I recieved this in and thought that I should share it with all of you.
Tabb Forbes
Outpost 16
First Assembly of God, Lubbock
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I'll Make You A Rainbow
There is nothing that can truly prepare you to lose your own child. Looking
back, I've often thought the doctors should have written a death certificate
for me as well as my son, for when he died, a part of me died too.
Andy was almost twelve. For over three years he had been battling cancer.
He'd gone through radiation and chemotherapy; he'd gone into remission and
out again, not once but several times. I was amazed at his resilience; he
just kept getting up each time his cancer knocked him flat. Perhaps it was
his pluckiness and grit that shaped my own attitude about Andy's future, or
maybe I was simply afraid to face the possibility of his death; whatever the
cause I always thought that Andy would make it. He would be the kid that beat
the odds.
For three summers, Andy had gone to a camp for kids with cancer. He loved it
and seemed to relish the week he could forget about hospitals and sickness
and just be a kid again. The day after he returned from his third camp
adventure, we went to the clinic for a routine check-up. The news was bad.
The doctor scheduled a bone marrow transplant for two days later in a
hospital 300 miles away from our home. The next day we threw our things in a
suitcase and left.
One of the things I tossed into my suitcase was the present Andy had brought
home from camp for me. A plastic suncatcher shaped like a rainbow with a
suction cup to attach it to a window. Like most mothers, I considered any
present from my child a treasure and wanted it with me.
We arrived at the hospital and began the grueling ordeal the doctors felt was
my son's only chance. We spent seven weeks there. They turned out to be the
last seven weeks of Andy's life.
We never talked about dying...except once. Andy was worn out and must have
known he was losing ground. He tried to clue me in. Nauseous and weak after
one of the many difficult procedures he endured on a regular basis, he turned
to me and asked, "Does it hurt to die?"
I was shocked, but answered truthfully, "I don't know. But I don't want to
talk about death, because you are not going to die, Andy."
He took my hand and said, "Not yet, but I'm getting very tired."
I knew then what he was telling me, but tried hard to ignore it and keep the
awful thought from entering my mind.
I spent a lot of my day watching Andy sleep. Sometimes I went to the gift
shop to buy cards and notepaper. I had very little money, barely enough to
survive. The nurses knew our situation and turned a blind eye when I slept in
Andy's room and ate the extra food we ordered off of Andy's tray. But I
always managed to scrape a bit together for the paper and cards because Andy
loved getting mail so much.
The bone marrow transplant was a terrible ordeal. Andy couldn't have any
visitors because his immune system was so compromised. I could tell that he
felt even more isolated than ever. Determined to do something to make it
easier for him, I began approaching total strangers in the waiting rooms and
asking them, "Would you write my son a card?" I'd explain his situation and
offer them a card or some paper to write on. With surprised expressions on
their faces, they did it. No one refused me. They took one look at me and saw
a mother in pain.
It amazed me that these kind people, who were dealing with their own worries,
made the time to write Andy. Some would just sign a card with a little
get-well message. Others wrote real letters: "Hi, I'm from Idaho visiting my
grandmother here in the hospital..." and they'd fill a page or two with their
story, sometimes inviting Andy to visit wherever they were from when he was
better. Once a woman flagged me down and said, "You asked me to write your
son a couple of weeks ago. Can I write him again?" I mailed all these letters
to Andy, and watched happily as he read them. Andy had a steady stream of
mail right up until the day he died.
One day, I went to the gift store to buy more cards and saw a rainbow prism
for sale. Remembering the rainbow suncatcher Andy'd given me, I felt I had to
buy it for him. It was a lot of money to spend, but I handed over the cash
and hurried back to Andy's room to show him.
He was lying in his bed, too weak to even raise his head. The blinds were
almost shut, but a crack of sunlight poured in slanting across the bed. I put
the prism in his hand and said, "Andy, make me a rainbow." But Andy couldn't.
He tried to hold his arm up, but it was too much for him.
He turned his face to me and said, "Mom, as soon as I'm better, I'll make you
a rainbow you'll never forget."
That was the one of the last things Andy said to me. Just a few hours later,
he went to sleep and during the night, slipped into a coma. I stayed with him
in the ICU, massaging him, talking to him, reading him his mail, but he never
stirred. The only sound was the constant drone and beepings of the life
support machines surrounding his bed. I was looking death straight in the
face, but still I thought there'd be a last-minute save, a miracle that would
bring my son back to me.
After five days, the doctors told me his brain had stopped functioning and
that he'd never be "Andy" again. It was time to disconnect him from the
machines that were keeping his body alive.
I asked if I could hold him, so just after dawn, they brought a rocking chair
into the room and after I settled myself in the chair, they turned off the
machines and lifted him from the bed to place him in my arms. As they raised
him from the bed, his leg made an involuntary movement and he knocked a clear
plastic pitcher from his bedside table onto the bed.
"Open the blinds," I cried. "I want this room to be full of sunlight!" The
nurse hurried to the window to pull the cord.
As she did so, I noticed a suncatcher, in the shape of the rainbow attached
to the window, left no doubt, by a previous occupant of this room. I caught
my breath in wonder. And then as the sunlight filled the room, the rays hit
the pitcher lying on its side on the bed and everyone stopped what they were
doing, silent with awe.
The room was suddenly filled with flashes of color, dozens and dozens of
rainbows, on the walls, the floors, the ceiling, on the blanket wrapped
around Andy as he lay in my arms - the room was alive with rainbows.
No one could speak. I looked down at my son and he had stopped breathing.
Andy was gone, but even in the shock of that first wave of grief, I felt
comforted. Andy had made the rainbow that he promised me - the one I would
never forget.
