it onto the counter. He pointed a threatening finger at the nurse. “See that? Yeah. You’re going to hear from me.”

  He walked out and left me standing there with my heart racing, perspiration beading upon my forehead.

  Not because I was afraid, but because it had taken every ounce of self-control I possessed not to punch Michael in the face.

  I took a few deep breaths to calm myself.

  “Was that your ex?” the nurse asked.

  I glanced at her nametag. “No… Jean. We’re still married.”

  Jean removed her glasses, pulled a tissue from the box on the counter, and proceeded to clean her lenses while she strolled out from behind the counter.

  She approached me, slid her glasses back on, then laid a hand on my shoulder. “You look like you could use a Popsicle.”

  Not knowing what else to say, I simply nodded and followed her into the lunchroom.

  Chapter Eleven

  Early the next morning, Michael stepped off the elevator and found me reading a magazine in the lounge area outside Megan’s room. He explained that he’d had a few too many drinks at dinner the night before with an important client, and that the shock of Megan’s relapse had been too much for him. He apologized for his behavior.