Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
“Yeah, hi. Is this Sean Dietrich?”
“This is he. Who am I speaking with?”
“Omigosh. My name is Leah.”
“Hello, Leah. You sound very young. How old are you?”
“Omigosh. I’m turning 11 years old in a few days.”
“Wow. Well, happy birthday. And pleased to meet you, Leah.”
“Omigosh. This is so cool.”
“What can I do for you, Leah?”
Silence.
“Well,” she began, “I don’t really know what to say. I just called because I wanted to, well, to meet you for my birthday wish, so my mom got your phone number so that we could talk.”
“I see. And how did she get this number, Leah? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Your wife gave it to us.”
“Does your mother know my wife?”
“No, but Mom is friends with your wife’s cousin’s best friend’s aunt’s nephew’s dentist’s landlord’s neighbor’s mechanic’s attorney’s plumber, who lives in Dothan, and goes to Bible study with my mother’s distant cousin in Opp. So my mom texted some people, they found your wife’s number.”
“Small world.”
“Is this a bad time? I can call back.”
“No, Leah, this is a perfect time. How are you doing?”
“Omigosh, okay, I guess. I mean, the doctor says I’m doing okay. So I guess I’m good.”
“The doctor?”
“Yeah. He’s really hopeful.”
“Hopeful about what?”
“That I’m going to go into remission.”
“Oh.”
More silence.
“It’s not all that bad, being sick, Mister Sean. Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t care about losing my hair. The only thing I don’t like is when there’s a little tiny bit of hair left on top my head. That’s why I told my mom to just shave it off because I feel weird, I can’t stand the little patches of hair on a bald head, you know? It just looks stupid.”
“Um.”
“Yeah, so my mom shaved my head with my dad’s razor a few days ago, and I look much better now. I can’t quit touching my head. It feels weird.”
Silence.
“Can I ask you a question, Leah?”
“Okay.”
“What’s going on with you? I mean, why exactly did your mother have to shave your head?”
“Um, ‘cause I’m taking medicine. They’re really strong medicines for my body and they make weird things happen to you, like, you throw up a lot. And your hair quits growing for a while. And sometimes you just don’t want to be awake anymore, because it just feels so bad. But that part’s over now. My lynch nodes are much better.”
“Really.”
“Omigosh! Yes! And I feel great this morning! I have my whole family here in the hospital with me right now because I’m getting a new thing done tomorrow.”
“What new thing are you getting done?”
“It’s surgery.”
“What kind of surgery?”
“It’s some name I can’t pronounce.”
“And are you scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of surgery?”
“Surgery? Me? Omigosh, no way. I’m not really scared of surgery anymore, I’ve had so many them. I mean, when I first had surgery, I was scared. But after you do it one time, it’s just normal, kind of.”
“Normal?”
“Well, normal for me.”
“Can I ask you another question, Leah?”
“Yes.”
“Why me? Why did you want to meet me?”
“Omigosh, because my mom reads your things on Facebook at night and you’re funny because you’re so, like, I don’t know, weird and quirky, and I just really wanted to know what your voice sounded like.”
“Well, do I sound like you thought?”
“Um. No. You sound younger. I thought you’d be, like, an old man.”
“You’re too kind, Leah.”
“So are you going to write about me now?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Now that we’ve talked? Are you going to write about me? My mom said you probably would. I think you should.”
“Well…”
“If you DO write about me, maybe you can call me by a different name like you sometimes do when you’re trying to keep people’s identity anomalous.”
“Come again?”
“Maybe you could call me some girl’s name from the Bible.”
“Like maybe Esther or Deborah?”
“Um, no, gross. Try again. Hey, I have to go, my mom is wanting to use the phone now.”
“Leah, please tell me one more thing, is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything you want or need?”
“Oh, no, I don’t need anything. I have my mom, my brothers, my dad, and the nurses are so great, and my doctor is so good. People are praying for me. I have everything a kid could want. I’m going to be home in no time soon, and doing all the normal things I used to do. I just have to go through this first. Then I’ll be okay.”
“Happy birthday, Leah.”
“Thanks, Mister Sean. Say a prayer for me, will you?”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Birthday Gal
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
Ring, ring.
I answer. “Hello?”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
“Yeah, hi. Is this Sean Dietrich?”
“This is he. Who am I speaking with?”
“Omigosh. My name is Leah.”
“Hello, Leah. You sound very young. How old are you?”
“Omigosh. I’m turning 11 years old in a few days.”
“Wow. Well, happy birthday. And pleased to meet you, Leah.”
“Omigosh. This is so cool.”
“What can I do for you, Leah?”
Silence.
“Well,” she began, “I don’t really know what to say. I just called because I wanted to, well, to meet you for my birthday wish, so my mom got your phone number so that we could talk.”
“I see. And how did she get this number, Leah? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Your wife gave it to us.”
“Does your mother know my wife?”
“No, but Mom is friends with your wife’s cousin’s best friend’s aunt’s nephew’s dentist’s landlord’s neighbor’s mechanic’s attorney’s plumber, who lives in Dothan, and goes to Bible study with my mother’s distant cousin in Opp. So my mom texted some people, they found your wife’s number.”
“Small world.”
“Is this a bad time? I can call back.”
“No, Leah, this is a perfect time. How are you doing?”
“Omigosh, okay, I guess. I mean, the doctor says I’m doing okay. So I guess I’m good.”
“The doctor?”
“Yeah. He’s really hopeful.”
“Hopeful about what?”
“That I’m going to go into remission.”
“Oh.”
More silence.
“It’s not all that bad, being sick, Mister Sean. Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t care about losing my hair. The only thing I don’t like is when there’s a little tiny bit of hair left on top my head. That’s why I told my mom to just shave it off because I feel weird, I can’t stand the little patches of hair on a bald head, you know? It just looks stupid.”
“Um.”
“Yeah, so my mom shaved my head with my dad’s razor a few days ago, and I look much better now. I can’t quit touching my head. It feels weird.”
Silence.
“Can I ask you a question, Leah?”
“Okay.”
“What’s going on with you? I mean, why exactly did your mother have to shave your head?”
“Um, ‘cause I’m taking medicine. They’re really strong medicines for my body and they make weird things happen to you, like, you throw up a lot. And your hair quits growing for a while. And sometimes you just don’t want to be awake anymore, because it just feels so bad. But that part’s over now. My lynch nodes are much better.”
“Really.”
“Omigosh! Yes! And I feel great this morning! I have my whole family here in the hospital with me right now because I’m getting a new thing done tomorrow.”
“What new thing are you getting done?”
“It’s surgery.”
“What kind of surgery?”
“It’s some name I can’t pronounce.”
“And are you scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of surgery?”
“Surgery? Me? Omigosh, no way. I’m not really scared of surgery anymore, I’ve had so many them. I mean, when I first had surgery, I was scared. But after you do it one time, it’s just normal, kind of.”
“Normal?”
“Well, normal for me.”
“Can I ask you another question, Leah?”
“Yes.”
“Why me? Why did you want to meet me?”
“Omigosh, because my mom reads your things on Facebook at night and you’re funny because you’re so, like, I don’t know, weird and quirky, and I just really wanted to know what your voice sounded like.”
“Well, do I sound like you thought?”
“Um. No. You sound younger. I thought you’d be, like, an old man.”
“You’re too kind, Leah.”
“So are you going to write about me now?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Now that we’ve talked? Are you going to write about me? My mom said you probably would. I think you should.”
“Well…”
“If you DO write about me, maybe you can call me by a different name like you sometimes do when you’re trying to keep people’s identity anomalous.”
“Come again?”
“Maybe you could call me some girl’s name from the Bible.”
“Like maybe Esther or Deborah?”
“Um, no, gross. Try again. Hey, I have to go, my mom is wanting to use the phone now.”
“Leah, please tell me one more thing, is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything you want or need?”
“Oh, no, I don’t need anything. I have my mom, my brothers, my dad, and the nurses are so great, and my doctor is so good. People are praying for me. I have everything a kid could want. I’m going to be home in no time soon, and doing all the normal things I used to do. I just have to go through this first. Then I’ll be okay.”
“Happy birthday, Leah.”
“Thanks, Mister Sean. Say a prayer for me, will you?”
Omigosh, Leah. I’ll tell everyone I know.