The Two Visitors

I sat in stunned silence with my elbows on my knees, head resting heavily in my open hands. I breathed in deeply and held it, completely filling my lungs in an attempt to calm my nerves and re-center my thoughts. It didn’t work. I looked up and said in a hoarse, desperate whisper, “Are you sure?” The doctor knelt down in front of me and gently took my hand in hers, “The test coming back on Monday only tells us which type of Leukemia she has, but we are sure that she has a blood cancer. I am so sorry.” I looked away, tears streaming down my face, my shoulders heaving with each deep sob, my heart…broken.

Moments ago every muscle had ached with exhaustion and every fiber of my being was beset with fatigue, but that had melted away now, leaving a numb emptiness that swallowed me entirely. The utterance of a single disgusting word had just shattered my spirit and filled my world with a swirling darkness that shrouded everything around me. I was almost too exhausted to process the news.

It had been nearly 36 straight hours since we had entered the emergency room, and I had not yet slept. We had spent that time struggling to get Hazel stabilized. She had arrived with platelets so dangerously low that just holding her caused bruising and the doctors warned us that she could have spontaneous bleeding on the brain without a transfusion. Her veins were so fragile that every time an IV was placed, it would blow out within seconds, leaving her with bruised puncture marks in both hands, at both elbows, both wrists, and both ankles.

Mercifully, one of the IVs finally held and Hazel was given bag after bag of platelets and red blood cells. But the hours of screaming and crying and fighting had taken its toll. She and Elizabeth were totally exhausted and had fallen into a fitful sleep. They had each poured every ounce of emotion and strength into getting through the night and could do no more.

Tired though I was, I remained awake, sitting, standing, sometimes kneeling next to the hospital bed, watching my little girl fight for her life in the arms of her greatest protector. I prayed through tears for so many things during those early hours. I prayed that we were all wrong and Hazel was going to be fine. I prayed that tests would come back with good results. I prayed for Hazel’s pain to stop. But most of all, I prayed to God to save my little girl, to allow her to live, even if it would mean that I didn’t. “Please God, remove this burden from her. She is so young, has so much more of life to live. Why can’t it be me? Why not me!?”

The answers to my prayers were not what I expected, nor were they what I wanted, but I know they were what I needed. The doctors eventually left that day and Elizabeth and I began to grieve together, sometimes in unison, and sometimes on our own. We didn’t talk much; there just wasn’t much to be said. We cried for hours, silently sitting and staring into space in a near comatose state, as aware of the presence of other human beings as a tree is to a rock next to it. Darkness finally fell and the constant stream of visitors revolving through our room slowed.

Sometime in the middle of the night I heard our door creak open and a man’s head poked through the opening.

“I am sorry to bother you, but may I come in?” he said.

“Sure, but my wife and daughter are sleeping.”  

He whispered, “Oh that’s ok, it’s you I want to see anyway,” closing the door behind him.

I studied his figure in the dim light. Something about him seemed strange but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was tall and slender, his head nearly touching the doorframe as he slid into the room. His shoulders were wide but hunched forward, like he had been working at a desk for too many years. He was dressed in what appeared to be a dark blue suit and looked very professional, more like a banker than a hospital employee. His black leather shoes squeaked when he walked and his hair was slicked back against his head with a heavy smelling balm. His face was friendly enough, but seemed ashen and though his lips were formed into a smile, his expression made me uneasy.

He came further into the room and stood on the side of the bed opposite of me, placing his hands behind his back and pushing out his chest. His presence was icy, and it seemed as though the temperature in the room immediately dropped a few degrees.

“I was sorry to hear that Hazel had cancer,” he said, the words nearly dripping off of his lips.

“Thank you. We are still trying to process what this all means,” I said.

“I am sure you are. It is quite a blow to be dealt. No one wants this.”

I stared down at Hazel lying in the bed, her red locks curling around one of her tiny ears. “I certainly didn’t,” I sighed.

“Doesn’t it make you mad?”

I crinkled my brow and looked up into his face which was now formed into a quizzical, almost feigned sense of sympathy. “Mad?” I said, “Of course I am mad. I am so angry that I can barely see straight. I am furious that she is lying there and I am not. I am livid that as humans we are so vulnerable to so many diseases. I am mad at myself for not protecting her, mad at the evil that exists in this world, and downright irate that I cannot change anything about this situation.” I took a breath and realized my hands were clenched at my sides and I was leaning forward. Was I mad? What kind of question was that? Who was he to ask me that? “Are you with the hospital or insurance or what?” I said.

He had visibly enjoyed my reaction and, ignoring my question, pressed further, “And? Aren’t you mad at someone else too?”

I shook my head in a jerking motion, “I don’t know…”

“Yes you do, I can see it in your eyes. Who are you mad at?” he said, his voice rising slightly as he anticipated my answer.

In an instant I got it. “Wait, do you mean am I mad at God?” I said.

“I know you are, you have to be,” he said.

I looked away from his face, ashamed by the accusation. The truth was I was so angry I was shaking, but I didn’t know at who or at what. No one had caused Hazel to get cancer, nor had any single event brought it on. How could I be angry at a situation? Wasn’t that more frustration and helplessness than anything else?

“I can’t be mad at God. He didn’t cause this,” I said.

“Well how are you so sure? Don’t you believe he is all-powerful? That he has control over all of us and our lives here on earth?”

“Yes, I do, but I don’t believe he causes pain,” I stumbled.

“He most certainly does. Or at least he allows it. I mean look at Hazel. You believe that he could at any point heal her, right? Well then why would he let her be in pain like this? Why would he allow loved ones to die when it hurts so much?” he hissed. His movements continued to make me uneasy. He seemed to glide along like a snake, bobbing in toward my face, closer and closer. He was close enough now that I could see into his eyes. They seemed unnaturally dark and round, with a piercing stare that penetrated deep into my soul.

Defiantly I glared back at him. “I am confused, hurt, sad, angry, and hopeless. I am in so much anguish that I don’t know exactly what I feel right now, but I know one thing: My God is a God of love. He did not cause Hazel to be sick to punish her or me and he has a plan for us. Am I scared of what that plan holds at times? Yes, I most certainly am. But I never question that plan because he put the stars in the sky, the dirt under my feet, and breath in my lungs. His plan is my plan, and I accept that.”

The man’s demeanor immediately changed as I spat the words into his face. He no longer had a semblance of comfort, but instead lifted his body to its full height and screamed, “Ahhhh, how can you still cling to your silly faith!? Look at what your morals, honesty, and truth has gotten you. You are going to lose her, you know! Hazel, your little girl is going to die, and you can’t stop it and neither can He.” The room darkened in that instance and a great rush of wind filled my ears. The man began to contort into a black grotesque shadow, his thin fingers gnarling into talon-like appendages. His facial features began to melt away into a gray abyss that swallowed up what light was still left in the room, his black eyes staring down at me icily.

I was terrified of whoever this was, whatever this was. I felt frozen, my feet cemented in place by fear, leaving me totally exposed to whatever was to come next. I half-crouched and cowered with my hands over my head, barely glancing up into the face of this monster that had taken over our room.

Suddenly the howling wind stopped and light began to flood the space. I opened my eyes and realized our door had been opened and in the bright rectangular silhouette I could see the figure of a man. He was about my height and stocky, wearing a pair of dark blue pressed jeans and button down striped shirt.

“Is everything alright?” the man asked as he stepped further into the room. I slowly lowered my hands and looked around. The shadow man was nowhere to be seen and I was alone in the room with the new man and my tiny sleeping daughter. “I guess so,” I stumbled, still confused by what I had just witnessed.

I glanced over at blue jean man and saw he was about 50 years old with what can only be termed as a kind face. He was clean shaven, but with stubble as if he had not shaved in a day or so. His clothes were well kempt but not flashy and while he was not tall, his barrel chest and upright stature made his presence seem much greater than his overall height.

“She is beautiful,” he said as he stared lovingly down at Hazel. His voice was warm and strong-sounding, but not loud. Authoritative I suppose is the right word. “I love that red hair,” he beamed as he looked over at me. I looked into his face and something about his eyes caught me. His face was smiling, but his eyes had a look of weary despair in them, like a pool of water so deep that the light cannot penetrate all the way to the bottom. I wondered what his story was, what caused that despair I saw in his eyes. No one comes to Nationwide Children’s Hospital for the heck of it. He too must have a child here.

“Everyone loves that hair,” I say, “It’s just too bad she is going to lose it.”

“It will come back,” he says with such comfort and certainty in his voice that I immediately believe him. He reaches down and caresses Hazel’s head and she leans into his hand with a slight grin on her face, turning slightly as she sleeps.

“It’s an awful thing you know, cancer,” he whispered. “It causes so much heartache in this world. I am truly sorry that you and your family have to go through this.”

I could hear a distant pain in his voice and I thought I noticed him catch his breath at the word “family”.

“Thank you,” I said, “I don’t know how I am going to handle it. I am so…”

“I know,” he said as he looked me in the eyes and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You are afraid. Afraid to lose her. You are afraid you aren’t strong enough. You are afraid of the struggle.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and I felt my own eyes warming as they filled with tears of my own.

“You are afraid that this experience will tear you and your family apart,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I know all of that. I feel all of that too. I know your pain all too well.”

My kind visitor turned his head back to Hazel and wiped the tears from his creased cheeks, but his hand remained on my shoulder. We sat together on Hazel’s bed, grieving together in knowing silence. Our hearts were broken, torn apart by the pain we had and were still destined to witness.

I said, “I don’t know how I will do it, how to do it, really.” I dropped my head again, but a strong hand caught my chin and pulled my face up close to his own, this man that I had seemingly befriended in a mere five minute conversation.

“You are stronger than you could possibly know. Your family is strong, Hazel is strong. Your souls are tied as one and you will get through this, I promise you.”

“But how do you…” ,I stumbled.

He shook his head and cradled my face in his hands, drawing me close into an unexpected, but welcome embrace. “Because I have been here, I have seen this before, and because I am here now,” he whispered into my ear.

We stood up and I backed away from him with a quizzical look on my face.

“So do you have a child here?” I said.

“Yes I do. My children are here.”

“Children? I am so sorry, what rooms are they in?” I said.

The stranger smiled, backing toward the door now, intent on leaving when I still had so many questions.

“My son,” he laughed, “they are in every room.” And just like that, he was gone and I was left standing facing a partially closed door, my daughter sleeping soundly in her bed, my wife cuddled up next to her.

These events as I describe them may be fictional in nature, but are true in their message. I was visited by two beings that day, what forms I couldn’t tell you, but they were as real to me as any person I have ever met. These beings made their presence known not because I was at my strongest, but because I was the weakest I have ever been that day. On that day I was given a choice, to listen to the legions of evil that screamed at me to run, to give up hope, to allow my faith to be destroyed by situations on this earth. Or to listen to the One who is all knowing, all powerful, and everlasting. I sat poised on a razor’s edge decision, knowing full well it would shape the rest of my life. As we continue on in Hazel’s journey, I know that I made the right decision.

The forces of good and evil walk the wards of hospitals, wafting in and out of people’s lives like a mist that either breathes new life into you or steals your soul when you least expect it. Over the past year, my heart has become a trodden battleground, filled with the weariness and despair. The intermittent joy that is provided by Hazel’s smile, the little dimple in her cheek, a twinkle in her eye, or her infectious giggle has kept me sane. It has provided the strength I needed to know that she is in God’s hands. She has walked with Him, been held by Him, and protected by Him during this time of terrible tribulation.

As I sit in the lobby of NCH now, waiting for Hazel’s day to ring her bell, I know that my God, the one true and loving God, walks those halls daily. He checks on his children, comforting them, rejoicing with them, and mourning their suffering just as their parents do. This life is not simply a test of our faith, it is a testament, and I want my testament to be written in the scrolls of history of having been for Christ in all of my days, not just the good ones.

“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer” – Romans 12:12