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brown, then gone, and it was winter. Wilson was now bedridden at home.
As the winter wind beat against our building, I tried to think of a way to make Christmas special for Wilson. My mother had moved in with us so I could still go to work. "How about his own tree in his room?" she suggested. We got a table-sized one because his room was tiny. The lights winked at him all through the long nights when he couldn't sleep.
Christmas Day came. Family arrived and we celebrated. Wilson was propped up on pillows on the pullout sofa, his hand resting on one of his presents. There was a faraway look in his eyes that couldn't be penetrated, not even by the train set we surprised him with, though he managed a smile and ran the train around the track twice. He fell asleep from the effort.
I sank into a chair next to him. From the kitchen came the clatter of pots and pans, and the smells of ham, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. Wilson opened his eyes and immediately his face searched for mine, as if to confirm that he hadn't left me yet. I finally admitted it. My son was dying.
On January 12, a gray wintry day, I carried Wilson from his bed to the living room sofa. There I bundled him up for his last trip to the hospital. He looked around at each piece of furniture, each picture on the wall, the doorway, the kitchen table and the dishes drying in the sink, soaking himself in memories. "Jesus loves you," I said, praying that Wilson would know it. Really know it.
At the hospital my own strength was about gone, and as day stretched into night I felt strangely numb and detached, almost in shock. Doctors, nurses, family drifted in and out, urging me to sleep, telling me they'd wake me if anything happened"anything" being the moment of death. The next morning came. Wilson was thirsty, but he
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couldn't swallow. The soft drink dribbled out of his mouth. As the day progressed he couldn't talk. I remembered a line from his favorite song and could still hear him at church, handsome in his suit, singing for all he was worth: ''When I'm sick and can't get well, Lord, remember me. . . . Do Lord, oh do, Lord, oh do remember me, way beyond the blue."
Please, Jesus . . . it was dark again at a quarter to five, and suddenly Wilson became alert, opening his eyes and looking right at me.
"I'm going home, Mom."
How could I explain to him that this was impossible? "Wilson, Mommy can get oxygen for you, but you can't go home with the IV."
"No, Mom. I mean I'm going home to be with Jesus."
Home. He was calling heaven home. Gone was his dread of leaving me and all else he knew and felt connected to. Wilson's eyes were now focused beyond me. "Jesus is coming to get me. Okay, Mom?"
Jesus Himself coming to take Wilson home. "Yes, Wilson," I said. Fifteen minutes ticked by. My son's eyes closed. His breathing grew more labored. Then stopped. The doctor came in, leaned over and checked his pulse.
"He's gone," the doctor said gently, touching me. Involuntarily I screamed and grabbed my son by the shoulders. Wilson opened his eyes and started breathing again, a pleading look on his face, as if to say, "Let me go . . . home."
In my mind I could see Jesus waiting. "It's okay, honey. You can go now. Mommy's all right."
He smiled, stopped breathing and walked home with Jesus.
Denise Wicks-Harris
Submitted by Jane Hanna
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Please Dress Me in Red
In my dual profession as an educator and health care provider, I have worked with numerous children infected with the virus that causes AIDS. The relationships that I have had with these special kids have been gifts in my life. They have taught me so many things, but I have especially learned that great courage can be found in the smallest of packages. Let me tell you about Tyler.
Tyler was born infected with HIV; his mother was also infected. From the very beginning of his life, he was dependent on medications to enable him to survive. When he was five, he had a tube surgically inserted in a vein in his chest. This tube was connected to a pump, which he carried in a small backpack on his back. Medications were hooked up to this pump and were continuously supplied through this tube to his bloodstream. At times, he also needed supplemental oxygen to support his breathing.
Tyler wasn't willing to give up one single moment of his childhood to this deadly disease. It was not unusual to find him playing and racing around his backyard, wearing his medicine-laden backpack and dragging his tank of oxygen behind him in his little wagon. All of us who knew Tyler marveled at his pure joy in being alive and the energy it gave him. Tyler's mom often teased him
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by telling him that he moved so fast she needed to dress him in red. That way, when she peered out the window to check on him playing in the yard, she could quickly spot him.
This dreaded disease eventually wore down even the likes of a little dynamo like Tyler. He grew quite ill and, unfortunately, so did his HIV-infected mother. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to survive, Tyler's mom talked to him about death. She comforted him by telling Tyler that she was dying too, and that she would be with him soon in heaven.
A few days before his death, Tyler beckoned me over to his hospital bed and whispered, "I might die soon. I'm not scared. When I die, please dress me in red. Mom promised she's coming to heaven, too. I'll be playing when she gets there, and I want to make sure she can find me."
Cindy Dee Holms
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Don't Worry, It'll be Alright
As a mother and as a school psychologist, I see many extraordinary friendships between children. My son Court and his friend Wesley share the very closest of friendships. Their relationship is truly exceptional.
Court has not had an easy childhood. He has been challenged with a speech and language handicap and gross motor delays. At age four, Court met Wesley in a Special Education preschool class. Wesley was suffering from a brain tumor, causing him to have similar developmental delays as Court. An instant bond developed and they became best friends. No day was complete for either boy if either one missed a day of school.
At age two, Wesley was diagnosed as having an "inoperable" tumor on his brain stem. He endured several unsuccessful surgeries. While the boys played, Wesley began to noticeably drag his leg. An MRI showed significant tumor growth. Once again, it was time for Wesley to undergo another operation, only this time the surgery would be in Oklahoma City.
Court and Wesley were blessed throughout their preschool years with a wonderful teacher. The children affectionately called her "Bachmann.' She was the finest teacher I have ever met in my career as a school psychologist. Bachmann tried to explain and to prepare her class
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of language-delayed preschoolers about Wesley's surgery and trip to Oklahoma City. Court became very emotional and cried. He did not want his best friend to go so far away on an airplane, and he certainly did not want a doctor to hurt Wesley.
On departure day, Wesley and the entire class said their farewells. Tears rolled down Court's cheeks. Bachmann then dismissed the class to allow Court and Wesley private time to say good-bye. Court was afraid that he would never see his best friend again. Wesley, frail and much shorter than Court, hugged Court at chest level looked knowingly up into Court's eyes and soothingly replied, "Don't worry, it'll be alright."
The operation was extremely dangerous, but Wesley pulled through once again. After many weeks, he returned to school. Court and Wesley became closer than before.
As the years passed by, Wesley had to have several more critical operations and had to be subjected to many experimental drugs. Each time, he suffered crippling side effects. Wesley spent much of his time confined to a wheelchair or having his frail body carried from place to place.
Wesley loved the school's Jog-a-thons. Wesley would physically participate in any way possible. Although his legs failed him, those close to him didn't. One year, Wesley's mother pushed him in his wheelchair, with cheers of "Faster, Mom!" Another year, Wesley participated by being carried on
the shoulders of another child's father.
At age 11, every surgery and alternative medicine had been exhausted. The tumor had taken over his delicate body. On March 9th of that year, Bachmann notified Court that it was time to really say good-bye to Wesley, his dear friend, forever. Wesley was now at home and was not expected to live.
By Court's 11th birthday, he had made great progress in his development. Academic difficulties were still
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apparent and running the Jog-a-thon was not Court's best event. The day after the phone call from Bachmann, Court ran in the Jog-a-thon. Court was recovering from a cold and asthma but convinced me to let him go to school. When I picked him up from school that afternoon, he said that his lungs were burning. He was holding a certificate and a shiny first-place ribbon. The certificate read, "First Place for Fifth-Graders awarded to Court in dedication to his friend Wesley."
Court, who is usually not an assertive, "take charge" child, insisted that we go to see Wesley that night. Wesley's mother arranged for us to visit him between medication times. Wesley was in bed in their family room. A soft light was shining on his fragile, angelic body, while Christian music played in the background. Between the cancer and the pain medication, Wesley could do very little. Occasionally, he was able to squeeze someone's finger and open one eye.
Bachmann was able to arouse Wesley and help him understand that Court was with him. Court held Wesley's hand as he showed Wesley the First Place certificate. Court expressed his deep feelings of desperately wanting to win for Wesley since Wesley was unable to be there. Wesley squeezed Court's finger and gave Court a look that was to be understood only for them. As Court leaned over to give Wesley a kiss, he whispered, "Good-bye Wesley, my friend. Don't worry. It'll be alright."
Wesley did live to see his 11th birthday, and then died that June. Court went through the formal motions of the funeral that one does, but when he was asked about how he was feeling, he explained that he had already said good-bye to his best friend and knew Wesley would be "alright."
I thought the story of their friendship was over when Wesley died. I was wrong. Exactly a year after Wesley's
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death, Court became violently ill with meningitis. While we were in the emergency room, Court desperately clutched onto me. We were both afraid. Court had the chills and could not stop shivering. While the doctor was completing the spinal tap, Court and I experienced a warmth and an indescribable calmness come over us. Court instantly relaxed and stopped shaking. After the doctor and nurse left the room, Court and I stared at each other. Court, fully composed, turned to me and said, "Mom, Wesley was here in this room and he said, 'Don't worry, it'll be alright."
I believe with all my heart that some friendships never die.
Janice Hunt
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The Eternal Optimist
We have been lucky to be blessed with three sons. They have each brought us special joy with their individual personalities, but our middle son, Billy, is fondly known as the "eternal optimist." I wish that we could take credit for this attitude, but it's something he was born with! For example, he had always been an early riser and liked to get in our bed at 5 A.M. As he would crawl into our bed, we would admonish him to be quiet and go back to sleep. He would lie on his back and say in a falsetto whisper, "It's going to be a beautiful morning. I hear the birds singing."
When we would ask him to stop talking to us, he would reply, "I not talking to you; I talking to me!"
In kindergarten, he was asked to draw a tiger. Now, while optimism is Billy's strong suit, art is not, and his tiger came out with a crooked head and one eye that appeared to be shut. When his teacher asked him about why the tiger had one eye closed, he replied, "Because he's saying, 'Here's looking at you, kid!'"
Also, when he was five, he got into an argument with his older brother about whether a man on TV was bald. Billy said, "He's not bald. He's like Papa. He's only bald when he looks at you. When he walks away, he has lots of hair!"
These memories and many, many more led up to the ultimate optimistic statement. Our third son, Tanner, was
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stricken with hemolytic uremic syndrome on a Tuesday and died the following Sunday. Billy was seven. The night after Tanner's funeral I was putting Billy to bed. I often used to lie down beside him to discuss the day. On this particular night, we lay quietly in the dark with not much to say. Suddenly, from the dark, Billy spoke.
He said, "I feel sorry for us, but I almost feel more sorry for all those other people." I questioned him about which people he was talking about. He explained, "The people who never knew Tanner. Weren't we lucky to have had Tanner with us for 20 months. Just think, there are lots of people who were never lucky enough to know him at all. We are really lucky people."
Beth Dalton
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To Remember Me
The day will come when my body will lie upon a white sheet neatly tucked under four corners of a mattress located in a hospital busily occupied with the living and the dying. At a certain moment a doctor will determine that my brain has ceased to function and that, for all intents and purposes, my life has stopped.
When that happens, do not attempt to instill artificial life into my body by the use of a machine. And don't call this my deathbed. Let it be called the Bed of Life, and let my body be taken from it to help others lead fuller lives.
Give my sight to the man who has never seen a sunrise, a baby's face or love in the eyes of a woman. Give my heart to a person whose own heart has caused nothing but endless days of pain. Give my blood to the teenager who was pulled from the wreckage of his car, so that he might live to see his grandchildren play. Give my kidneys to one who depends on a machine to exist from week to week. Take my bones, every muscle, every fiber and nerve in my body and find a way to make a crippled child walk.
Explore every corner of my brain. Take my cells, if necessary, and let them grow so that someday, a speechless boy will shout at the crack of a bat and a deaf girl will hear the sound of rain against her window.
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Burn what is left of me and scatter the ashes to the winds to help the flowers grow.
If you must bury something, let it be my faults, my weaknesses and all prejudice against my fellow man.
Give my sins to the devil. Give my soul to God.
If, by chance, you wish to remember me, do it with a kind deed or word to someone who needs you. If you do all I have asked, I will live forever.
Robert N. Test
Submitted by Ken Knowles
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Keep Your Fork
The sound of Martha's voice on the other end of the telephone always brought a smile to Brother Jim's face. She was not only one of the oldest members of the congregation, but one of the most faithful. Aunt Martie, as all the children called her, just seemed to ooze faith, hope and love wherever she went.
This time, however, there seemed to be an unusual tone to her words.
''Preacher, could you stop by this afternoon? I need to talk with you."
"Of course. I'll be there around three. Is that okay?"
As they sat facing each other in the quiet of her small living room, Jim learned the reason for what he sensed in her voice. Martha shared the news that her doctor had just discovered a previously undetected tumor.
"He says I probably have six months to live." Martha's words were certainly serious, yet there was a definite calm about her.
"I'm so sorry to . . ." but before Jim could finish, Martha interrupted.