Please, Don’t Make Me

February 8, 2017.Reading time 5 minutes.

A poster came in the mail. It completed the basement wall where we’ve displayed posters from the musicals we saw in 2015 – both here and in New York. We had quite the season of theatre – tickets to eight shows!

We bought ten tickets to Newsies so Kylie could take her friends to the Fox for an end-of-treatment celebration. She didn’t feel great, but had a wonderful time at the show and was invited to go backstage with the cast afterwards. She had three sisters with her and three friends. We thought everyone was invited to go backstage but theatre management told me that only four were allowed. I pulled Kylie aside and told her the bad news.

She looked at me with utter panic in her eyes and said, “Please, don’t make me choose.”

The thought of disappointing anyone hurt her so badly.

We were just weeks away from her Make-A-Wish trip to New York City where she would appear in Aladdin and we would also take in five other shows. Of course, she never made it. She died the day after she should have been on stage.

I ask God about that sometimes. In the grand scheme of things – in God’s master plan by which we must abide, would a few weeks have mattered? Couldn’t she have gotten that trip that she dreamed of before she had to die?

Tuck Everlasting was one of her favorite books. They made a musical of it that opened here in Atlanta before being picked up and moving to Broadway. She was so excited!

Six tickets – a thirteenth birthday present.

A birthday that never came.

The unthinkable came instead and robbed us of that year and those that should have followed. When we found out her cancer had spread all over her poor body, she digested the news with such grace. I can’t imagine the thoughts swirling in her head. From the time we told her, she only wanted to be among those she loved. Her breathing became increasingly labored. I remember so much about those last days – words, touches, emotions. So hard, so terrible.

At some point, the thought hit her and she remembered her birthday.

“Am I going to miss Tuck?”

Her voice so weak… so strained. She focused her pleading eyes on me just like she had when confronted with the choice between friends and sisters.

“Please, don’t make me answer,” I thought with racing heart. “I’m daddy. I am supposed to be able to make things right.”

In that dark moment, I realized just how little control I actually have. I am powerless – a speck of dust. Please, don’t make me answer.

How does one respond to his dying daughter when he knows the truth? When the only option is disappointment.

“I hope not,” I said weakly. “I hope we all see it together.”

Five days after we buried Kylie, we went to the show. With her ticket, we invited a new friend – a man who had been responsible for much of the Broadway encouragement she received during her struggle. It was fitting to meet him in person for the first time that day. The show was bright, colorful, and beautiful. My wife and I held hands and cried throughout, knowing Kylie would have loved it.

I felt her there in a real way, just like I feel her presence when I see a yellow flower, play with her cat, or hear a favorite song. I hate that she missed it. But then… then a part of me realizes that she did see it. She saw it through my eyes, and her mother’s, and her sisters’. Kylie took it in from every angle because in a beautiful, spiritual way, we are eternally connected. We are her – she is us. We take her everywhere we go. As long as we walk this dusty plain, she sees what we see through the eyes of hearts that loved her.

“Am I going to miss Tuck?”

“No, baby. You’ll never miss anything again.”

It’s in the Leaves

January 30, 2017.Reading time 5 minutes.

“Can we play in the leaves, Daddy?” she asks whimsically.

“Sure we can, baby. I’ll get the blower.”

Eyes full of wonder, her mind races as she builds on her request. “Can you make a pile big enough that I can jump out of the window onto them?”

I laugh. As a manchild, I give due consideration. As a father, I respond, “No, I don’t think that would be safe.”

Undaunted, she pokes out her lip as last children often do in an overt attempt to tug at my heart. “Please…”

Why didn’t I do it?

Why did I say no?

We live in the woods. Acres of trees. Why would I ever have turned her down?

I didn’t know what was just on the horizon, just past that season. I didn’t know it was her last healthy fall. I was concerned about her safety. I was worried about what her mother would do to me if her baby broke her leg during a dad-sanctioned event.

I said no.

Soon her leg would hurt on its own, and poison much more dangerous than a jump into a pile of autumn leaves would course through her veins. I should have let her jump before cancer pushed aside those carefree joys of childhood. I should have raked up every damn leaf in the city and made a soft blanket to cushion her fall. Instead I said no.

We are heading into our second holiday season without Kylie. We won’t get a turkey drawn with crayons, and we won’t be recognized as something for which she is thankful. She won’t rush to the fireplace to see the note from Santa or tear through wrapping paper to see what he left. The “wonts” pile up like leaves in the fall, but without their vibrant brown, orange, and yellow hues… without the familiar smell of the season that turns our thoughts toward home. Our “wonts” are black and gray.

The holidays are tough and begin with the changing of the trees. For me, there is symbolism in the process. The leaf springs forth, grows to its proper size and shape before withering and falling to the ground. While the tree remains and grows, that individual leaf is gone. The tree may whisper to future leaves about their predecessors. Maybe a tree keeps a record of its life deep within its bark so it can boast of mighty branches and remember leaves that fell to earth prematurely. We will have to do that. Our family tree will grow to include branches that never knew Kylie – never saw her smile, never heard her sing. They will know her only through our stories and memories. That saddens me.

It’s the leaves.

You ask me what challenge comes with the season, and I answer that it is the leaves. They bring this season. They usher in Halloween with its costumes and candy and they warn us of what is coming: Thanksgiving and Christmas. I blame the leaves and I blame myself sometimes for not building a pile of them and saying, “Anything you want, baby.”

Anything you want.

And so, how will I respond?

I intend on building a massive pile of leaves and throwing caution to the wind. I will jump. I will invite others to join me. And I will live fully until it is my time to wither. Then the tree can tell its stories, but I will be gone with her — slaves to the wind and rain no more.

*I wanted to store this here on my blog. It was originally written for The Mighty as a response to the question: “For those who are grieving, what challenges come with the change in season?”