someday a grownup

dear love boy,

somehow, daddy is still going strong and seems to be very healthy. he finished his latest course of chemo in september--folfiri with avastin--and had one clean scan during chemo and one after. i'm sure he's due for another scan soon, and if i were the praying type i would be praying hard for more good news.

nana, on the other hand, is dying. last year, before our summer visit, she completed chemotherapy for lymphoma. she looked fantastic when we saw her, and you loved visiting with nana and playing in her "little room" in the basement, and you've asked to go back. now it appears that we'll be going back to pay a most-likely-last visit in the very near future.

a couple of months ago nana went for a pre-op appointment for some kind of orthopedic surgery and the doctors found a valve problem in her heart. the operation to fix the valve is risky, and at nana's age there was some disagreement in the family about whether it was a good idea for her to have it. then nana learned that the lymphoma is back, and decided not to take any more treatment for it. auntie m told t that nana has 6 months to 1 year; auntie e told k that she has 1-1.5 years. t told me she believes auntie m, thinking that autie e tends toward over-optimism, so i told daddy last night that we have to go see nana, soon. i want her to be feeling well enough for the two of you to be able to enjoy your visit together. it makes me sad to think that you might not remember her, just as i don't remember papa.

the concept of death won't be new to you. on thanksgiving, we talked about it for the first time. you brought home an art project from school--a turkey--and i said, "hey, why don't we put this in an envelope, put grandma b's address on it, and mail it to her?" to which you replied, "no, grandma s." my grandma, who died before you were born. you seem to have a thing about grandma s., and i don't know why. i haven't talked about her to you much at all--the only thing i can think of is that we have all those pictures of her as a little girl hanging along the staircase. but even when you were very, very little, you asked about her so often that i thought you might be her, reincarnated. once i asked you, "are you grandma s.?" and you said, "no, i'm just l." or course i felt silly, but there was a part of me that felt you had been coached in some way to give that answer...

anyway, i kept trying to steer your focus away from grandma s. and back to grandma b. but you became annoyed and said, "NO. GRANDMA S!" and so i told you that we couldn't write grandma s.' address on it because she doesn't have an address anymore. "why?" "because she died." and then i told you. "when somebody gets very, very old, their body stops working and they die. after that we don't get to see them anymore." "their body stops working?" "yes." "why?" "that's just how it works."

you didn't say anything else about dying that day, but the next day you said a few things were dead--just testing, or for shock value--and you asked if one of your school friends who stopped going to your school was dead. "because you don't see him anymore?" "yes." "no, he's just staying home with his daddy instead."

then yesterday, out of the blue, grandma b. had just called and you asked if it was grandma s. "no, it's grandma b." "grandma s. died?" "yes." "why?" "because when people get very, very old, their body stops working and they die." "are you going to die?" "yes, someday." "am i going to die?" "yes, but not for a long, long, long time. you have your whole life to live." "is daddy going to die?" "yes." "even m. and j.?" (your school friends.) you looked a little bit worried, so i tried to reassure you. "when you are very, very old, you will have had a full life and you will be tired. you will be ready, then." and i hoped that everything i said would turn out to be true. i hope you will live a long time and feel satisfied when it comes time to say goodbye.

i wish i could give you a sibling. i think you'd like a sister. daddy and i argued about it recently. i would jump over any obstacle i can think of if he were in it together with me, but he is not. you overheard us, and later you gave me your doll and said, "here, mommy, you can have this new baby."

tonight at bedtime, you told me that your bed is too small. "i wish it was as comfortable as your bed. i wish my bed had two places. then i'd have room for a girl." this was, of course, just after storytime. we'd read mrs. picasso's polliwog, and i read the note to you inscribed by my friend george, the author. he wrote that he hoped one day i'd be able to read the book to a little girl or boy of my own. you said, "but we don't have a girl." "no," i said,"but we do have a wonderful little boy to read it to." "maybe someday i'll read it to my little girl," you answered. "because someday i'm going to be a grownup." "yes." "and i'll be able to use the oven." "yes." "when i'm grown up we can all use the oven together." "that sounds like fun." "and one day the little girl will grow up and she'll be able to use the oven, too." "yes, she will."

i want this for you, my sweet thing. i hope you get your little girl. and i hope she grows all the way up for you and that the two of you cook things together in your oven--that you will still be living in that nice, sweet, storybook world.