Ronan. Two years ago today, April 23rd, I went to Hell. I’ve been to Hell a few times in my life, and it’s not the place people think you go after you die if you’ve lived a life of sin. Hell, to me, is right here on earth. Hell, to me, is what I have experienced while living half alive.
On April 23, 2011, I went to Hell. It was your last scan day at Sloan Kettering. Fernanda was with me. I remember every detail about that day as if it happened yesterday—the waiting in the waiting room for Dr. Kushner to come out and read us your results. Watching my friend Doriet howl like an animal in that same waiting room as she had just been told there was nothing left to do for her daughter, Esther. Grabbing Doriet as she walked by and squeezing her tightly as I whispered in her ear that we would find something, someone, to help. Looking at Fernanda and saying, “They have to walk out of here having just been told there is nothing left to do for their daughter. How are they going to leave here? How can that just be it?” I had no clue that twenty minutes later I would be in the same situation.
Fernanda and I sat and waited. Dr. Kushner came bursting through the doors, breezing right past us. Fernanda whispered, “There he is! Ask him!” I watched his body language, how he avoided eye contact and rushed past me as if he didn’t see me waiting there. I knew he did. My stomach dropped.
My name was called to come back and get you as you were waking up from anesthesia. I couldn’t wait to scoop you back into my arms, safe and sound. You were groggy but so happy to see me. You were upset about the bone aspirations in both of your little hip bones, asking me why I let them do that to you. I rocked you back out into the waiting room to calm you down.
Then came the sign of all signs that everything was about to come crashing down. That damn necklace. My “lucky” necklace, which I had worn religiously on every scan day, broke in two and fell to the floor. I watched it fall in slow motion. I swear time stopped.
“Dr. Kushner will see you now,” we were told.
I grabbed you. Fernanda followed me. Off we went. I felt like I was walking the plank of a pirate ship with a sword in my back, waiting to be dumped into a sea of blood-hungry sharks.
Dr. Kushner was waiting, alright—but not how I wanted. He paced back and forth like a caged animal. He couldn’t or wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
“The treatment… the treatment didn’t work.”
I sat there shaking while you played on the floor with some cars. I don’t remember much after that except saying, “Okay. Well, I know you have a plan because you said you wouldn’t give up on my child. So I’m going to go back to Phoenix until you figure out what’s next.”
He called your daddy at some point. I don’t remember what was said. I remember feeling like my legs were cement and I couldn’t get up from the chair. Somehow, I managed. I also managed to hug Dr. Kushner and say, “Thank you. You are a good man.”
I said that to a man who was too much of a coward to look me in the eyes and simply tell me he was sorry.
I picked you up and somehow we made it back to the Ronald McDonald House to pack up the entire life we had built there in a matter of hours so we could catch the soonest flight home to Phoenix.
I did none of that.
I threw coconut water at the wall and watched it explode everywhere. I told you we were having a pop-throwing party as I sat on the floor with you and Fernanda. We let soda and water explode everywhere as we threw it against the wall and all over the floor. You thought it was funny. I did too, as I lost a piece of my mind that day—never to get it back again—and honestly, I don’t miss it.
I sat in the basement somewhere while Fernanda stayed with you and let you chase her around. I screamed and cried into the phone to Mr. Sparkly Eyes. He could barely talk. He just kept begging me to get it together so I could get you home, promising we would go from there. I think I said “No, no, no, no, no,” over and over because I couldn’t even form a sentence. Valium somehow came into play.
The next thing I knew, ten suitcases that seemed to appear out of thin air were packed, and we were on a late-night flight back to Phoenix. Again—not me. That was Fernanda. Only she could orchestrate something like that in the middle of the biggest shitstorm of our lives.
Somehow, we survived scan day from Hell and were plopped back into Phoenix.
I remember nothing after that. I don’t remember the reunion with your daddy or how that conversation went. I don’t remember getting home and explaining things to your brothers. It’s as if my memory of the next few days has been erased. I guess that happens when you endure something that traumatic. PTSD, I suppose.
Fast forward. Here I am two years later, having survived one of my many trips to Hell and back. Today I spent much of the day like I have been since your sister was born—rocking her, snuggling her, feeding her, caring for her. My head still screams for you, but the screaming is a little softer now that she is here.
Sometimes I wonder if your sister is you reincarnated. Is that a real thing? I don’t know, but it crosses my mind. What if it were? Would it make this pain any less? I don’t know.
It’s because of that dimple of hers. You had that secret dimple on the right side of your face by your chin—the tiny one that only showed up when you smiled. I think she has it too. It freaks me out and makes my mind believe insane things like, “What if this is Ronan’s way of coming back to me because he saw how much pain I was in and couldn’t take it anymore, so he came back as a baby girl?”
You know me. Wild imagination.
Then there’s the other voice saying, “Don’t be crazy. This is Poppy, not Ronan. But she is here to save you in her own magical, special Poppy way.”
Whatever the honest answer is, I’ll take it. Either way, it feels like your gift.
Your Nana is here, and it’s been wonderful. She is so helpful, and I love watching her bond with your sister. She is such a good Nana. It’s bittersweet, but I know you would want it this way. You would want us to be as happy as we can without you here.
Tomorrow your Fairy RoMo is coming to meet her goddaughter. I am beyond excited. I know it will be love at first sight. I only wish she could have met you, too. I feel like tomorrow she will meet a piece of you, and that will be beautiful.
Alright, little man. I’m sorry I haven’t been writing much. Things have been busy yet calm. We are soaking in this tiny newborn window because I know how fast it goes. She is a dream—such a good baby. We are all amazed that she barely cries. She is the most peaceful little thing. Somebody must have told her how badly we need peace in our lives.
Thanks, baby doll.
I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe.
Sweet dreams.
xoxo
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