By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
The pediatric oncology ward is a scary place. I don’t care who you are, or how tough you think you are. You walk through this part of the hospital and you’re scared spitless.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
I approached the nurse’s station. A horseshoe desk. The nurse was popping her gum. She gave me an appraising look.
“You Sean?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
In a few moments, she was knocking on the hospital room door. I walked into the room and there was another nurse seated at the boy’s bedside, keeping an eye on his vitals.
The boy’s mother was down the hall, taking the first shower she’d taken in eight days. Meantime, the boy was asleep. He was bald. There was a feeding tube in his nostrils.
“Knock, knock,” the nurse said quietly.
The boy stirred. He looked at me and smiled. His blue eyes were the color of tap water.
“Is it you?” he said. “Sean of the South?”
“I’ve been called worse,” I said.
“I thought you’d be fatter.”
Which was a compliment, I suppose.
“I’ve wanted to meet you,” the boy said. “Because you’re a redhead, and so am I.” He touched his bald head. “Well, I WAS a redhead.”
I sat at his bedside.
“I’m dying,” he said. “I probably won’t be here in a few weeks.”
His words broke me. I began to cry but I held it in. This kid didn’t need my tears. He’d shed enough of his own. This is the one thing I’ve learned by writing about many pediatric cancer patients throughout my career. These kids don’t need tears, they need strength and laughter.
Then the kid said, “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I’ve been to heaven,” he said.
“You have?”
He nodded.
I grew up fundamentalist. The version of heaven I was force fed was all about streets of gold and mansions. My people were obsessed with the paving material of heaven’s streets and the size of heaven’s real estate.
“I coded,” he went on. “I woke up in this place of love. With people who said they were my grandparents and my great-great grandparents. I’d never met them before, they died way before I was born.”
“How did you know them?”
Shrug. “I just knew.”
We both fell silent.
“And then I met God,” he went on.
“God?”
“Yes.”
“The real one?”
He nodded.
“What was he like?” I asked.
“He wasn’t old like you think. And he wasn’t young, either.”
I had no idea what to say. So I just took notes.
“He gave me a ride through heaven on his back, and he was such a nice guy.”
I made a note on my legal pad. “God is a nice guy,” I wrote.
“How long were you in…” I hesitated. “How long were you in heaven?”
“Not long. God said my parents weren’t ready for me to die, so he sent me back. Now my parents are ready, though. So now I can die.”
I could no longer hold it in. The boy could see the tears coming down my cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” I dabbed my cheeks.
“Don’t be sorry. Will you play checkers with me?”
“Checkers?”
“Yes.”
We unfolded a board. We set up the checkers. The boy and I played several games. We played for about an hour. He never mentioned heaven again. He never mentioned God again. He beat me at six games and when it was time for me to leave, he thanked me for visiting.
“The pleasure was all mine,” I said.
I left the hospital room, I leaned against the corridor wall and I sobbed. The nurse consoled me, and said, “You never get used to it.”
That was several months ago. Today, I was informed via email that this child inherited his eternal reward this morning. His father said the boy’s last words were said weakly before he expired. “I’m okay, Dad. I don’t hurt.”
And then the child closed his eyes forever.
After I wept for a while, I consulted my notes. I opened up the old legal pad. Yellow paper. Red margins. I found the boy’s words written in blue ink.
“God is a nice guy,” my notes said.
And with all my heart, I am trying to believe it.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Little Boy
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
The pediatric oncology ward is a scary place. I don’t care who you are, or how tough you think you are. You walk through this part of the hospital and you’re scared spitless.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
I approached the nurse’s station. A horseshoe desk. The nurse was popping her gum. She gave me an appraising look.
“You Sean?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
In a few moments, she was knocking on the hospital room door. I walked into the room and there was another nurse seated at the boy’s bedside, keeping an eye on his vitals.
The boy’s mother was down the hall, taking the first shower she’d taken in eight days. Meantime, the boy was asleep. He was bald. There was a feeding tube in his nostrils.
“Knock, knock,” the nurse said quietly.
The boy stirred. He looked at me and smiled. His blue eyes were the color of tap water.
“Is it you?” he said. “Sean of the South?”
“I’ve been called worse,” I said.
“I thought you’d be fatter.”
Which was a compliment, I suppose.
“I’ve wanted to meet you,” the boy said. “Because you’re a redhead, and so am I.” He touched his bald head. “Well, I WAS a redhead.”
I sat at his bedside.
“I’m dying,” he said. “I probably won’t be here in a few weeks.”
His words broke me. I began to cry but I held it in. This kid didn’t need my tears. He’d shed enough of his own. This is the one thing I’ve learned by writing about many pediatric cancer patients throughout my career. These kids don’t need tears, they need strength and laughter.
Then the kid said, “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I’ve been to heaven,” he said.
“You have?”
He nodded.
I grew up fundamentalist. The version of heaven I was force fed was all about streets of gold and mansions. My people were obsessed with the paving material of heaven’s streets and the size of heaven’s real estate.
“I coded,” he went on. “I woke up in this place of love. With people who said they were my grandparents and my great-great grandparents. I’d never met them before, they died way before I was born.”
“How did you know them?”
Shrug. “I just knew.”
We both fell silent.
“And then I met God,” he went on.
“God?”
“Yes.”
“The real one?”
He nodded.
“What was he like?” I asked.
“He wasn’t old like you think. And he wasn’t young, either.”
I had no idea what to say. So I just took notes.
“He gave me a ride through heaven on his back, and he was such a nice guy.”
I made a note on my legal pad. “God is a nice guy,” I wrote.
“How long were you in…” I hesitated. “How long were you in heaven?”
“Not long. God said my parents weren’t ready for me to die, so he sent me back. Now my parents are ready, though. So now I can die.”
I could no longer hold it in. The boy could see the tears coming down my cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” I dabbed my cheeks.
“Don’t be sorry. Will you play checkers with me?”
“Checkers?”
“Yes.”
We unfolded a board. We set up the checkers. The boy and I played several games. We played for about an hour. He never mentioned heaven again. He never mentioned God again. He beat me at six games and when it was time for me to leave, he thanked me for visiting.
“The pleasure was all mine,” I said.
I left the hospital room, I leaned against the corridor wall and I sobbed. The nurse consoled me, and said, “You never get used to it.”
That was several months ago. Today, I was informed via email that this child inherited his eternal reward this morning. His father said the boy’s last words were said weakly before he expired. “I’m okay, Dad. I don’t hurt.”
And then the child closed his eyes forever.
After I wept for a while, I consulted my notes. I opened up the old legal pad. Yellow paper. Red margins. I found the boy’s words written in blue ink.
“God is a nice guy,” my notes said.
And with all my heart, I am trying to believe it.