Like all 4-year-olds, Skipper had his likes and dislikes, his favorite activities and things he would rather not do. Like most 4-year-olds, Skipper’s world consisted of family, friends, pre-school and home. And like few 4-year-olds, Skipper’s world came to a grinding halt when his doctor diagnosed him with a brain tumor.
Because of its location, the tumor was operable. The neurosurgical team labored over him for eight hours and succeeded in resecting the growth. Because the pathologist was unable to differentiate the cellular type, the slides were sent out to a world-renowned regional cancer center for review by the experts. The results came back equivocal.
The parents were given the option of a short course of local radiation, an extended course of chemotherapy, or observation. Because of the side effect profiles, they elected to watch and wait. Unfortunately, the growth recurred.
This time round Skipper was enrolled in a chemotherapeutic protocol. Periodically, he would receive four days of toxic medications. These rounds were scheduled at monthly intervals. The initial treatment regimen knocked him down, but soon he was up and active again. The second round was worse. The morning before the trip to the hospital, Skipper’s grandmother was helping him to put on his socks when he made his small request: “Please, Grandma, help me to not be afraid.”
What do you say to a 4-year-old? What sort of reassurance do you offer? How far out on the limb do you go?
At that age, reassurance takes on the mantel of love. Words help, touch helps, doing an activity together helps. We work with whatever tools we have.
Sometime later after I heard this story, I drove to a local bookstore to browse the shelves in the children’s section. It proved difficult to locate a specific book, because they are categorized under different genres according to the perceptions of the adults who work in these areas. For the young child, a book is a story—nothing more, nothing less. Its category means nothing—it is only the story that holds meaning.
I made my selection and paid at the register. I laid the parcel on the seat beside me as I climbed into my car. I hand carried the book to the house that I had last visited years ago. Tucked in among the towering pines, it was still there, just as I had remembered it: neat and trim, well cared for.
With a short stammer of inadequate words I placed the gift into the hands of the grandmother I had come to know over the past decade. She invited me to come in, and we sat among the plants in the conservatory and talked a long while about children and grandchildren, parenting and grandparenting, love and tough love.
She gifted me a poem by one of her favorite writers, Wendell Berry.
When despair for the world grows in me
And I wake in the night at the least sound
In fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
Rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
Who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.
I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
Waiting with their light.
For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
At my age, reassurance takes on the form of caring. We learn to care for one another as best as we can, with whatever tools we can muster.