A Time of Thanksgiving

 “Diiiiing!” The bell reverberated its alarm through the small concrete corridor, indicating the elevator car was about to arrive. The small white triangle above the cold stainless steel doors glowed bright white, pointing up almost as a symbol of warmth or hope for what was to come. “Shoooomph”, the doors slide open as the car haltingly comes to a stop and bodies begin to file out. The inside of the elevator car is a rectangle, perhaps four feet deep by seven feet long, but the capacity of such a small space seems to be expansive as each member of four different families exit the elevator, intent on finding their vehicles and heading home. We wait until the last person exits the doors and then I wheel Hazel’s stroller into the elevator. She sits quietly, patiently as her mother and I situate all of our bags filled with the “necessities” for a day trip to the chemo clinic.

Hazel is wearing a matching purple sweat suit with a bright pink pair of socks, no shoes of course. She never would have worn an outfit as warm or billowy prior to getting sick, but this has recently become a staple in her wardrobe. The elastic waistband of the pants provides enough give to avoid irritating the sensitive skin around her waist and the sweatshirt keeps her warm as we travel up and down cold hallways in the hospital. Hazel’s face is covered by a disposable mask decorated with Mickey and Minnie Mouse and her head is covered by her floppy Hello Kitty hat, a fairly unimpressive adornment considering some of the other options she has at home, but this too has become one of her favorites.

Made of cotton jean material with well-worn seams and a full brim to surround her tiny bald head, the hat has been more than a head covering these past few months. It has been a place of solace, a barrier to stave off the assaults of the sun and the whipping winter breezes, to keep prying eyes at bay, and to provide a look of normalcy when she stares at herself in the mirror. The hat allows Hazel to escape the realities of her world, if even just a little bit. Each time as I carry her into the hospital, she holds its brim down with both hands, pulling the material tight to her head and covering her ears to drown out the sounds of the bustling wards. Her hat is a safe place, a shield, a private room in an otherwise non-private life. She doesn’t use it to hide as much as she uses it as a filter to manage the visual and audible inputs to her life. The hat was a gift from a loving person on this earth, yet I will always think of it as a personal gift from God.

Several more people insert themselves into the elevator space with us in a cordial version of bodily Tetris, and the elevator doors begin to slowly close as a thin, white hand slides through the crease and sends the doors open again. A young man, no more than 18-19 years old jumps on the elevator and apologizes profusely to its occupants for holding us up. He looks around with a sheepish grin and presses the button for Level 2. “I got a new baby up there,” he says, and looks expectantly at each of us with his finger hovering over the buttons so he can press our floors too. “Eight please,” says a middle-aged man wearing the formal looking suspendered-slacks and bright blue button up shirt of the Amish or Mennonite faith. Two blond-haired boys peer out from under the protective shroud of his weather-beaten arms and his wife pushes a stroller with a tiny baby girl swaddled and sleeping soundly. She looks picture-perfect, save for the thin plastic tube that wraps around her delicate facial features and runs to a small metal canister housed in the bottom compartment of her stroller. The eighth floor is the pulmonary care unit and I can tell by the looks on the family’s faces that they have frequented this upward journey many times before now.

“Twelve, please”, a woman of about 65 says quietly from the corner. The new father presses the buttons for eight and twelve, then looks expectantly at me. “Eleven for us, thanks”, I say then look down at Hazel as she cranes her neck to see the Amish baby sleeping soundly in the stroller next to her.

“Wow, eleven and twelve, huh? The penthouse suites, I guess, right?”, the young man spits the words out without thinking and in a half joking tone that begets his naivety. I quickly meet his gaze and he can tell his words have caused some unknown pain, the glee on his face sliding into apologetic bewilderment. He drops his eyes to the floor and as the elevator lurches into its upward motion, I say dryly, “Yeah, not quite.” I know it’s not his fault, he is here to celebrate his new baby, high on the adrenaline of becoming a new father and focused on the vibrant feelings of being young and having a family. He has no idea what the other floors of this hospital hold, what untold horrors other families have experienced here. He doesn’t realize that as you ascend the floors of this hospital, into the ever higher stratospheres above, that the ailments treated become more and more dire, the circumstances increasingly grim.

We reach the second floor and the young man departs, giving one last furtive glance around the elevator as if to apologize without words to any he has offended. As the doors close and the elevator car once again begins to rocket upward, I am struck by the intimacy created by this mode of transportation. Each floor of this hospital is separated from outside access by numerous security measures, including guards, cameras, and electronic key cards. By default, if not design, those patients treated on one floor may never set foot on another floor for the entirety of their treatment, and thus are both physically and emotionally separated from what goes on eight feet above and three below them on a daily basis. The elevators connect all of those floors and provide one of the only places that patients from different wards can interact with one another.  The elevator is the vehicle of hope for all of us, regardless of what we are battling. We all board at the base level and then begin our journey toward the angels in the sky that can help our babies. It is no coincidence that the oncology floors at Nationwide Children’s Hospital are located the closest to heaven. It makes the commute for God shorter as he peers in each of those twelfth floor windows and keeps watch over his little ones that are suffering.

The Amish family quietly exits on their floor, the youngest boy trailing slowly behind and turning around to shyly wave at Hazel as the elevator doors close, and our journey upwards continues. “The top floors here aren’t fun places to be, are they”, the older lady says as the digital numbers on the floor display click by rapidly. “No they aren’t,” I say as I glance over at her. She is dressed comfortably and carrying a small bag with two knitting needles sticking out of the back side. She clutches a children’s book, the name of which I can’t see, close to her chest and looks up at the ceiling, as if she can actually see the next floor approaching. “I’ve got a grandson up there,” she says proudly. “I have visited this hospital every day for seven years. I’ve never seen him outside of his hospital room, but I believe someday that I will,” she says with a smile. I can tell she means it. I have to look away because the wave of emotions from that simple sentence is shocking to my system. I stand in stunned silence as I contemplate the devastating reality of this woman’s life and the sheer magnitude of faith that must live in her to continue to go on when faced with such overwhelming odds.

The elevator slows to a stop and the doors slide open to reveal H11, our floor, the oncology clinic. As we are exiting I smile at the older woman and she grins back, motioning toward Hazel, “They do amazing things on these floors you know. She’s going to be ok.” I sigh and choke back tears, “I know they do. Good luck.” She nods, the elevator doors close, and the car disappears, continuing its journey upward into the heavens.

The holidays are a time of reflection to remember all of the blessings in our life from the past year. During this time of year, we celebrate family, friends, wealth, health, and happiness. As we sit down to meals, we pray in thanksgiving and for continued blessing as the new year looms on the horizon, our minds alive with the possibilities of new beginnings and continued success. Sadly, I cannot truthfully say that I have rejoiced in every step of our journey this past year. I also cannot say that I am thankful for Hazel’s cancer diagnosis, for what it has done to her and to our family. But I am able to say that I am thankful for many things.

I am thankful for the attentiveness of my wife to our children, without which Hazel’s condition may have lingered longer and made her prognosis less positive. I am thankful for access to exceptional medical care and doctors that not only treat a disease, but love on their patients. I am thankful for friends that immediately stepped in to help our family the very day they heard of Hazel’s diagnosis, providing not only financial, but emotional and logistics support many times over the past months. I am thankful for a caring, close knit family that has helped us in so many ways at the hospital and at home. I am thankful for a church family that loves us and finds subtle ways to give us strength and encouragement during all phases of Hazel’s treatment. I am thankful for prayer warriors that continually lift my family to the throne of God and provide a blanket of safety and warmth in the harsh, cold days of our struggle. I am thankful for a job that has allowed me to be with Hazel for every check-up, every needle stick, and every chemo infusion.

But most of all, I am thankful for the good days, the days when Hazel laughs her deep belly laugh and flashes her bright, toothy smile and looks at me, eyes gleaming and full of life. The days when she runs through our living room and dives into the pile of blankets on the couch and giggles, “Daddy, snuggle me.” The days when cancer is not the first thing on our minds and all that preoccupies our life. I am thankful that we can still have those days, even as we await and prepare for the days of sadness and strife that inevitably follow.

As we all celebrate this holiday season, let us not forget those that are somewhere in the hallows of a lonely hospital ward, facing the inexplicable struggles of a condition they did not cause and over which they have no control. In those quiet, sterile care units are often found some of the strongest examples of faith you will ever see on this earth.

I will forever remember this year and the many struggles through which my family has traveled. Each event is scarred into my memory in ugly detail, a permanent memoir of terror, anguish, and pain. But I will also remember the good times: the beach trip, birthdays, celebrations, and daily snuggle fests. I will remember Hazel’s strength during this time and the people we have met during our journey. I will remember that even in the darkest of times when I thought I could handle no more, God never abandoned me.

From my family to yours, Happy Holidays and God Bless.

“Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” – Psalm 73:23-26