Hannah’sGift

LessonsfromaLifeFullyLived

MARIAHOUSDEN

Dedication

IdedicatethisbooktoWill,Hannah,Margaret,andMadelaine

withgratitudeandlove.

Epigraph

…Walk slowlynow, small soul, by the edgeof thewater.Choose carefullyallyouaregoingtolose,thoughanyofitwoulddo.

—JaneHirshfield

ContentsCoverTitlePageDedicationEpigraphPrologue

TruthDr.TruthJekyllandMr.HydeDenialSilentComfortPerspectiveLightintheShadowJustOneThingRespectDr.Markoff’sRuleTruth:ASpecialMedicineLoveintheDarkRoomfortheTruthAMustardSeedADeeperSilenceResilienceTheScentofHomeBeyondFear

JoyHannah’sBirthdayAnticipationNoWorriesTheUnbirthdayDrugDealingattheYInhaleMagicSecretsChristmasPresence

CommunionwithDr.Tomato-headChangeofMind,ChangeofHeartSavageJoyNurseKatieandtheTeaPartyJoyinaJeepNothingSpecialCelebrate

FaithThyWill(andMine)BeDoneSayYesHealingServiceHypocrite…AndtheCowJumpedovertheMoonMother’sDayWaitingtoExhaleGrandma’sPromiseCircleofLifeMetamorphosisOntheThresholdEverywhereIAm,ThereYou’llBe

CompassionAsRealasItGetsSorrySheAskedTheBathroomGuiltTripStillnessSilenceP.S.AmenVacuumBreathChoiceDescentDreamingaNewLifePeelingtheOnionofGriefDeadIsDeadAreYouLookingatMe?

SocialGraceBelonging

WonderThirstFragilityDreamweaverExhaleGivenGratitudeSeaChangeHarvestDanceRemembering

EpilogueAcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorPraiseCopyrightAboutthePublisher

Prologue

TheRedShoes

LOOKINGBACK, IREALIZETHATMYWHOLELIFEPIVOTS silentlyaround this singlemoment:IwasstandinginaStride-Ritechildren’sshoestore,wonderingwhichpairofshoestobuy.BlackorblueleatherwouldcoordinatewitheveryoutfitinHannah’s preschool wardrobe. I held up one shoe in each color and asked,“Whichonedoyouprefer?”

Hannahhadalreadydecided.“Thesearemy shoes,”shedeclared,holdingupapairof redpatent leather

MaryJanes.Ismiledpatiently.“Hannah,Icanonlyaffordtobuyonepairofshoestoday.Thosearelovely,

but they’re just not practical.We need to buy something that will match thedressesinyourcloset.”

“ButMommy,”sheprotested,“redshoesgowitheverything.Besides,”sheadded,slippingherfeetintothedisplaypair,threesizestoobigforher,“theyfitmejustperfect!!!”

Thesaleswoman,overhearingtheconversation,laughed.“Whatdoyou think,Mom?”thewomanasked.“ShouldIsee ifwehavea

smallersizeintheback?”I hesitated. Saving money and making sure my children were properly

dressed were things that really mattered to me. Yet something about theexpectantjoyonHannah’sfacelodgedtheautomatic“no”intothebackofmythroat.

“Yes,whydon’tyoucheckintheback,”Isaid.Hannah squealed and jumped up and down. When the woman returned,

Hannahslidherfeetintotheshoes.Thistime,theywereaperfectfit.“JustlikeCinderella!”Hannahwhispered.Walkingprimly to themirror, she stood for amoment,transfixed,staringattheimageoftheshoesonherfeet.Sheturnedto

me.“I’d better test them out,” she said, tapping the toe of one shoe on the

carpeted floor. Not satisfied, she headed for the entrance to the store. ThesaleswomanandI followed.AssoonasHannahstepped into theatriumof themall,thesoundoftheredshoesonthehardwoodfloorstoppedherinhertracks.Pausing, she clicked the heel of one foot and then the other. She looked up,grinning,toseeifIhadheard.Ismiledandnoddedencouragingly.

Closinghereyesandextendingherarms,Hannahbegantodance.Oblivioustoeverythingbuttheshoesonherfeet,sheskippedandclickedacrossthefloor,twirlingincircles,fasterandfaster.Herpuredelightandthedefiantflashoftheredshoescaughteveryone’sattention.

PeoplewhopassedsmiledfirstatHannah,thenateachother.Somestoppedtowatch;afewchildrenandanelderlymanjoinedin.Onewoman,herarmsfullofshoppingbags,turnedtothewomannexttoher.“I’vealwayswantedapairofred shoes,” she said. “Me, too,” said the other. “What have we been waitingfor?”

Hannahfinishedherperformancebyfallinginadramaticheaponthefloor.Those who were still watching applauded and cheered. Hannah stood up,smoothedthefrontofherdress,andadjustedthebowinherhair.

“Mommy,”shesaid,turningtome,“Ithinkthesearemyshoes,don’tyou?”

THE TRUEST MEASURE of a life is not its length, but the fullness inwhich it islived.

Whenmy daughterHannahwas diagnosedwith cancer, onemonth beforeherthirdbirthday,everythingIhadbelievedaboutmyselfandmylifewascalledintoquestion.Inthefaceofthefiercest,mostunrelentingtruth,Ibegantolookfor new answers. Hannah herself became my teacher. Honest, funny, andfearlessinthewayshelivedherlifeandembracedherdeath,Hannahopenedmetoadeeperwisdom,toamorejoyful,lessfearfulwayofliving.

AfterHannah’s death in 1994, I began towrite about the journeywe hadtakentogether.Istruggledtoremembereverydetail,afraidtoforgetevenone.Itseemedahopeless,overwhelmingtask.Igaveup,decidedtowait,toletmyselfgrieve and heal. Gradually, I began to see that the story was still unfolding;rather than endingwithHannah’s death, it had only begun.Now, seven yearslater, there are certain memories—brief moments that may have taken placeweeksormonthsapart—thatstandoutinbrightreliefagainstthebackgroundofmydays;momentsthatcontinuetoliveinmebecausetheyarestillteachingme.

Thisbookisacollectionofthosememories;aphotoalbumofthemomentsthatbecameHannah’sgifttome.Mayherstoryoffersolacetothosewhosuffer,nourishment to thosewho long for deeper faith, and inspiration to thosewhowantthecouragetolivetheirowntruth.

Truth

tellingitandlivingit

…andthetruthshallmakeyoufree.

—John8:32

Dr.TruthJekyllandMr.HydeDenialWEBOTHBEGANBLEEDINGONTHESAMEDAY.

Iwoketoitslowly.Driftingoutofadeepsleep,Ilayinbed,myeyesclosed,inhalingthecoolmorningairthatwaftedinthroughtheopenwindow,itsbreathawelcome respite from thepreviousnight’sAugustheat. I stretchedmybodyand sighed contentedly. Claude stirred beside me. I heard the footfalls of anearlymorningjoggerpassbelow,onthestreetsideofthehouse.Acardroveby.Iopenedmyeyes.Ourbedroomwasgrayandstill.

AsIrolledontomyside,Ifeltastickywarmthbetweenmylegs.Instantly,Iwasawake.Islidonethighacrosstheotherandfeltasuckingsensationastheyparted.Clampingmy legs together, I closedmy eyes andwilledmyself to bedreaming.Everythingwasquiet,exceptforthethudofmyheartinmychest.Iheardanothercardriveby;thenanother.Iopenedmyeyesagain,thistimemoreslowly. The first lightwas beginning to sharpen the outlines of objects in theroom.

I ranmy hand acrossmy abdomen. Its slightly rounded fullness reassuredme.Afterall,onlyyesterday the tinyformof thebaby insidehadappearedonmydoctor’sultrasoundscreen, filling the roomwith thepulsingwhooshof itsamplifiedheartbeat.Claudehadsmiledandsqueezedmyhand.Mywholebodyhadsoftenedwithrelief.Ihadmiscarriedthreeotherpregnanciesbeforethisone,all in their eighthweek. Yesterday’s ultrasoundwas the confirmationwe hadbeenwaitingfor; thisbaby,our thirdchild,wouldbeborninMarch.Will,ourson,wasfive,whileHannah,ourdaughter,wasnearlythree.

Lastnight,Ihadstoodinthenursery,runningmyhandovertherailof theempty crib, imagining the smell of babypowder in the air again. I sleptmoredeeplythanIhadinweeks.

NowIlaynexttoClaude,hyperventilatingbetweenwantingtoknowandnotwanting toknow.Finally, I slippedoutofbed, carefulnot tobrushmy thighsagainst the sheets.When I stoodup, I felt awarm trickle rundownmy leg. Icaughtthetinybeadonthetipofmyfinger:blood.Icuppedahandovermyselftokeepfromstainingthecarpetandtiptoedtothebathroom.Justthen,Iheard

Hannahcallingfromherbeddownstairs.“Mommy,Ihavetogopotty!”Igrabbedawadoftoilettissue,wipedmythighs,andglancedatmyimage

inthemirror.Myeyeslookedwild.IsplashedcoldwateronmyfaceandmademywaytoHannah’sroom.IhardlynoticedhersweetnessnuzzlingthenapeofmyneckasIcarriedhertothetoilet.IwaswonderinghowIcouldbeartotellClaudeoranyoneelseaboutanothermiscarriage.Ifeltdeeplyashamed;losingthisbabymeantIhadfailedagain.

WhenHannahwasfinished,Iliftedheroffthetoiletseatandwascatapultedout of my grief. Hannah’s urine was deep pink: blood.Miscarriages I knew;bloodintheurineofatwo-year-oldIdidn’t.Foraninstant,Icouldn’tthinkormove. Then a thickness seemed to envelop me; I felt numb but strangelyefficient.Everythingwashappening,butIfeltdisconnectedfromanyfeelinginit. I heard Claude in the bathroom upstairs, running the shower. I dressedHannahandmyself,wokeWill,setthetableforbreakfastandmadethreephonecalls;onetomydoctor,onetothepediatrician,andonetomyfriendLili.WhenClaude came downstairs, I told him about the blood, Hannah’s and mine. Icouldn’tevencry.Claudebentoverthetable,asthoughhewasgoingtogetsick.Forthirtyseconds,neitherofusspoke.Finallyhestoodupandreachedformyhand.

“Honey,whatdoyouwantmetodo?”heasked.WhathewasreallyaskingwasifIwantedhimtomissanotherdayofwork.Formonths,heandtheothermembers of his engineering team had been pushed to the limit, their projectoverdueandoverbudget.Threeweeksearlier,Claude’sbosshaddemandedthatwepostponeourfamilyvacation.Claudehadrefused,explainingthathisfamilywasmoreimportantthanhiswork.Yesterdayhehadmadethesamechoicebycomingtomyappointmentwiththeobstetrician.

“It’s okay,” I said, taking a deep breath and swallowing my fear. “I’vealreadyarranged forLili towatch thekidswhile Igo tomyappointment, andshe’sagreed tostaywithWillwhileI takeHannahtohers.We’llbeokay. I’llcallyouassoonasIknowanything.”

“Areyousure?”Claudeasked.“Definitely,”Isaid,kissinghimlightlyonthecheek.“Really,it’sprobably

nothing.I’msureit’sgoingtobefine.”EvenasIsaidit,anotherpartofmewatchedinsilence,knowingwhatIsaid

wasn’t true. It was like being two different characters in the same scene of amovie. In the scene, Hannah and I were bleeding. One part of me felt quiet,

accepting of this truth. The other, incapacitated by fear, needed to believe, ifonly for awhile, that everythingwas going to be okay. I did the only thing Icoulddo:Iletbothbetrue.

SilentComfortANHOUR AND A HALF LATER,MY OBSTETRICIAN confirmedwhat I already knew:Thebabyinsidemewasdead.Therewasnothingbutsilenceinthedarkroomassheglidedtheultrasoundwandovermybelly;thetinyformthatyesterdayhadaheartbeatandabirthdaywasnothingbutabloton theblue screennow.Tearspooledinmyearsandsoakedthroughthepapersheetbeneathme.

“I’msorry,”thedoctorsaid.IbarelynoddedtoherasIdressedandlefttheoffice.Inthecar,Iletthesobs

pouroutofme.IcriedallthewaytoLili’shouse,notonlyforthelifeIhadlost,butformyfearaboutwhatlayahead.

MyfriendsKim,Kate,andDebwereatLili’swhenIarrived.Our“moms’group” had beenmeeting every Friday in each other’s home formore than ayear.The fourof them lookedupwhen I came in.Myswolleneyesansweredtheir unspoken question.WhileLilimade lunch, I calledClaude and told himabout thebabythatwouldn’tbecominginMarch;neitherofuscouldthinkofanything to say. Hanging up the phone, I joined my friends at the table andpickedatmyfood,toonumbtotalkoreat.

Suddenly,thedoortothekitchenopened,andthesoundsofchildrenplayingspilledintotheroom.IturnedtoseeHannahstandingonthethreshold.Shewaswearing a sundress, a pink headband, and her new red shoes. She stood therequietly looking at me. Then she crossed the room, crawled into my lap, andbegangentlystrokingmycheeks.

PerspectiveTWOHOURSLATER,HANNAHDUMPEDABASKETFULOFhandpuppetsontothefloorof thepediatrician’soffice and sorted through thepileuntil she found theoneshewaslookingfor.Tuckingabutterflyunderherarm,sheclimbedintomylap,while Igazedabsentlyat thediplomasandphotographson thewall.AlreadyIfelt relieved. Minutes before, Dr. Edman had gently examined her. His facehadn’t registered any concern.He had asked us towait for him in his office,standardprocedure,whilehemadeaphonecall.Nowhecamethroughthedoorandsatontheedgeofhisdesk.

“IsitpossibleforyoutoreachClaudeatwork?”heasked.Mybrainstruggledtoregisterwhathehadjustsaid.Thiswasnotstandard

procedure.WhatcouldbesoimportantthatIneededtocallClaude?“Hannahhasamass inherabdomen,”Dr.Edmansaidgently.“I’vecalled

theemergencyroom.They’reexpectingyou;Claudeshouldmeetyouthere.”Idialedthephoneand,whenClaudeanswered,repeatedDr.Edman’swords.“Whatdoesthismean?”Claudeasked.“Ihavenoidea,”Isaid.HannahsleptinhercarseatinthebackwhileIdrove.Fortyminuteslater,as

Ipulledintotheemergencyroomparkinglotandshutofftheengine,Irealizedthat I couldn’t remember stopping forone lightor stop signall theway there.EitherIhaddriventhrougheveryone,orIwassimplytoodazedtoremember.AsIunbuckledHannahandliftedherout,aquestionpiercedthroughthefoginmy brain: Could a mass be cancer? I dismissed it immediately. How could Ipossiblythinksuchathing?Two-year-oldsdon’tgetcancer.Dr.Edmanhadsaiditwasamass.Wewouldgetitout,assimpleasthat.

As the automatic doors to the emergency room swung open, I felt betteralmostimmediately.Anursebustledtowardme.

“Mrs.Martell?”sheasked,partlyaquestion,partlyagreeting.Inodded.Hannahliftedherheaddrowsilyfrommyshoulder.“It’s okay,Missy,” I whispered. “We’re at the hospital. These people are

goingtohelpusfigureoutwhat’shappeningwithyourtummy.”“I’mhungry,”Hannahsaid,closinghereyesandlayingherheadbackonmy

shoulder.

Thenurseledustoasmallexaminingroom.IsatHannahnexttomeontheedge of the padded table. The nurse took Hannah’s blood pressure andtemperatureandthenaskedmetoremoveHannah’sdress.

“No,Mommy,it’stoocold,”Hannahsaid.Iturnedtothenurse,whoshruggedhershoulders.“Iguessshecanleaveiton,”shesaid.Withinminutes,aparadeofdoctors,nurses,residents,andtechniciansfiled

in,askedquestions,tooknotes,andleft,closingthedoorbehindthem.Mysenseofreliefatbeingtherewasfading.IwantedClaude.Iopenedthedoortothehalland startled a group of residents and nurses who were speaking in loud,conspiratorialwhispers outside our room. I looked past them and sawClaudecomingtowardme,almostrunning,hisheadwhippingfromonesidetotheotherashereadthenumbersabovethedoorstoeachroom.Helookedpanickedanddisoriented,nomorecapableofknowingwhattodothanIwas.

“Daddy,” Hannah exclaimed as Claude came into the room. He and Iembracedquickly.

Anefficient-lookingresidentpokedhisheadintotheroom.“Intenminutes,HannahisscheduledforX-raysdownstairs.Anaidewillbe

bytopickherup.”“Mommy,Iwantyoutocomewithme,”Hannahsaid.“Ofcourse,Missy,”Ireplied.The resident looked at me sternly. “You can go downstairs with her,” he

said,“butyoucan’tgointheroomunlessyou’resureyou’renotpregnant.”MyvoicesoundedfarawaywhenIanswered.“I’mdefinitelynotpregnant,”

Iheardmyselfsay.Whathadfeltlikethedeepestlosshoursagowasnowenablingmetodothe

one thing I wanted more than anything else: to be with Hannah. Only myperspectivehadchanged; the truth, that thebaby insidemewasdead,was thesame,eitherway.

LightintheShadowTHEDOCTORCAMEINTOTHEROOM,FLIPPEDTHESWITCHonthelightboard,andslidthe filmunder the clip. I shiftedHannah’s sleeping body tomyother hip andleanedinnexttoClaudetogetacloserlook.Thedoctorusedhispentopointtoalarge,darkshadowbeneaththewhiteoutlineofHannah’sribs.

“Thereitis.”Thepieceswerebeginningtofallintoplace.Threeweeksearlier,duringour

vacation inMichigan, we had taken Hannah to an emergency room. She hadbeen complaining that it hurt to lie down; shemoaned in her sleep and ran aslightfeveratnight.Thedoctortoldusshehadthefluandsentusawaywithasample-sizepacketofChildren’sTylenol.Twodayslater,whenshedidn’tseemtobegettinganybetter,wetookhertoanotherhospital.Thepediatricianthereordered X-rays of Hannah’s chest to rule out pneumonia, and then tried toexamineHannah’sabdomen.Hannahscreamedandrefusedtoliedown,sayingithurttoomuch.Thedoctorgaveup,obviouslyexasperated.

“There’snothingwrongwithher;she’s justmanipulatingyou,” thewomantoldus.“She’satypicaltwo-year-oldwhodoesn’twanttogotosleep.”

“Howcanwebesureit’snotsomethingmoreserious?”Iasked,somewhatdistracted. Will and Hannah, bored with waiting, had stepped outside theexaminingroomandwerenowshriekingandchasingeachotherinthehall.

Thedoctorsniffeddisapprovinglyatthecommotion.“Well, lookather,” thedoctorsaid.“Shehastoomuchenergytobereally

sick.Asickchildwouldbelistlessandlethargic,wouldrunafeverallday,notjust at night. She wouldn’t put up such a fuss during an examination. If youwant,makeanappointmentwithherpediatricianwhenyougethome;butasfarasIcansee,she’sfine.”

I felt confused and embarrassed by the doctor’swords. Every bone inmybody was telling me something was wrong, and yet, perhaps the doctor wasright;maybeIwas just the inadequatemotherofanoverindulgedchild.WhileClaude roundedupWill andHannah, Iquicklycollectedour things.Escortingour two unruly children past the other, obviously sick children in thewaitingroom,Ifeltguiltyforhavingwastedadoctor’svaluabletime.

Now,lookingatthedarkshadowontheX-rayofHannah’sribs,Ifeltlikea

profoundfailureagain.ThedoctorinMichiganhadonlybeenhalfright;insteadofbeing the inadequatemotherofanoverindulgedchild, Iwas the inadequatemotherofaverysickone.Whyhadn’tItrustedmyselfmore?Thedoctorsknewsymptomsof illnessas theyappliedgenerally tochildren. IknewHannah.Wewere authorities on different subjects. I should have insisted that the doctor’sexplanationofHannah’sbehaviordidn’tmatchwhatIknewtobetrueforher.Hannahhadnointerestinplayinggamestogetwhatshewanted;sheaskedforitdirectly,demandingitifnecessary.Andwhywasshemoaninginhersleepandrunningfeversatnight?Evenifthesewereunusualsymptoms,surelytheyweresignsofsomethingmorethanmanipulativebehavior!WasIsoafraidofmakingamistake,soafraidofwhatthesestrangersmightthinkofme,thatIhadfailedmydaughter?

Asthedoctorpeeledthefilmfromthelightboard,Iknewonething:Iwasgoingtohavetostartspeakingup,beforeitwastoolateforHannah.Beforeitwastoolateforme.

JustOneThingITWAS PASTMIDNIGHT, BUT NOT DARK OR QUIET. THE hallway’s fluorescent lightspilled into the room through the half-open door. A monitor beeped; the IVpumpclicked.IfI laystillenough,Icouldalmosthear thewhooshof thepainmedication pulsing through the line that fed a tiny vein in Hannah’s hand.Becauseofit,Hannahwassleepingpeacefullyforthefirsttimeinweeks.

Although my eyes were burning with fatigue, they wouldn’t stay shut. IbegantowonderifIwascaughtinoneofthosedreamswhereyouthinkyou’reawakebutyou’renot.Hannah,curleduponhersidenexttome,stirred.Isatup,peeringatherfaceinthehalf-light.Herskinwassopale.Iranmyfingeralongher cheek and brushed a few strands of blond hair away from her lips.Rearrangingtheblankets,Ismiledtoseethathernewredshoeswerestillonherfeet.Eversincewe’dboughtthemtwodaysbefore,shehadrefusedtotakethemoff.AsIlaybackdown,Hannahliftedherarmanddroppeditlazilyacrossmychest.

I couldn’t remember if I had ever lived aday asnever-ending as this one.After more than seven hours of tests, questions, and examinations, theemergencyroomdoctorshadfinallymovedHannahintoaroomonthepediatricfloor.Atfirst thenurseshadsaidIcouldn’tstayovernight; therewasnowhereformetosleep.WhenClaudeandIinsisted,theyagreedtomakeanexceptionandletHannahandmesleeptogetherinhertwin-sizebed.

BeforeClaude left, I handedhima list of things thatHannah and Iwouldneedinthecomingdays:Hannah’spink-flowerednightgownthatshecalledher“robej’s,”apairofleggingsandasweatshirtforme,underwear,toothbrushes,toothpaste,andHannah’spinkblanket.Inthemidstofacrisis,ourneedsweresurprisinglysimple.

Later, I sat on the edgeof thebed anddialed a seriesofphonenumbers Iknew by heart. First I called our parents, Claude’s and my own. I told thembrieflyaboutHannahandthemiscarriageandaskedthemtocalltherestofthefamily.MymotheragreedtocomeassoonaspossibletohelpwithWill.ThenIcalledeveryoneIcouldthinkofwhowasexpectingmetodosomethingfortheminthecomingyear:churchcommittees,thePTA,Will’sschool.ItoldthemthatHannahwassick,thatIwouldbedevotingallmytimeandenergytobeingwith

herandourfamily,thatIwasnolongeravailableforanythingelse.IfeltasifIhadlostathousandpounds.

IrealizedthatforyearsIhadbeenmeasuringmyworthbybeinginvolved,important,andindispensable,saying“yes”tothingsnotonlybecauseIwantedtobehelpful,butbecauseIwantedtobelookedupto,admired,andloved.Ihadpouredmyself intomaintainingan illusionofperfection ineveryaspectofmylife.AndIhadbeensobusy“doingtherightthing”forthebenefitofeveryoneelsethatIhadlosttrackofwhatreallymatteredtome.

Now,lyinginthehalf-dark,myprioritiesseemedincrediblyclear; thiswaswhereIwantedandneededtobe.Ifeltsocertainaboutitthat,forthefirsttimeinalongtime,Iforgottoworryaboutwhatanyoneelsethought.

RespectISTRUGGLEDTOROUSEMYSELFFROMADENSE,DREAMLESSsleep.Myalarmclockwas beeping. Reaching for the snooze button,my arm brushed against a coldmetalrail.Myeyesflewopen.Thebeepwasn’tcomingfromanalarmclock;itwascomingfromthepumpofanIV.

I sat up slowly, feeling as if I had passed through an invisible fold in theuniverseand landed in somealtered stateof reality.Hannahwas still asleep. Iglanced around, wondering what time it was. The light coming through theslattedblindslookedearly-morninggray,buttheclatterandconversationinthehallsuggesteditmightbelaterthanIthought.

A nurse strode purposefully into the room, followed by a heavyset youngwomaninbluecarryingatrayofflyingsaucers.Whilethenursebusiedherselfwith thebeeping IV, theyoungwomanset the traydownand lifted the flyingsaucers to reveal our breakfast: colorless oatmeal, lukewarm scrambled eggs,andcoldtoast.

“The first day ofmeals is theworst,” she explained apologetically. “Sinceyou weren’t here yesterday to choose, we have to give you what’s left.Tomorrow’smenu is under the plate. Circlewhat youwant. I’ll be back in awhiletopickitup.”

She glanced at Hannah’s sleeping form. “We can only bring one tray perpatient,soyoumightwanttocircleextraitems.We’lldoourbesttobringwhatwecan.”

She turned to leave, squeezing through a crowd of white-coated residentsthat had congregated in the hallwayoutside our door.Three of themcame in.Eachworeastethoscopeandcarriedaclipboard.AstheyapproachedHannah’sbed, twoof themcleared their throats at the same timeand then laughed self-consciously.Thenurse,whowasfinishedwith theIVpole,noddedto themassheleft.

I eyed the residents suspiciously. One of the things I was beginning tounderstandabout thehospitalwasthatwerarelysawthesamepersontwice.Itwasdisconcerting,too,thatwhiletheyknewsomuchaboutus,weknewalmostnothingaboutthem.Hannahopenedhereyesandsatup.

“Mommy,whoareallthesepeople?”sheasked,frowning.

Oneof the residents spoke. “Weneed toexamineher,”he saidefficiently.“It’llonlytakeaminute.”

“MynameisHannah,”Hannahsaidquietly.“Yes, of course,” he answered. He stepped closer, reaching for his

stethoscope.Ashedid,thetworesidentsnexttohimmovedin,andthenthoseinthehallenteredandformedasemicirclearoundthebed.

“Stop!”Hannahyelled,holdingoutherarmlikeapolicemanintraffic.Theresidentwiththestethoscopefroze.Hannahturnedtome.

“Mommy, please ask these people to leave. They aren’t my friends; theydidn’teventellmetheirnames!”

Ipaused.The residentswere lookingatme. Iknew theywerecountingonmetotellHannahtobeagoodlittlegirlandletthemdowhattheyneededtodo.IrememberedtheMichigandoctor’sdiagnosis:manipulative,overindulgedtwo-year-old.Irealizedthesedoctorsmightthinkthesamething.Ididn’tcare;ifanyperson in thisworlddeservedrespect, itwasHannah. I lookedat theguywiththestethoscope.

“She’sright,”Itoldhim.The resident frowned and tapped a finger absently on his clipboard. The

otherresidentsshiftedtheirgazetohim.“Ihavetoexamineyou,Hannah,”hesaidfinally.“WillyouletmedoitifI

tellyoumyname?”Hannahnarrowedhereyesandlookedfirstathimandthenatme.“Okay,”shesaidfinally,“butallthoseotherpeoplehavetoleave.”He nodded. The others turned and filed out of the room. When the last

personhadleft,theresidentraisedhisstethoscopeandleanedoverHannah.Shestoppedhim.

“What’syourname?”sheasked.“Dr.Fiorelli,”hesaid,smiling.“No,yourrealname,”shesaid,totallyexasperated.“Tony,”hereplied,grinningnowfromeartoear.“Oh,Dr.Tony,”shesaid,settlingbackonthepillows.“That’sanicename.”Dr.Tonymusthavespreadtheword.Fromthatdayon,nomorethanthree

or four residents entered Hannah’s room at a time, and everyone who didintroducedthemselvestoherusingtheirrealnames.

Dr.Markoff’sRuleDR.MARKOFFCLEAREDHISTHROATANDADJUSTEDHISglasses.HewasDr.Edman’spartner,oneofHannah’spediatricians.Hewassittingon theedgeofhischairacross from Claude and me. His shoulders were stooped, his face gaunt andstrained. His wiry hair was disheveled, two-day-old creases wrinkled histrousers,andhisshirtwasmissingoneofitsbuttons.Hedidn’tseemtonoticeorcare.

“I’m speaking to you as a father, not as a pediatrician,” he began, leaningforwardsohiselbowsrestedonhisknees.Heclearedhisthroatagain;Istudiedhimmorecarefully.Helookedasifhewasabouttocry.

ClaudeandIexchangedglances.“My daughter Danielle was diagnosed with leukemia last year. She’s two

yearsold.MywifeiswithhernowattheMayoClinicinMinnesota,whereshe’sgettingastemcelltransplant.We’retryingtosaveherlife.”

Inonebreathwewentfromagatheringoftwoparentsandadoctortotwofathersandamotherwhobelongedtoaclubnoonewantedtobein.

“Youaregoingtohavetomakethousandsofdecisionsfromnowonthatnoonebutthetwoofyoucanmake;someofthemmaymakeadifferencewhetherHannahlivesordies.ThebestadviceIcangiveyouisthis.”

HelookeddirectlyatClaudeandme.“Makethebestdecisionyoucanwiththeinformationyouhaveatthattime.”

Heleanedbackandranhisfingersthroughhishair.“‘At that time’ is the critical part.You’ll seewhat Imean.You can drive

yourselfcrazysaying,‘Ifonlywehadknownthis,ifonlywehadknownthat.’Thepointis,youdidn’tknow,sojustkeeptellingyourselves,‘Wedidthebestwecouldwithwhatweknew.Wedidthebestwecouldwithwhatweknew.’”

I could hear a deep truth in his words. As I let them seep intomy heart,something softened in me and fell away. I realized that Dr. Markoff’s ruleappliednotonlytothedecisionswehadtomakeaboutHannah’streatment,butto every other area ofmy life aswell.My fear ofmakingmistakes could nolongerparalyzeme;fromnowon,itwouldbeenoughtodothebestIcouldwithwhatIknew.

Truth:ASpecialMedicineWILLWAS CURLED UP ONMY LAP, OUR ARMCHAIR touching the side ofHannah’sbed.Hisblondcrewcuttickledthebottomofmychin.Hisbodyhadbeenlongand solid from the day hewas born, but it was his soft green eyes thatmostpeoplenoticedfirstandremembered.

Hannahwaswatchingusfromthebed,proppedagainstapileofpillows.AplasticlineranfromherarmtoanIVpole.Shehadspreadherpinkblanketoverherlegsandwaswearingarhinestonecrownandherpink-flowered“robej’s.”

Iclearedmythroat.Theweightofthemomentcrushedagainstmychest.“Hannah,thedoctorshavefiguredoutwhyyouarefeelingsosick.Thereisa

lumpinyourtummycalledatumor.Atumorhappenssometimeswhenafewofthe cells in a person’s body grow the wrong way and don’t do what they’resupposedtodo.Thedoctorsaregoingtotakeitout,andthengiveyoumedicinestotrytomakesurethebadcellsdon’tcomeback.”

“Isitgoingtohurt?”Hannahasked,herbrowwrinkledandherlipspursedinto a worried pout. I paused. In the past, I had often coped with difficultsituationsbyglossingoverthem,tryingtofindsomethinggoodinthem,prayingthatifIcouldavoidthetruthlongenough,itwouldgoaway.Thistime,though,IwantedWillandHannahtobeabletotrustme.Icouldn’tstartlyingtothemnow.

“Yes,Hannah,itprobablywillhurt,butthedoctorsandnursesaregoingtodo everything they can tomake it hurt as little as possible.Theyhave specialmedicines that will make you sleep while they take the lump out, and othermedicinesthatwillhelpyourbodyrestwhileitgetsbetter.”

“Idon’twanttosleep.I’mnottired!!”Hannahprotested.“Youdon’thavetosleepnow,”Willsaidgently,“onlywhentheytakethe

lumpout.Right,Mom?”heasked,turningtome.Ismiledandnodded.“Oh.That’sokay.”Hannahsighed,soundingrelieved.“Mom.”Willwasstilllookingatme,hiseyesfillingwithtears.“Isatumor

thesamethingascancer?”“Wedon’tknowyet,Will,”Isaid,startingtocry.“Thedoctorscan’tbesure

untiltheytakeitoutandlookatthecellsunderamicroscope.”

Hannahwaswatchingussilently.“Ifit’sbadnewsyou’lltellus,right,Mom?”Willasked.Hannah sat straightup and looked intomyeyeswithoutblinking. I took a

breath.Icouldn’thelpwishingthatClaudehadbeenabletobeherewithme,buthe had toldme he didn’t trust himself to knowwhat to say. I appreciated hishonesty,andIalsoknewthatifevertherewasatimewhenthetwoofushadtorespectourdifferences, thiswasit.Wewere like twopeople inaone-manliferaftinthemiddleofadarkocean.

WillandHannahwerestillwaitingformyanswer.“Yes,Will,”Isaid.“Evenifit’sbadnews,I’lltellyouthetruth.”Hannahsmiledandleanedbackintoherpillows.“Thanks,Mom,”Willsaid,flinginghisarmsaroundmyneck.“Mommy,Iloveyou,”Hannahsaid.“Iloveyouboth,”wasallIcouldsay.

LoveintheDarkOURWORLDHADSHRUNKTOTHESIZEOFAHOSPITALfloor,butIdidn’tmind.Mybrainwasbusyreplacingnolongerneededfacts,suchasthecostofapackageofdiapers,withnewones,suchastheproperdosesofcertainmedications;itdidn’thaveroomformuchelse.

Hannah was restless. We decided to go for a stroll through our newneighborhood. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, I lunged tountangletheIVtubefromthetoeofhershoebeforeherfoothitthefloor.

“Waitaminute,Missy,”Isaid,leaningovertounplugtheIVpump.Theunitbegantobeep.Ipushedthe“silence”buttonandwoundthepowercordaroundthepole.

“Hurry up, Mommy,” Hannah exclaimed, hopping from one foot to theother.“IhearBabyShondracrying.Ithinkshewantshermommy.”

IwheeledtheIVpoleawayfromthewallandcheckedtomakesurethetubewasn’tcaughtonanything.

“Okay,we’reready,”Isaid.Hannahheldmyhandinoneofhers,andwiththeotherliftedtheedgeofher

nightgown like a princess, to keep the hem from dragging on the floor. Wewalked slowly as Imaneuvered the awkward equipment into the hallway andfollowed our usual route. Turning right out of her room, we strolled past thesupplyclosetandtheconferenceroom,stoppinginfrontoftheopendoorsofthepediatricintensivecareunit.Itwasemptynow,butnotforlong.

“Remember, Hannah, here’s where you’re going to wake up after yoursurgerytomorrow.”

Hannah took a couple of steps into the room. I followed. Respirators,monitors, breathing tubes, and carts of medical supplies lined the walls. Theroomsmelledlikeanemergency.ItwashardformetoimagineHannahthere.Iforcedmyselftodoit.

“You’llbe inoneof thesebeds,andI’llbesleepingnext toyou in thebigbluechair.Sometubeswillbeconnectedtoyourbodytohelpyoubreathe,andsometohelpyousleep.Therewillbelotsofbeepingandothernoises.Anursewillbewithusallthetimetomakesureeverythingisokay.”

“IwantNurseKatieorNurseAmy,”Hannahsaid,“andIwanttowearmy

redshoestosurgery.Besuretotellthedoctorsthat.”“I’lltellthem,Hannah,butI’mnotsuretheycandoit.”“Well, that’s not fair,” she cried, stomping her foot on the linoleum floor.

“Surgeryhastoomanyrules.Ican’teatdinner.Ican’twearmyrobej’s.Ican’twearmyredshoes.That’snotfair,”sherepeated.

“Iseewhatyoumean,Hannah.Thatisalotofrules.I’lltellthemwhatyousaidandseewhattheycando.”

We continued our walk; past the playroom, around the corner, stoppingbriefly to choose a book from the library shelves, and then around the corneragain.Thiswasthebusieststreetintheneighborhood:roomafterroomofsickchildrenandtheirfamilies.Afewparents lookedupaswepassed,exchangingwan,dazed,orsympatheticglanceswithme.Eachroomwasastoryinitself.Inever tried to figure out whowas here for what.My own story was enough.Hannah’s pacequickened. I struggled to keepup, the IVpole clattering alongbesideme.ThenursesexclaimedinunisonwhentheysawHannahcoming.

“BabyShondrahasbeenmissingyou,”NursePattycalled frombehind thedesk.

Atinybabywaslyinginabassinetinfrontofthenurses’station,hercrieslostintheflurryofactivity.Shewastwomonthsold,withtranslucentblueeyes,darkbrowncurls,andpursedrosebudlips.Shehadalsobeendeclaredseverelybrain-damaged;shewouldneverbeabletoseeorhear.

Herparentshadexplained to thenurses that theycouldnotcare forsuchababy.

Thehospitalhadfiledthenecessarypaperwork,butuntilafosterhomewasfound,shesleptinthehospitalhall.Busynursesfed,changed,rocked,andheldherwhenevertheycould.Mostly,whenshewasn’tsleeping,Shondracried.

“It’sokay,BabyShondra,”Hannahmurmured,leaningovertheedgeofthebassinet, close to thebaby’s screwed-up,bawling face. “Yourmommywillbeback soon.Andguesswhat,” she addedbrightly, “Ibroughtyou something toread.”

Shondra’s cries became whimpers. Hannah stroked Shondra’s cheeks andpokedherfingerthroughShondra’sclenchedfist.Shondrastoppedcrying.Thenurses looked away as I lifted Shondra out of her bassinet. I knew that theyweren’tsupposedtoallowmetopickherup,buttheyweregratefulforthehelp.AsIcuddledthebabyclosetomychest,Icouldn’thelpwonderingifherparentsfeltasdisappointedbylifeasIdid.Weren’tbadthingsonlysupposedtohappentobadpeople?WhathadIdone,whathadtheselittlegirlsdone,todeservethis?

Hannahwasalreadysittingonthefloor,herbackagainstthewall,waiting.Isatdowncarefullynext toherand laidBabyShondraacrossour laps.Hannahpickedupherlibrarybookandopenedittothefirstpage.

“Onceuponatimetherewasaprincess,”shebegan,makingupherfavoritestoryasshepretendedtoread.

Then, turning the book around, she held the page open, inches fromShondra’sface.

“See,BabyShondra,see?It’sabeautifulprincess,justlikeyouandme.”Sheturnedtomeandgrinned.Ikissedthetopofherhead.“Iloveyou,Missy,”Iwhispered.“Iknow,Mommy.Iknow,”shewhisperedback.AsIsatonthefloor,listeningtoHannahspintalesintoShondra’ssoundless

world,IrealizedthatI,too,hadbeentellingstoriestodeafears.Thetruthdidn’tcareaboutmyexpectations, about theway thingswere supposed tobe. Itwaswhatitwas.Asinthemomentintheemergencyroom,whenmymiscarriagehadbecomethereasonIcouldgowithHannahtoherX-rays,Iwasremindedthatitis my expectations, the story I weave around the truth, that make what ishappeningseembetterorworse,goodorbad,fairornotfair.

LookingatBabyShondra,nowasleeponHannah’slap,Irealizedsomethingelse,too.Hannah’ssensethateverylittlegirlwaspreciousandlovedwasn’tjustafantasyshehadmadeup;ithademergedoutofadeepertruth.Loveisbiggerthantumorsorblindness,anditwasafeelingthatHannahtrustedandknew.

RoomfortheTruthTHEREWAS A FLURRYOF ACTIVITY IN THE PREOPERATING room.Efficient-lookingpeople in official-looking coats were bustling back and forth around us. Thehuge metal doors of the operating room swung open and shut, and theanesthesiologistappeared.

Hannah’s body was limp in my lap. Her eyes were open, but they rolledlazily around in their sockets. She was wrapped in her pink blanket, wearingnothing but her red shoes.An hour earlier she had refused towear a hospitalgown.

“It’snotpretty,anditdoesn’tmatchmyshoes,”shehadsaid.“How’sshedoing?”theanesthesiologistasked,wrappingherfingersaround

Hannah’swrist,feelingherpulse.“Myshoes,”Hannahsaidweakly.“Whatdidshesay?”thedoctorasked.“Hannah’sworried you’re going to take off her shoes,”Claude explained.

“Shemadeadealwiththesurgeonthatshecouldweartheminsurgery.”“Oh, I heard about that,” the anesthesiologist said. “You must be a very

specialpatient,Hannah.Dr.Saadgaveusspecificordersthatyoubeallowedtowearyourredshoes.Iwon’tforget.”

Hannahnoddedandclosedhereyes.Thedoctorpushedanother syringeofsedativeintotheIVline.Hannah’sheaddroppedagainstmychestwithathud.Iheldmy breath as long as I could. Hannah didn’t move. The operating roomdoorsswungopenagain,andtwonurseswheeledalonggurneycoveredwithawhitesheetintotheroom.Oneofthemleanedover,gatheredHannah’sbodyinherarms,and liftedheroffmy lap.LayingHannah in themiddleof thewhitesheet,thenursecoveredthelowerhalfofherbodywithahospitalblanket.

MyeyesstudiedHannah, lookingforanysignthatshewasawareofbeingtakenfromme.Shedidn’tflinch.Shelookedtiny,lostinthemiddleofthehugewhite expanse. I struggled to keep from believing shemight already be dead.Thiswasthefirsttimeinfivedaysshe’dbeenmorethananarm’slengthawayfromme.Asobbrokeoutofmychest.Claudeheldmeaswewatchedthenursespush Hannah’s gurney toward the operating room. The doors parted to letHannahandherattendantsthrough,thenswungshutbehindthem.ClaudeandI

didn’t move, barely able to believe what was happening. A minute later, thedoors swung open and one of the nurses appeared. She handedmeHannah’sshoes,wrappedinaclearplasticbag.

“Shewascompletelysedatedbeforewetookthemoff,”shesaid.“Makesuretherecoverynursegetsthem,sowecanputthemonbeforeshewakesup.”

Shesmiledsympathetically.“She’singoodhands.It’llbeokay,”shesaidsoftlybeforewalkingaway.ClaudeandIwereledtoacurtainedalcoveinthefamilywaitingarea.There

wasnoroominthattinyspaceforanythingbuttwochairsandthetruth.The first hourwe sobbed uncontrollably in each other’s arms.When there

werenotearsleft,webegantotalk.Foryears,IhadlovedClaudeasdeeplyandimperfectlyasIwasable.Fromthemomentwemet, Ihadbeendrawntohimlikea littleboy’s finger to the tipofa flame.Hehadseemedwiseandmaturecomparedwith the othermen/boys I knew.Hewas earnest, hardworking, andhandsome.Healsoseemeddeeplyhurtandunusuallyangrysometimes. Iwas,too. There had been something about our mutual hopes and hurts that hadbroughtus together.WehadmarriedwhileIwasstill incollege,whenhewastwenty-fiveandIwastwenty.

Asweclungtoeachotherandwaitedfornewsfromthesurgeon,ClaudeandIknewonething:Ourchildrenweremoreimportantthananythingelseeitherofuswould ever do.Theywere the reasonwewere together, andwewanted tohavemore.Itwasatruthsodeepthatitcutcleanlythroughanydoubtsorfearswemightotherwisehavehad.

“Let’s get pregnant again as soon aswe can,”Claude said.Withmy faceburiedinhisshoulder,Inodded.

AMustardSeedLAURAJANE, THE NEW PASTOR OF OUR SMALL METHODIST church, was standingacross fromme on the other side of Hannah’s bed. She didn’t look like anychurch leader Ihadever seen.Shewas thirty-one, the sameageasme,withashort,thickbodyandaheadofwiryredcurlsthatrefusedtobetamed.Sheworealong,greenvelvetdress,andagoldcrosshungfromachainaroundherneck.Sheclutchedawadoftissueinherhand,becausehereyeskeptfillingwithtears.

Twodaysbefore,surgeonshadliftedatumorthesizeofasmallsoccerballfromHannah’sabdomen.Nowshewaslyingonthebed,tetheredtoarespiratorandheavilysedated.Plastictubesandthetipsofherredshoesemergedfromtheedgesofherpinkblanket.Monitorswithzigzagginggreenlineshungfromtheceilingabovethebed.Theonlysoundsintheroomwereanoccasionalbeepandaperiodicwhooshfromtherespirator.

Laurajanebowedherheadandstartedtopray.Iclosedmyeyesandtriedtoquiet mymind. It was doing crazy things. In onemoment it was amodel ofefficiency,decipheringthewhooshes,clicks,andbeepsofthevariousmachinesso quickly that they no longer frightened me. In the next, I couldn’t evenrememberwhenIhadlasteaten.

Idesperatelyneededsomeonetotakecareofme.SinceHannah’ssurgery,Ihadn’tsleptmorethanafewhoursatatime,andyesterdaymybodyhadgivenupthetinyformofourdeadbaby.IknewthatIcouldn’tdependonClaudetodoanymore.Afterfivedaysofjugglingwork,errands,phonecalls,visitingmeandHannah,andshuttlingWillbetweenthehospital,playdates,andhome,hewasasexhaustedasIwas.

At least my mother was now here. She and Will were moving into theRonaldMcDonaldHouse,abeautiful facilitywith lotsof toysandactivities tokeepWill busy, across the street from the hospital.Claudewould continue tosleep at home. It was probably just aswell; he andmymother had, over theyears,onlybarelymanagedtogetalong,andthesedaysIcouldn’thandlebeingareferee.

Oneofthemonitorsbegantobeep.Irealizedmymindhadbeenwandering.Thebeepingstopped.ItriedonceagaintoconcentrateonLaurajane’swords.Itwastoolate.

“Amen,”Laurajanesaid.I opened my eyes. Tears were streaming down Laurajane’s cheeks and

dripping off her chin. She was looking at me as if she was about to saysomething;Ididn’tyetknowherwellenoughtoimaginewhatitmightbe.Fordays, people hadbeen tellingme, “Godonlygives uswhatwe canhandle.” Ihoped Laurajanewasn’t about to tell me the same thing. I knew these wordsweremeanttocomfortme,butIwasfindingitdifficulttoacceptthatwhatwashappeningtoHannahandourfamilywaspartofsomebenevolentGod’splan.Ialso suspected that when people said this, they were secretly comfortingthemselves,imaginingthatsincetheycouldn’thandlewhatwashappeningtous,theirGodwouldnevergiveittothem.

“Ihavenochoice!”Iwantedtoscream.Icouldn’twallmyselfofffrompainand fear. To turn away from them would be to turn away from Hannah. Nomatterhowbadthingswere,Iwasn’twillingtodothat.

Laurajaneclearedherthroatandreachedforanothertissue.“I’msorry,”shesaidsoftly,pausingtoblowhernose,“butIcan’tlietoyou.

Iwantmorethananythingtomakesenseofwhatishappeningtoyouguys,butIcan’tevenbegintopretendthatthisissomethingIunderstand.

“IbecameaministerbecauseIlovedandbelievedinGodandwantedtohelpotherpeople,butnow,seeingwhatyouaregoingthrough,I’mnotsureIhavewhat it takes.Thiswholescenedoesn’t jibewithwhat I thought IknewaboutHim;it’shardtobelievethattheGodIlovewouldletachildsufferlikethis.”

I couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or fall on my knees. Laurajane’shumilityandwillingnesstoacknowledgeout loudtheunfairnessandinsanityIwas feelingcameasaprofound relief. I realized then thatwhat Ineededmostwasn’tforsomeonetomakemefeelbetter;IneededpeoplelikeLaurajanewhowerewillingtostandwithmeinthefaceoftherawtruth.

ADeeperSilenceCLAUDEANDIWERESITTINGONFADEDPLASTICCHAIRSINanoldsupplyclosetthatwas posing as a conference room.Dr.Kamalaker andhis partner,Dr.Bekele,shuffled through folders and papers that were strewn on the table in front ofthem. They were pediatric oncologists who worked for the children’s clinicattachedto thehospitalandwerenowofficially inchargeofHannah’scase.AnursesattoonesidewithJill, theclinic’ssocialworker, tryingdesperatelybutunsuccessfully to appear relaxed. Claude and I held hands and sat so closetogetherthatthelegsofourchairsoverlapped.

Dr.Kamalakerliftedalongprintedsheetfromthepileinfrontofhim.“WegotthereportfromthelabinCalifornia,”hesaidsoftly,raisinghishead

tolookfirstatClaudeandthenatme.I felt very, very quiet; I knew the truthwas coming in away I had never

knownitbefore.Claude squeezedmyhand tighter and leaned in tomeuntil hewas almost

sittingontheedgeofmychair.Thenurselookedaway.Jillcrossedherlegs.Somethingwashappening.Icouldfeeltheweightofmybodypressingmy

tailboneintotheseatofthechair.Ifeltbreathpouringinandoutofmylungs,andmyheartpoundinginmychest,butmyawarenesshadexpandedbeyondmybodyandthoughts.AlthoughmyeyesneverleftDr.Kamalaker’s,Ihadasenseofbeingabletoseethewholeroom,thenHannahinherroomdownthehall,andthenthewholehospitalblock.EventuallyIsaweveryoneIlovedandeverythingelse,untilthewholeuniversewascontainedinoneplace.

“The news is not as good as we had hoped. The tumor is cancerous; it’scalledaRhabdoidtumorofthekidney.It’smalignant,aggressive,andrare,butthere’s still about a twenty-percent chance of remission.We’ve been in touchwithahospital inWashingtonState thathasbeentreatinga littlegirlwhowasdiagnosedfifteenmonthsago.That’sgoodnews,sincemostpatientsdiewithinayear.”

Hepaused.Theroomwasstill.Someone’schairscrapedacrossthefloor.Athroat cleared. Four pairs of eyes watched us. As the silence grew, the nurseturnedhergazepolitely,painfullyaway.Claudestared straightaheadandsaidnothing.

Asquiet as the roomwas, therewasadeeper silence inme;myhearthadjumped beyond the diagnosis, beyond the prognosis, beyond the treatment. IknewthatHannahwasgoingtodie,andIwasnotafraid.

Idonotknowwheremyfearwent.IsimplyknewthatifHannahwasgoingtodie,Ineededtofacethetruthandmakethemostofthetimewehadleft.Ialsoknewthatwhen itwas time, Iwantedherhome, to lethergoasgentlyasshecouldgo.

Iopenedmymouthandletthequestionfalloutofmyheart.“Dr. Kamalaker, when it’s clear that Hannah has had enough,when she’s

readytodie,willyouhelphergo?”Claudeturnedtolookatme.Everyoneelsedid,too.Dr.Kamalakerstudied

methoughtfullywithoutanswering.Dr.Bekele spoke. “You realize,don’tyou, thatwearenotgivinguphope

thatHannah’scancercangointoremission.Weintendtodoeverythingwecantohelpher.”Jillandthenursenoddedemphaticallyinagreement.

Iknewtheywereprobablyhorrifiedbymyquestion;partofmewasstunnedby it, too.Even if Iknewinmyheart thatHannahwasgoing todie,wouldn’tsaying itout loudclinch thedeal? Ididn’t think so. Iwasn’tgivingupon thepossibilitythatHannahcouldbecured.Iwassimplyacknowledgingsomethingthatisalreadytrueforeveryone:Deathcomestoallofus,readyornot.ToknowthatHannahwasgoingtodiecouldn’tcauseherdeathanymorethandenyingitcouldpreventherdeath.Thetruthwasgoingtobewhatitwas,eitherway.TheonlychoiceIhadwastodecidewhatIwasgoingtodowithit.

Dr.KamalakerandIwerestilllookingateachother.Hiseyesweresoftandsympathetic.Ifeltasifhewasseeingintomyheart.

“Iamnotwillingtogiveupinthefaceofthisdisease,”hesaidfinally.“IamgoingtodoeverythingIcantobeat thiscancer,but ifwearenotsuccessful, Iamalsowillingtohelpyouwithwhatyouasked.”

Wavesofreliefsurgedthroughme;notonlyhadIbeenabletogiveavoicetomydeepestfear,butIhadfoundsomeoneelsewillingtofacethetruthwithme.IfHannahwasgoingtodie,InowknewthatIwasn’tgoingtobealoneinit.

ResilienceDOCTORSHADGRADUALLYDECREASEDTHEAMOUNTOFHannah’ssedativeandthenremovedtherespiratortubefromherthroat.Afterallshehadjustbeenthrough,Icouldn’tbelievehowgoodshelooked.Althoughshehadlostalotofweight,hervoicewashoarse,andtheskinonhercheekswasrawwherestripsoftapehadheld the breathing tube in place,Hannah had spent the day laughing, talking,sippingjuice,andwatchingvideoswithWill. Ihadevenmanagedtowashherhair,usingaplasticbowlandasampleofbabyshampoothatoneofthenurseshadscroungedaround tofindforme.Hannahhad insisted thatwepull itbackintoahugepinkbow.

Now,shewasabouttoeatherfirstsolidfoodinoveraweek.“Dinner!”thenurseannouncedwithaflourish,liftingthelidsonthetrayin

frontofhertorevealaplateofmashedpotatoes,cupsofJell-Oandpudding,andabowlofchickenbroth.

Hannah frowned. She wasn’t impressed. She poked her finger into thepotatoes,andthenfoldedherarmsacrossherchest.

“Noway,José.I’mnoteatingthat.Iwantpizza,”shesaid.Thenursesmiled.“Hannah,thedoctorsorderedthesefoodsforyoubecausetheywillbegentle

onyourthroatandtummy.Tomorrow,maybe,youcanhavepizza.”Hannahlookedsteadilyatherforabouttenseconds.Thenursedidn’tmove.“GetDr.Tony,”Hannahsaid.WhenDr.Tonyarrived,thenurseexplainedthesituation.Dr.Tonytappeda

finger on his clipboard the way he had that first morning when Hannah hadstoppedhiminhistracks.HelookedatHannah.Shereturnedhisgaze.

“Well,”hesaidfinally,“IamItalian,soIknowwhyHannahfeelsthewayshedoesaboutpizza. If Ihadn’teatenanything inareally longtime,I’dwantpizza,too.”

Twentyminutes later, a second traywas delivered from the cafeteria. Thenurseset iton the table infrontofHannah.Dr.Tonypeekedhisheadinto theroomandwinkedatme,grinningfromeartoear.

“Ta-da!” Hannah said, lifting the lid. She let out a shriek, and I saw thereasonforDr.Tony’sgrin.

There, in the middle of the tray, sat two slices of pizza and a dish of

chocolateicecream.

TheScentofHomeEXACTLYTWOWEEKSAFTER IHADCARRIEDHANNAHacross theparking lot to theemergency room,we brought her home. It was a lovely late-summer eveningwhenwepulledintothedriveway.WhileWillandHannahclappedandcheered,some part of me wanted to turn and run. Hannah’s cancer and my life hadsomehow feltmoremanageable in the hospital. Now, looking at the relief onClaude’s face as he unloaded the suitcases from the car, I imagined he wasexpecting things to return to normal. The problem was, I couldn’t rememberwhat“normal”lookedlikeanymore.

Stepping through the frontdoorofourhouse,even the smellwasdifferentthan I remembered.As Iwandered from one room to the next, I sawmy lifethroughnew eyes. Iwonderedwhat had happened to thewomanwhoused tolive here; it was hard to believe it had ever been me. I realized that my oldroutine—Friday morning moms’ group, play dates for the kids, church onSunday—was a beautiful life for someone else, but not forme. I had no ideawhatmylifewas;Isimplyknewitwasn’tthis.

Hannahseemedtentative,too.Shewalkedslowlyintothehouse,climbedthestairs, and stoodquietly in thedoor-wayofher room.Will cameboundingupbehindher,hisarmsfullofthedolls,books,andstuffedanimalspeoplehadsenttothehospital.

“Hannah,let’sfindaplacetoputyournewthings,”hesaid.“Okay,”sheagreed.While Claude finished unloading the car, I began clearing a shelf in the

laundryroomtomakewayforboxesofgauze, tape,antiseptics,vialsofsalineand heparin, syringes, caps, and a bright red container that read “HazardousMaterials—Medical Waste.” Where I once had a hospital floor of doctors,nurses, and residents to care forHannah, Inowhada spaceabove thewasheranddryer.

IheardpealsoflaughtercomingfromHannah’sroom.Peekingin,IsawthecontentsofHannah’sdress-upboxstrewnalloverthe

floor. In the process of unpacking Hannah’s things, Will had found a short,blondwig.Hewaswearing it now,withHannah’s rhinestone crown, dancingaroundtheroom,hissolidboybodypackedintoatutuwithelectric-bluesequins

and a shimmering,multicolored skirt. Hannahwas doubled over on the floor,laughingsohardshecouldn’tstandup.Istartedto laugh, too.Claude,hearingthecommotion,boundedupthestairsandjoinedin.

Listeningtoourlaughter,Iwasfilledwithreliefthatweweretogether,thatwe could experience this much love and joy in such an ordinary moment. Irealized,then,thathomeisnotsomefamiliarplaceyoucanalwaysreturnto;itistherightnessyoufeel,whereveryouare,whenyouknowthatyouareloved.

BeyondFearTHETWOOFUSWERECROSSINGTHEPARKINGLOT,ONOURwaytoHannah’ssecondchemotherapy appointment. It was early September, about a week before herthirdbirthday.Herredshoestappedonthepavementasshewalkedbesideme.Shewas carryingherLittleMermaid lunchbox, packedwithgrahamcrackersandapplejuice.Iheldherotherhand,mindfulofthecarsthatwerelookingforspacesinthebusylot.

“Mommy,dochildreneverdie?”Sheasked thequestionwith the same tone shemighthaveused if shehad

wantedtoknowwherebabiescomefrom,withoutatraceoffearorconcern.Herfacewasturnedtowardme,waitingformyresponse.IforgotaboutthecarsintheparkinglotandtheIVequipmentwaitingforusupstairs.Hannah’squestionsuckedme,fullypresent,intomybody.

Ipausedbeforeanswering.IwishedIcouldtellherthatchildrendidn’tdie,orthat,eveniftheydid,itwassounusualthatshedidn’thavetoworryaboutit.ButIknewthatwasn’tthetruth,andIknewHannahknewit,too.Althoughherquestionseemedsimple,itlandedasasingledroponthemirroredsurfaceofamuchdeeperpond.Hannahwasn’t really askingme if childreneverdied.ShewasaskingifIwaswillingtoadmitthatshemightdie,wonderingifshewastheonlyonewhoknew,ifIwaswillingtoknowit,too.

“Yes,Hannah,sometimeschildrendie,”Isaidquietly.Another drop in the pond.Aquestion rolledoffmy tonguebefore I had a

chancetothinkaboutit.“Doyouknowwhathappenswhentheydie?”Iasked.Silence;withoutbreath.“Uh-huh,” she said. “They go to heaven and keep God company.” She

grippedmyhandtighterandhoppedlikeabunnyontothesidewalk.

TRUTH IS FIERCE and unrelenting.We cannot change it, butwe can change theway we live with it. Making mistakes, not being loved, and dying areinescapableexperiencesofbeinghuman;soisourfearofthem.Byfacingthosefears,wehaveachancetostepbeyondthem.Whenwearewillingtodothebestwecanwithwhatweknow, tobehonestwithourselvesandothersaboutwho

weareandwhatreallymatterstous,onlythenarethelivesweliveandthelovewereceivetrulyourown.

Joy

findingitinthedarkestplaces

Hewhohesitatesbeforeeachstepwillspendalifetimeononefoot.

—Chineseproverb

Hannah’sBirthdayISTOODINTHEKITCHENANDLISTENEDTOTHESOUNDSOFlaughtercomingfromtheother room. I felt so relieved, I wanted to cry. In the month since Hannah’sdiagnosis, Ihad looked forward to thisdaywithan impossiblecombinationofanxietyandjoy,hauntedbyonequestion:WasthisgoingtobeHannah’sthirdbirthdayor her last? I had agonizedoverwhether to keep it simpleor to plansomethingmoreelaborate incaseshemightneverhaveanother.WhenIaskedHannahhowshewantedtocelebratetheday,shehadsaid,“IwantapartywithaLittleMermaidcake,nottoomuchpeopleandnottoomuchgifts.”

“What if you could do anything youwanted,” I asked, “like going to seeSesameStreetLiveandinvitingallyourfriends?”

“No,Mommy,”shesaid.“IwantapartywithaLittleMermaidcake,nottoomuchpeopleandnottoomuchgifts.”

Rummaging through adrawer for thepackageof birthday candles, I couldhear thechildrengigglingandchattering.Theywere stillbreathless from theirbackyardtreasurehunt.Eachofthemwasavisionoflovelinessin“discovered”finery: rhinestone tiaras, gold bangle bracelets, and plastic bead necklaces.Earlier, they had transformed a pile of wooden dowels, iridescent ribbons,glitter,andglueintomagicwandsthattheywerenowusingtobopeachotheronthehead.

A quieter hum came from the mothers who were standing in one corner,sippingmugsofcoffee.Deepinconversation, theypausedoccasionallytocastdisapproving glances at wand-wielding treasure hunters whose behaviorthreatened to get out of hand. The ordinariness of it allwas a relief from theinitialawkwardnesseveryonehadfelt.ThechildrenhadgreetedHannahshyly,tentatively.ItwascleartheyhadbeenremindedjustbeforecomingthatHannahhadhadsurgeryandmightstillfeelsick.Themothershadembracedmewiththesamesortofshyness,asiftheywereuncertainwhethertooffercongratulationsor condolences. Iwas sympathetic; even Iwasn’t sure if Iwanted to smile orburstintotears.

Hannahhadbeentheonetostepintothemomentandsetusallstraight.“Hey,youguys,doyouwant to seemyscar?” sheasked, reaching for the

hemofherdress.

“Youmeanyoucanshowittous?”herfriendJackiewhispered,wide-eyedandincredulous.

“Ofcourse!”Hannahresponded.“It’sjustsurgery.”Sheliftedandtuckedthehemofherdressunderherchin,exposingawhipof

angry-red,still-stapledfleshthatcutfromonesideofherabdomentotheother.Thekids, instinctivelycurious,crowdedcloseandrespondedwithappreciativeoooo’sandaaahhhh’s.

Oneofthemothersturnedtomeandwhispered,“Isthisokaywithyou?”I smiled and shruggedmy shoulders. “If it’s okaywith her, it’s okaywith

me.”“Doesithurt?”oneofthechildrenasked.“Notsomuch,”Hannahanswered.“Mydoctorsgavememedicineandpizza,

soIgotbettermuchfaster.”“Wow, Iwant to have surgery!” someone else said. The others nodded in

agreement.There was a slight pause, and then Jackie asked, “Hannah, can you still

play?”“Ofcourse,yousilly,”Hannahsaid.“Thisisaparty,isn’tit?”Everyone laughed. The awkward spell had been broken and the party had

begun.Ifoundthepacketofbirthdaycandlesinthedrawer,removedthreeofthem,

andslidthemintoonecornerofthecake.Isteppedbackandsmiled.Thiswasno supermarket bakeshop cake; it was a masterpiece that Hannah and I hadcreated together. On it, plastic figures of the LittleMermaid and Prince Ericstood, holding hands, on a brown-frosted island in the middle of a blue-and-greenfrostedsea.Hereandthere,holesthesizeofHannah’sindexfingerwereoutlinedinchocolatecakecrumbs,whereHannahhad“tested”tomakesureallthefrostingstastedthesame.

I lit the candles. They seemed dwarfed by the large cake. Three wasn’tenoughcandlesforacakeorenoughyearsfora life.TearsIhadbeenholdinginsidewelledup. Iblinkedhard. Icouldn’tcrynow. Iwould ruin thehappiestmomentofthewholeday.Takingadeepbreath,Ipickedupthecake,pastedasmileonmyface,andsteppedintothediningroom.“Happybirthdaytoyou…”Thelaughterandtalkingstoppedaseveryonejoinedin.Imaneuveredthecakethroughanobstaclecourseofchildren,balloons,andtissuepaperstreamers,soengrossed ingetting thecake to the tablewithout ignitinganyoneoranything,that I didn’t notice what Hannah was doing. When I finally looked up, my

pasted-ongrinslidoffmychin.Unlikeeveryonearoundher,Hannahwasn’tsmiling.Shewassolemn,quiet,

almostcompletelystill.Onlyherheadmovedashereyestraveledslowlyfromone person to the next, resting finally on me. For a split second, I thoughtsomethingwaswrong;shewastiredorsad,ortheexcitementwastoomuchforher.ThenIrealized,farfromfeelingunhappy,Hannahwaslettingeveryoneandeverythinginthismomentseepintoherheart.Astheloud,off-keyrenditionof“HappyBirthday”cametoanend,brighteyesandflushedfacesturnedtolookather.Shesmiledslightly,stilltakingitallin.Everyonewaited.Alongsilence.Theotherchildrenbegantowriggleimpatiently.

“Makeawish,Hannah,”someonecalledout.Hannah looked atme.Her eyes burned intomyheart.The adultswere no

longer smiling. The kids were no longer wriggling. Everyone was watchingHannah;Hannahwaswatchingme.Theroomwassuspendedinahush,likethefullnessinchurchafterthelast“amen.”Finally,finally,withonlyawhisperofbreath,Hannahblewtheflamesout.Evenasshedidit,hereyesneverleftmine.I feltmorepresent,more therewithher than Ihad feltwithanyotherperson,ever.

Inonebreath,Hannahblewouthercandlesandblewopenmyheart.Inowknewtherewasajoybeyondhappiness,out-loudlaughs,andpasted-ongrins.Itsessencewasstillness;adeepquietthatcouldbeinhaled,thatpouredthroughmybodyuntiltherewasnopartthatwasnotfilled.

AnticipationIWANTEDTOBOWLOW,DIGAHOLE,ANDBURYMYSELFINgratitude.IwouldhaveifI hadbeen able to takemyeyesoffHannah.Shewaswaving tome from theschoolbuswindow,thepinkbaseballcaponherheadknockedsidewaysinthehustletofindherseat.

Since thedayDr.Kamalakerhad toldusHannahhadacancernoonewassurehowto treat,ClaudeandIhadbegunliving theparadoxofwanting todoanythingtofindacureandneedingtopreservethequalityoftimeHannahhadleft.ClaudehadspenthoursontheInternetandthephone,talkingtodoctorsandmedicallibrariansacrossthecountry,amassinganotebook,fiveinchesthick,ofeverypieceof informationhecould findaboutHannah’scancer.Somepartofhim seemed convinced that Hannah’s illness was like a particularly difficultengineeringproblem;ifhejusthadtherightinformation,he’dbeabletofigureitout.

One of the first things we realized was that because the cancer was soaggressiveand rare, the treatmentswere, too.WeusedDr.Markoff’s ruleandmadethebestdecisionswecouldwiththeinformationwehadatthetime.Aftermeeting personallywith doctors inNewYork and Philadelphia, and speakingwith others on the phone, Claude and I had agreed to try the chemotherapyprotocol used on the little girl inWashingtonStatewhowas still alive fifteenmonths after her diagnosis. The chemotherapy would be administered once aweek at the outpatient clinic,whichwasonly twentyminutes fromhome.WetrustedDr.Kamalaker andDr.Bekele andappreciatedhowgracefully Jill, thesocialworker,hadeasedherselfintoourlives.

ItwasJillwhohadbrokenthenewstomethatHannahwouldn’tbeabletogo to preschool. She and I were sitting beside Hannah’s bed just after hersurgery.

“I understand you’re making arrangements for Hannah to start preschoolnext month,” she said. She cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. “Yourealize, don’t you, that chemotherapy will severely compromise Hannah’simmunesystem.Preschool,”shecontinued,layingahandlightlyonmyarm,“isdefinitelyoutofthequestion.”

Ihadtakenamomenttoletherwordssinkin.Iknewthatwhatshesaidwas

true.Buttome,Hannahwasathree-year-oldfirst,andacancerpatientsecond.“Youdon’tunderstand,”Isaid.“AftereverythingHannah’sbeenthrough,I

won’ttakepreschoolawayfromher.Yousee,shewantstorideonabusandgoonfieldtripswithherfriends.I’mwillingtodoanythingtomakethathappen.”

Jill wasn’t giving up. “People will do amazing things to help kids inHannah’ssituation.I’msurewecanarrangeforaschoolbus,anemptyone,tocometoyourhouseandtakeherforaride.Hannahwon’tknowthedifference.”

I laughed and shook my head. If ever I was going to be right aboutsomething,itwasthis.“Jill,I’msureyouknowalotofthings,butifyouthinkan empty school bus pulling up to the house is going to fool Hannah, youdefinitelydon’tknowher.”

Hannahstartedpreschooltheweekafterherthirdbirthday.Oncethedecisionwasmade,everyonecommittedthemselvestomakingitwork.Mrs.FisherandMrs. Forsythe, Hannah’s teachers, met with nurses from the clinic to discusswaystominimizeHannah’sexposuretogerms.Theyalsometwiththeparentsoftheotherchildrenintheclasstoaddressanyconcernsorquestionstheyhad.Ursula,theclinic’sreceptionist,scheduledallHannah’stestsandchemotherapyappointments so as not to interferewith herTuesday/Thursdaymorning class.Hannah threw herself wholeheartedly into school. As a result, her treatmentbecamesimplyonemorethingonourcalendar,ratherthantheonlythingonourminds.

Mrs.Fishernudgedthelastofherchargesupthestepsofthebus,countingeachheadastheypassed.

“Okay,moms,”shecalledout.“Itlookslikewe’rereadytoroll!”Her announcement was greeted with a chorus of shouts from twenty-nine

three-and four-year-olds. The bus driver slid the doors shut and started theengine.Throughthewindow,IsawHannahgrabthebackoftheseatinfrontofherandbounceupanddown,ahugegrinonherface.Asthebusbegantopullaway, she let go briefly, turned, and waved. At that moment I snapped mycameraandsnatchedamemorythat, to thisday,sits inasilverframeonJill’sdesk.

“Everymorning,” Jill toldme, “Hannahwaves tome from thewindowofthatbus,andremindsmethatmorethingsarepossiblethanIknow.”

NoWorriesIWASUNLOADINGTHEDISHWASHERWHENHANNAHDANCED into thekitchen.Shewaswearingherglitter-pinkbathingsuitandwavingherbirthdaymagicwand.

“Mommy, let’s finger-paint,” she said, pirouetting around the table.“Pleeeeze,”sheadded.

Istraightenedup,archingtheachesoutofmyback.Lastnight’sdisheswerestacked,unwashed,onpilesofunopenedmailonthecounter.Themessagelightwas blinking on the phone-answeringmachine, and the buzzer on the clothesdryerwasremindingmeeverytwominutesthatitwasreadyformore.Ihadanendlesslistofthingstodo,andfinger-paintingwasn’toneofthem.

Nomatter.Westoodthebig,blueeaselinawarmpatchofSeptembersuninthe thick backyard grass. Then we took off our shoes and slid glossy whitesheetsoffinger-paintpaperunderthebright-yellowclip.Hannaharrangedcupsof paint in the tray beneath; strawberry red, ocean blue, lemon-drop yellow,new-tomatogreen.

Wedippedourfingersinthecupsandsmooshedthemaround.“Gross!”Hannahsaid.Giggling,we lifted themout.Thick, gooey globs of paint dropped off our

fingertipsintothegrass.Wesmudgedthepaperwithcolorinlooping,rainbowswirls.Wecreatedonemasterpieceafterthenext.Halfanhourlater,Willcamehome from school. Seeing us, he grinned and dropped his backpack on theground,andhe,too,becameadancing,paintingfool.

Later that night, I sat at the kitchen tablewith a lukewarm cup of coffee,studyingthepaintings tapedto thecupboarddoors.Theywerebeautiful. Iwasactuallyproud ofmine.Aknot inmyheart began to unravel. For years I hadbeenwantingtopaintandhadtoldmyselfIwouldhavetotakelessonsfirst,soIwouldn’tdoitwrong.Today,withoutbrushesandpalettestointimidateme,myfearhadliterallyslippedthroughmyfingers.Ihadlostmyselfinthejoyofit.

Swirlingmycoffeearoundinitsmug,Iwatchedthemoonrisethroughthekitchenwindow.Icouldfeelawholeotherlifebeatingbeneathmyskin.

TheUnbirthday“MOMMY,WHYAMINOTGOINGTOHAVEABIRTHDAYafterfour?”

Wehadgone to thegrocery store.Hannah’s questiondropped into the carjust as I turned into our driveway. Memories of her third birthday and ourconversation about whether children ever die were as fresh inme as the scarfromhersurgery.Shesoundedperplexedbutcertain;asifsheknewitwastrue,butdidn’tquiteunderstandwhy.

Ipulledthecarintothegarage,shiftedthegearintopark,andturnedofftheignition.Ilookedintherearviewmirror;Hannahwaswatchingthebackofmyhead.Itookadeepbreathandturnedtofaceher.

“I’m not sure that’s true, Hannah,” I offered, hating the exaggeratedcheerfulness in my voice. “After your fourth birthday, you’ll have your fifthbirthday.”

Shelookedatmesuspiciously.Isuddenlyfeltself-conscious.“Areyousure?”sheasked.“Well…” I hesitated. “The doctors are doing everything they can to help

yourbodygetbettersoyoucanhavelotsmorebirthdays.”Shecockedherheadandsmiledatmesympathetically.“Well,I’mnotgoingto,”shesaid;notchallengingme,simplytellingme.As I reachedover to unbuckleher car seat, I knew shewas already so far

aheadofme,Icouldonlypraytokeepup.Icouldn’thelpwondering,too,whatelsesheknew.

DrugDealingattheYHANNAHANDIWERESCRUNCHEDINTOACURTAINEDdressingroomattheY.Iwastryingnottohurry,butIalsodidn’twanttokeepClaudeandWillwaitinganylonger than necessary. She and I were both naked, having just peeled wetbathing suits off our bodies. Hannah was giggling because the towel I hadwrappedaroundherheadlikeaturbankeptslidingoverhereyes.Shewassittingonawoodenbenchagainstthewall.Iwaskneelinginapuddleonthefloorinfront of her.Next to her, on the bench,was a scattered collection ofmedicalparaphernaliainsterilebubblepacks.

Aspartofhertreatmentprotocol,aBroviaccatheterhadbeenimplantedinHannah’s chest to give doctors a direct line into her bloodstream. Its tubesneededtobeflushedseveraltimesadayandthesitekeptascleanandsterileaspossible.

Dr.Kamalakerhaddesignatedme the soleperson responsible forhandlingandmaintaining theBroviacand its site;evennursesandresidentsweregiveninstructions not to touch it. He explained that the risk of complications wasgreatly reduced if the Broviac was handled exclusively by one person; hisdecisionhadalsovalidatedmeasarespectedmemberofthemedicalteam.Thatwasn’t theonlyunusual stephehadbeenwilling to take; the fact thatHannahand I were dripping wet and giggling in the dressing room of the Y was atestamenttohishumanityandimagination.

Therewas almost nothingHannah lovedmore than swimming. Shewouldstand at the edgeof thepool, bendher knees, swingher armsback and forth,count “one, two, three,GO!”and leap intoClaude’swaitingarms.Thebiggerthesplashthebetter.She’dbobtothesurfacewiththehelpofthebrightorangebubblestrappedtoherback,paddletotheside,squirmovertheedge,anddoitagain.We would tire of the game long before she did. “Just one more time,Daddy,”she’dplead.

That’swhatwehadtoldDr.KamalakerwhenweinsistedthatHannahhadtobeabletoswim.Dr.Kamalakerhadconsiderabledoubts;withoutquestion,thepublicpoolwasabreedinggroundforgerms.IhadexplainedtohimthatIdidn’twanttoexposeHannahtounnecessaryrisks,butIwasn’twillingtopostponeherjoy,either.Itseemedagreaterrisktothinkshemightneverswimagainthanit

didtothinkshemightgetaninfectionfromit.Dr.Kamalaker listenedquietly and then staredout thewindow.Finally he

stoodup,openedthedoor to thesupplycabinet,andrummagedaround.Thirtysecondslaterheemergedwithasatisfiedgrinandaboxofwaterproofpatches.

“Youcanusethese,”hesaid.“Also,cleanandflushhercaps,tube,andsitebeforeandaftersheswims.We’lltryitafewtimes,andifshemanagestodoitwithoutgettinganinfection,youcancontinueindefinitelywithmyblessing.”

NowIpulledthedisposablerubberglovesovermyhandswithaloudsnap.Hannahgrabbedanotheroneandhandedittome.

“Makemeabunny,Mom,”shebegged.“Okay, just one,” I agreed. I scrunched thewrist of theglovebetweenmy

thumbandforefinger,heldittomymouth,andblew.Thepowderylatextastedbitteronmylips.Theglove’sfingersandthumbswelledup,andthentherestofit did, too. Now came the part that separated the experts from the novices: Iclamped my thumb and finger together to keep the air from escaping andwrestledaknotintotheremaininglatex.Hannahsquealedandkissedme.

“Thanks,Mom!”“You’rewelcome,Missy.”Ismiled.“Now,let’sgetthisBroviacflushed.”WhileIfilledtwosyringes,onewithheparin,onewithsaline,Hannahtore

openfourpackagesofalcoholwipesandsetthemcarefullyonthebench.ThensheliftedthetubesoftheBroviac,keepingherhandsclearoftheends.Irubbedtheendcapswithalcoholandreachedforthefirstsyringe.Raisingitabovemyheadinordertoseeitinabrighterlight,Iflickedthesyringewithmyfingertoforceanyairbubblesintothetip.Then,justasIdepressedtheplungertoexpeltheexcessair,thecurtainslidopen.

Awomaninablue-floweredbathingsuitheldtheedgeofthecurtaininherhand.Hereyeswidenedandmovedslowly,fromthesightofthegauzepadsandvials on the bench, to Hannah and her Broviac, tomy rubber gloves and thesyringeinmyhand.Withoutaword,sheslidthecurtainshut.Wesawherdaisy-trimmed flip-flops take a step back and pause. Then they turned and slappedacrossthefloor,untiltheyreachedthedoor.Ihearditopenandshut.IturnedtoHannah.

Shewasgrinningmischievously.“Mommy,”Hannahsaid,“that ladywas reallysurprised!Doyou think it’s

becausesheneversawnakedpeoplebefore?”

InhaleIWROTEONELINEINMYJOURNAL.

“Adarkday.”The tumorwas back. The doctors had seen it on a routineX-ray.Despite

eight weeks of chemotherapy, microscopic cells from the original mass hadmigratedandmultipliedintoadarkspotonHannah’slowerleftlung.Thescarfromhersurgeryhadbarelyhealed.

Claude and I were faced with an agonizing decision. If we did nothing,Hannah might be dead before Christmas. We weren’t ready. Using Dr.Markoff’srule,wescheduledasecondsurgerytoremovethetumor,andmadeplans forHannah toundergoan autologousbonemarrow transplant.Althoughtherewere other experimental therapies available,most of themwould almostcertainlyrequireHannahtospendwhatevertimeshehadleft inahospital.Weweren’twilling to subjecther to that.Wedecided that the transplantofferedabalancebetweenriskandhopethatwecouldlivewith.WealsodecidedthatifHannahrelapsedagain,we’dhavetolethergo.

ThereleaseformsClaudeandIhadtosignstatedtheparadoxperfectly:Thetreatment shewas about to undergo could not be expected to cure her, and itmightkillher.Evenifbysomemiraclesheweretoliveintoadolescence,she’dbe unable to enter pubertywithoutmedical intervention, and shewould neverbearchildren.

Onedoctorweconsultedhadsummeditupinasentence:“IfIwereyou,I’dprayshestayshealthylongenoughforthesethingstobeaproblem.”

Thedaybefore her surgery, asHannah and Iwalked to the park, Iwasn’tthinkingaboutanyofthis.Itwasasweater-weatherkindofday:warmafternoonsun, crisp autumn breeze, and a golden maple underfoot crunch. I felt thewarmthofherfingerswrappedaroundmineandheardthe liltandpitchofhervoiceasshemadeplanstowearaprincesscostumetothehospital.Thepurplepompomonherwoolencapbobbedupanddownasshewalked.

Iinhaledthemoment,savoringeverythinginit.Therewasnothingtodo,orsay,orwishfor.Iwasluckytobealive,andluckierstillthatHannahwas.IheldmybreathaslongasIcould,hopingthatsomefeatherofjoyfromthismomentmightlodgeinmylungstodaysoitcoulddriftlightlyandunexpectedlyintoone

ofthedarkmomentsIknewwasahead.

MagicA WEEK AFTER HANNAH’S SECOND SURGERY, WE RETURNED home. Hannahperformed twosomersaults in themiddleof the living roomfloor tocelebrate.Toosurprisedtostopher,Ihadclosedmyeyesandwinced.

Now, three days later, even I felt a million miles away from doctors,treatments,andcancer.ClaudeandIweresplayedlikeragdollsonupholsteredchairs, grateful for the air-conditioning. Our luggage was a tumbled pile ofleatherandnylonononeofthedoublebeds.WillandHannahhadwriggledtheirbodies through a split in the curtains and pressed their noses against thefourteenth-floorwindow.

“Look,Will,”Hannahscreamed.“IcanseeCinderella’scastle!Ihopeshe’shome!”

“Of course she’s not home, Hannah; she’s not real,” Will explained,somewhatimpatiently.

“Sheistoo,Will.You’llsee.”Hannahsniffed.“Comeon,MomandDad,”Willsaid.“Wecan’twait.”ClaudeandIlookedateachotherandlaughed.Thealarmclockhadbuzzed

usawakeatfour-thirtyA.M.inNewJersey.Astretchlimousinehadpickedusuphalf anhour later anddepositedus at the airline terminal before six.Will andHannahhadsleptthroughtheflighttoOrlando.Afriendlycouplehadmetusatthe gate, walked us to our rental car, and pinned a badge on Hannah thatidentified her as a Make-A-Wish kid. We had checked into our hotel beforenoon.

Hannah’srelapsehadofficiallyqualifiedherforanall-expenses-paidtriptoWaltDisneyWorld.Thevacationwasawelcomeandgenerousrespite,butanyreliefwefeltwastemporary:Hannah’sbonemarrowaspirationhadalreadybeenscheduledforthefollowingweek.

ClaudeandIhauledourbodiesintostandingposition.“Yippee!”WillandHannahcried.We rode themonorail to theMagicKingdom.Cinderella’s castlewas our

first stop.Aswe crossed themoat, walked beneath the turreted entrance, andstepped into the shade of the tiledmosaic reception hall, I felt drawn into themagic of happily-ever-after.Mymind knew it wasn’t real, but my heart was

grateful. I could hear the hum of excited voices and clatter of pewter dishesspillingoutofthedoorsofthebanquethallattheotherend.Mostofthepeoplearoundusheadedthere,includingClaude,whowantedtoseeifwecouldgetatablewithoutreservations.WillandHannahhungback,staringtransfixedatthesuits of armor and crests lining the walls. Suddenly, Hannah froze. A slightfigureinalongbluegownwithatwistofgoldenhairloopedbehindajeweledtiarahadsteppedquietlyoutofanalcoveinfrontofher.Will’sjawdropped.

“Cinderella,”hewhispered.CinderellakneeledinfrontofHannah.“Hello,I’mCinderella,”shesaidsoftly.“What’syourname?”Hannah hadn’t moved. Her eyes traveled from the crown on Cinderella’s

head, over her smiling face, down her billowing skirt to the clear glasslikeslipperjustvisiblebeneaththehem.

“Myname’sHannah,” she said finally. “And that’smybrother,Will,” sheadded, pointing to him. She paused, leaned toward Cinderella, and in a loudwhispersaid,“Hedidn’tknowyouwerereal,butIdid.”

Willsquirmedandrolledhiseyes.Cinderellagavehimawink.“That’sokay,Will,”Cinderellasaid.Hesmiledbashfully,clearlyrelieved.CinderellaturnedherattentionbacktoHannah.“Howareyou,Hannah?”sheasked.“Ijusthadsurgery,”Hannahsaidquietly.“Doyouwanttoseemyscar?”IsuspectedCinderellahadalreadynoticedHannah’sMake-A-Wishbutton.“Okay,”shesaidsoftly.Hannah slowly raised her dress. Cinderella looked at Hannah’s belly and

then,withoutaword,openedherarms.Hannah threwherself intoCinderella’sembrace.As sheheldHannah, theyoungwoman lookedatmeoverHannah’sshoulder,hereyesfulloftears.

“Thankyouforsharingthatwithme,Hannah,”shewhispered.Hannahloosenedhergripandgaveherakiss.“You’rewelcome,”Hannahsaid.Cinderella stood up, dabbed a finger under her mascaraed lashes, and

straightenedherskirt.Willsteppedforwardandextendedhishand.“It’snicetomeetyou,Cinderella,”hesaid.“It’snicetomeetyou,Will,”Cinderellasaid,shakinghishand.Hannahskippedbreathlesslyaroundthetwoofthem.“Yousee,Will,”shecried,“Itoldyoushewasreal.”“Yep,Hannah,”hesaid,winkingatCinderella,“youwereright.”

Asthethreeofusheadedtowardthebanquethall,Iwasgrinningfromeartoear.Itdidn’tmatterthatCinderellawasagirlfromIowainabeautifulcostume.Thejoywehadexperiencedinthemeetingwasreal,andthatwasmagicenoughforme.

SecretsWEHAD TAKEN A BREAK FROM THE AFTERNOON SUN AND the crush of sunburnedtourists. Will and Hannah sat cross-legged on the floor, watching Disneycartoons. Claude’s eyes were already closed. Stretched out next to him,exhaustedbutcontent,Iranmyhandovermybelly.Therewasnewlifeinme.Thedaybeforewe left forFlorida, Ihadseen thewhitepadon thepregnancyteststicksplitintwobyathinlinethatdeepenedfromrobin’s-eggtodeep-seablue.ClaudeandIhadembracedandcried.Itfeltgoodanddifferentfromanyofmypreviouspregnancies.Therewasnowildelation;onlyaquietcontentmentandsurrender.Thispregnancy,Iknew,wasuptoGod;itwasn’tuptome.

Wehaddecidednottotellanyone,noteventhekids.IfIwasstillpregnantatChristmas,havingpassedthecriticaleight-weekmark,wewouldsharethenewsthen.

IclosedmyeyesandwasalmostasleepwhenIfeltasmallhandshakingmyshoulder.

“Mommy,”Hannahwhisperedloudlyinmyear,“areyouawake?”Iliftedmyheavyeyelidsandblinkedafewtimes.“Yes,Missy.Whatisit?”“Mommy, I want to tell you something about the baby who died,” she

answered.“Whichbaby?”Iasked,slidingoverandmotioningforhertojoinmeonthe

bed.Hannahsnuggledclose,nestlingherheadundermychin.“Youknow, thebaby thatwas in your tummy; theonewhowasn’t strong

enoughtobeborn,”shesaid.Inodded.“Well,”shesaidexcitedly,placingonehandonmystomachandlookinginto

myeyes.“youdon’thavetofeelsadaboutit,becauseGod’salreadymakingusanewbaby.”

Iopenedandclosedmymouth; Ididn’tknowwhat to say.Either shewasguessing, inwhichcaseIwouldhaveto lie tokeepfromspillingthebeans,orsheknew,inwhichcaseIwouldn’tknowwhattosayanyway.

Idecided,asshesattheregrinningatme,thatIwouldhavetoletitgo;itwassimplyonemorethingthatIwouldneverknow.

ChristmasPresenceA LIGHT SNOW WAS FALLING OUTSIDE, JUST IN TIME FOR Christmas Day. A tinyartificialtree,hungwithminiatureornamentsandlights,satinonecornerofthehospital room next to stacks of books, puzzles, stuffed animals, and a Barbiedoll.All thewindowswere coveredwith stick-onholidaydecals of stockings,candycanes,andstars.Achainofredandgreenconstructionpaperwasdrapedfromoneendoftheroomtotheother.

It seemed that Bethlehem’s grace had made it to our neck of the woods;Hannahwasstillalive,andthebabyinsidemewas,too.

Forthepastthreeweeks,HannahandIhadbeeninisolationfromgermsandtheworldinaten-by-twelve-footroom.Althoughthishospitalwasmorethananhourandahalf’sdrivefromourhouse,itwastheonlyoneinourareawiththefacility to performbonemarrow transplants that had agreed to letme bewithHannahtwenty-fourhoursaday.InsistingthatIbeallowedtostaywithherwasoneofthebestdecisionsClaudeandIevermade.

For ten days, doctors had pumped Hannah’s body full of chemotherapydrugs, in an attempt to destroy any cancer cells that remained. The bags ofchemicals were covered with fluorescent orange warning stickers that read“Danger,” “Toxic Chemicals,” “Hazardous Waste.” After hanging them onHannah’sIVpole,thenurseschecked,double-checked,andtriple-checkedtheirclipboards before starting the drip. I recorded everything in a small notebookClaudehadgivenme.Hehadlineditwithrowsofnarrowcolumnstorecordthedate, time,name,anddosageofeverymedicationHannahreceived.Itbecame,inanoddsortofway,ajournalofthelastyearofHannah’slife.

As soon as one bag was empty, another was hung in its place. Almostimmediately,Hannah’s body had begun to deteriorate, and I began to believethatClaudeandIhadmadethegravestmistakeofourlives.ThechemicalsmadeHannah sick toher stomachandburnedhermouth, throat, and intestinal tract.Herhairfelloutinhandfuls;onlyafewwispsstubbornlyclungtoherbaldhead.Every inchofherskinwascoveredwitharaw,bumpyrash.Beneath therash,herfleshturnedthecolorofpollen.

Inanattempttominimizebedsoresandinfection,thedoctorsorderedmetobatheherfivetimesadayinablueplastictubthenursessetupinthemiddleof

the floor. Each time I lifted Hannah’s limp, aching body off the bed, shewhimperedandmoaned.SeveraltimesIquietlyrebelledagainsttheinsanityofitall,liedtothenurses,andtoldthemIhadbathedherwhenIhadactuallylethersleepinstead.

Duringthefirstweekof treatment,Iprayedeverydaythat thingswouldn’tgetworse,thatHannah’sbodycouldhavearestfromtheexhaustionandpain.

WhenthedoctorsremindedmethatHannah’swhitebloodcellcountwouldhavetodroptoalmostzerobeforethechemotherapycouldbestopped,andtheclosershegottothatgoal,thesickershewouldbecome,Ibegantoprayforhertobesick,sickenoughforthemadnesstostop.

Finally,when the light had almost faded fromher eyes, the chemotherapybags were taken down, and bags of her own bonemarrow, harvested earlier,werepumpedthroughtheBroviacintoherveins.Theroomfilledwithachokingodor that sweated out of Hannah’s feverish body, a combination ofchemotherapyagentsandbonemarrowpreservative.Thesmellburnedmylungsandnostrils,makingitdifficulttobreathewithoutfeelingsick.Inowknewwhatthevalleyoftheshadowofdeathsmelledlike:fermentedtomatojuice.

FordaysHannah lay inbed, still asdeath,barely able to sipwater fromastraw.Thenursesdrewbloodfromhereveryfourhourstomakesureherwhitecell count was continuing to rise. Each time, I held my breath. Slowly, asHannah’scellsbegan to regenerate, I transitionedfrompraying thatshewouldliveuntilChristmas topraying thather countswouldbehighenough toallowvisitors.Itwasaracetothefinish.Thenumbersclimbedsteadilyforaweek,andthen, threedaysbeforeChristmas, theystalled,dropped,andrefused tobudge.Two days before Christmas, the nurse on the afternoon shift took an extra,unscheduledsampleofHannah’sblood,hopingforthebest.Herhunchpaidoff.Itwasasifsomeoneinourroomhadwonthelottery;doctors,nurses,eventhefloormopperhadknockedonthewindowandsignaleda“thumbs-up.”

NowHannahwasavisionofloveliness,kneelingonherbedinfrontofthedollhouseshehadreceivedfromSanta.Shewaswearingalaceheadbandaroundherbaldheadandanewivorysatindressthatwouldhavebeenperfectfor theflowergirlataMafiawedding.ThatiswhyIhadknownshewouldloveit.

Thenightbefore,onChristmasEve,ClaudehadcometostaywithhersoIcouldrunoutandbuyafewlast-minutegifts.ItwasthefirsttimeIhadsteppedoutofthehospitalinthreeweeks.AsIhadstoodinastoreatthemall,holdinguptheMafiaChristmasdress,awomanbrowsingthrougharackoflittleboys’trousersnoticed.

“Areyouthinkingofbuyingthatdress?”sheasked.“Well,yes,butit’sprettyexpensive,”Isaidsheepishly.Thewomansmiled.“Ihavethreeboys,”shesaidemphatically.“BUYTHAT

DRESS!”Now,lookingatHannah,IwasgladIhad.Itwasthefirsttimeshehadworn

anythingbesidesahospitalgownintwoandahalfweeks.Shehadevenbuzzedthe nurses’ station and told them to come to see. Compared to how she hadlookeddaysbefore, she lookedpositively radiant.Althoughher faceandarmswere bloated from having so many fluids passing through her and her eyeslookeddullandsleepy,shewassittingup.Herskinwas lessyellow,andonlylightlyspeckledfromtheresidueofherrash.

Claude,Will,andIgrinnedateachotherfrombehindourpapermasks.Thethreeofuswerealsowearingplasticshowercaps,long-sleevedhospitalgowns,rubbergloves, andelastic-edgedbooties.Themasksconstantly slippedoffournosesnomatterhowcreativelywe tied thembehindourheads.Hannahcalledthe outfits “space suits.” Everyone, except her, had towear one.Her immunesystemwasstillsocompromisedthattheslightestinfectioncouldkillher.

It felt so good to be together. I felt as if my cup was running over.Everything that would have seemed ordinary a month ago now seemed asmiraculous as a resurrection.Claude seemed to think so, too.Hewashoppingforwardandbackward,tippinghiscamera,snappingpictures.

“Ican’twaittoshoweveryonehowgreatshelooks,”Claudesaid.“Hey,youtwo,”IsaidtoWillandHannah,“DaddyandIhavesomenewsto

sharewithyou.”Thetwoofthemlookedup.Claudereachedformyhandandsqueezed.“Ourfamilyisgoingtohaveanewbaby.”“When?”WillandHannahcriedinunison.“InJuly,”Claudesaid.Thetwoofthemsquealedandhuggedeachother.“Wow,” saidWill, “this is the bestChristmas present ever.Hannah, don’t

youthinkitwouldbereallycoolifit’sababybrother?”Hannahfrowned.“Idon’t think thatwillwork,Will,”shesaid.“Iwant to

namehimBriarRose,sohehastobeagirl.”“Well,ifhisnameisBriarRose,Ihopehe’sagirl,too,”Willsaid.WhileClaude continued to takemore pictures, I letmy eyes and heart be

filled with all the joy in the room. What we were sharing could never becaptured on the surface of a glossy photograph. This joy didn’t need to be

documented;italreadyhadapermanenthomeinourhearts.

CommunionwithDr.Tomato-headABOUTAWEEKAFTERCHRISTMAS,HANNAH’STRANSPLANTdoctorenteredherroomwithbignews.

“Youcanhaveanythingyouwanttoeatfordinnertonight,Hannah-banana,”Dr.Tomato-headsaid.

Dr.Tomato-head’srealnamewasDr.Brockstein.HannahhadstartedcallinghimDr.Tomato-headwhenheinsistedoncallingherHannah-banana.

Hewas obviously pleasedwith his generous offer. Hannah looked at himthoughtfully.ShewaswearingherChristmasdresswithherredshoes.

“It’strue,Hannah,”Isaid.“Yourbodyhasworkedreallyhardtogetstrongenoughforyoutobeabletoeatagain.Youcanhaveanythingyouwant.”

Shescrewedupherfaceandtappedthesideofherheadwithherfinger.“Hmmm…” she said, closing her eyes to think. “Do you have any hard

rolls?”sheasked.ThedoctorandIlookedateachother,surprised.“Ithinkwedo,”hesaid,“andifwedon’t,we’llgetsome.”“Thankyou,”Hannahsaid,foldingherhandsinherlap.“Isthatallyouwant?”heasked.“No,actually,there’sonemorething,”Hannahsaid.Dr.Tomato-head’sface

brightenedwithobviousrelief.“Iwouldlikesomegrapejuice,too,please.”“Areyousurethat’sall?”heasked,hisbrowslightlywrinkledinconfusion.

“Youcouldhavepizza,icecream,chocolatechipcookies…anything!”Hannahpeeredathim,slightlyannoyednow.“Iwantahard rollandgrape juice,”shesaid,holdingherhandsout,palm

sideupinexasperation,“likeCommunionatchurch,”sheadded,asifitweresoobviousthatweweredoltsfornotseeingit.

Sheturnedtome.“Mom,willyouhelpmetakeoffmydress?Idon’twanttospilljuiceonit.”

Tenminutes later,Dr.Tomato-head, twonurses, and IwatchedasHannahslowly and thoughtfully tore the roll into pieces and dipped each one into theglassofgrapejuicebeforeputtingitinhermouth.Oblivioustous,shechewed,swallowed,andstaredsilentlyintotheslipoftwilightskyoutsideherwindow.I

wantedtokneelinfrontofherandkissherfeet.Two hours later, she rang the nurses and asked for sliced tomatoes with

mustard.

ChangeofMind,ChangeofHeartHANNAH’S HEAD WAS NOW COMPLETELY BALD; THE LAST few wisps of hair hadfinallydroppedoff.Wehadbeeninthetransplantunitforfourandahalfweeks.Bothofushadhadenough;weweremorethanreadytogohome.

Ihandedheraredplasticcup,filledwithapplejuice.Shetookasip.“Nope,it’snotright,”shesaid,handingitbacktome.I couldn’t believe it. I hadbeendoing it, at her request, the sameway for

days:applejuiceintheredcup,milkinthegreen,Pepsiintheyellow,andwaterintheblue.

“It’snotright,”sherepeated,lookingevenlyatme.“Whichoneisn’tright?”Iasked.“Allofthem,”shesaid.I wanted to throw the whole lot against the wall. I breathed slowly and

counted to ten. Usually, it was my greatest joy to let Hannah decide whichbeverageshewanted ineachcup.Whilesomepeopleseemedconcerned that Imightbespoilingher,Ididn’tagree.IsawitasawaytopreservesomesenseofHannah’sdignity.Somany thingswere literallybeing forceddownher throat,sheneededtohavecontroloversomething.Today,though,Ifeltmoreexhaustedthanwilling.

“Hannah,thisisexactlythewayyou’veaskedmetodoiteveryotherday.”“I know,” she said, foldingher handsonher lap, “but today,” shepaused,

and leaned forward, drawing her words out as if she were speaking to aparticularlythick-headedchild,“Ichangedmymind.”

MyexasperationmeltedawayasIthrewmyheadbackandlaughed.Shehadsaiditasifchangingone’smindandrunningtheriskofpissingsomeoneoffwasanewconcepttome.Shewasright;itwas.

SavageJoyNOWTHATHERCOUNTSWEREHIGHENOUGH,HANNAHWASallowedtoventureoutofherroom.Nolongercontenttostrollorwander,whatshelovedmostthesedayswasspeed.

“Let’sgoforaride,”Hannahsaid.Wepulledherbikefromitsparkingspotundertheanteroomsinkandpushed

it into the center of the hall. The two-wheeler was hot pink and purple andsportedapairof trainingwheels.TheMake-A-WishFoundationhad left it forher onChristmasEve.Hannah stuffed her pink blanket into the basket on thefrontandclimbedontotheseat.Igaveheraslightpush.Stretchingherlegsasfar as they could reach, she began to pedal. As she picked up speed on thelinoleumfloor, I ranalongbesideher, the IVpolecareening.Thebike rockedfromsidetoside,itssparklinghandlebarstreamersflying.

“Hangon,Hannah,”Ishriekedassheliftedbothhandstowavetothenursesatthenurses’station,whogrinnedandwavedaswepassed.

“You’regoingtowearyourmomout,Hannah!”oneofthemcried.Hannah threwher head back and laughed. I laughed, too. Itwasmore joy

thanIcouldfitinmyhearttoseeherhavingsomuchfun.“Lookoutbelow!” she shoutedaswe rounded thecornerby theelevators.

Shecoastedtoastopandhoppedoffherbiketoturnitaround.AsIuntangledandreadjustedtheIVtubesforthereturnlap,Inoticedasmallcrowdofpeopleweepingandwhisperingoutsideararelyusedroomattheendofthehall.

“What’shappeningdownthere?”Iaskedanursewhohadbrokenawayfromthegroupandwalkedtowardme.

“Thelittleboyinthatroomwashitbyacarthismorningandjustdied,”shesaidsoftly.

IfeltasifIhadbeenpunchedinthestomachand,atthesametime,luckyina way that I would have hated to admit out loud. I couldn’t imagine losingHannah todeathsosuddenlyandunexpectedly,without time toprepareherormyself forwhatwascoming,without a chance to savorevery lastdropofherbeforeshewasgone.Hadthisboy’sparentsevenhadachancetosaygood-bye?

NomatterhowintenseandfrighteningthemonthssinceHannah’sdiagnosishad been, I felt grateful for every moment I had shared with her. Even the

darkest ones had contained slivers of savage joy. I now knew that there wassomething simple yet exquisite about the gift of time; time to savor, time toremember,timetosaygood-bye.

NurseKatieandtheTeaPartyHANNAHANDICAMEHOMETHEFIRSTWEEKINJANUARY.Shereturnedtopreschoolaweek later,wearingherChristmasdressandablackvelvethatwithagarishpinkbow thatkept slippingoffherbaldheadandknocking thepaperhospitalmaskoffhernose.Herfriendsatschoolhadexclaimedoverherdressandhardlyseemedtonoticeherlackofhair.

Today,HannahwaswearingherChristmasdressagain,because,asshehadexplainedtome,“thisisavery,veryspecialoccasion.”NurseKatiewascomingfortea.

KatiewasoneofHannah’sfavoritenurses;sheworkedatthehospitalwhereHannahhadhersurgeries.Inherearlytwenties,barelyfivefeettall,withshortdarkhairanddancingeyes,KatiehadneverseemeddistractedbysomethingelsewhenshewaswithHannah.ShealwaysseemedtogenuinelycarehowHannahwasdoing,andwasnevertoobusytobesilly.

ThetwoofthemusedtoplaytheirfavoritegameeverytimeKatiecameintoHannah’shospitalroom.

“IsthereanythingIcangetforyou,littleMissHannah?”Katiewouldbegin,tryingtolookasseriousasshecould.Hannahwouldgrinandfoldherhandsinherlap.

“Yes,thereis,”shewouldsay,barelyabletofinishthesentencebeforesheburstoutlaughing.“NurseKatie,couldIpleasehaveatomatie?”

KatiewouldleantowardHannahand,inasolemn,seriousvoice,say,“I’mso sorry,ma’am, but theKaties have eaten all the tomaties, althoughwe stillhaveplentyofbananasforlittleMissHannahs.”

Now, Hannah was setting the tea party table herself.Walking slowly andcarefully, she carried an eclectic assortmentof chinaplates andcups, one at atime, from the kitchen to the coffee table in the living room. She ordered thecupsandplatesintoalopsidedcircleandsetawhiteplasticdaisyandvasefromherBarbie teaset in thecenter.Three leftoverbirthdaynapkins,aWinnie-the-PoohandtwoLittleMermaids,werejoinedbyonethatsaid“HappyNewYear,”linedupendtoend“sowecanseethepicturesonthem,”Hannahexplained.

Shehaddecidedweshouldpourtheteafromthe“grown-ups’”pot.TheonefromherBarbiesetwasalreadystuffedwithanimpressivecollectionofBand-

Aids.Becauseweusedsomanyof them,wehadbecomeaficionados.Buyinganything but the “regular” ones, we now had boxes of them in every size,pattern,andcolor.

As IwatchedHannah arrange and rearrange the items on the table, I heldmyselfbackfrommakinganysuggestions. Itwasn’teasy.Therewasapartofme,Irealized,thatwasoverlycriticalofeverything,thatwantedtoteachpeople,especiallymychildren,aboutthe“right”waytodothings.

Hannahwassmilingandhumming,everyonce inawhilesteppingback tosurvey her work. She was in no hurry, and seemed completely unconcernedaboutthewayateapartyis“supposed”tolook.Iwatchedherquietly,savoringthejoyshewasexperiencingandthecareshewasgivingtoeverythingthatshewasdoing.Ilongedtobringthesameattentiontothebusy-nessinmyeveryday,todosomethingsimplyforthejoyofdoingit,withoutworryingwhetherpeoplenoticedorlikedit.

Joy, I realized then, is not concerned about being messy, mismatched, orunloved.IfIwasseriousaboutlivinglifemorefully,Iwasgoingtohavetoletgoofmyneedforeverything,includingmyselfandothers,tobeperfect.

JoyinaJeepIHADTAKENDOWNTHECURTAINSANDOPENEDALLTHEwindows,lettingthewarmspring breeze chase winter’smustiness out of the house. Claudewas outside,rakingandseedingtheyard.WillandHannahwerehelpingmewipewoodworkandfurniturewithslipperylemonoil.Wemadeourwaythroughthedownstairsand had just started on Will’s room when I heard a vehicle pull into ourdriveway, its horn honking loudly. I didn’t even have to look to knowwho itwas.Thekidsdidn’t,either.

“PastorLJ,”theyscreamed,runningtothewindow.I heard Laurajane’s laugh and got to the window just in time to see her

blowingkissesfromthefrontseatofhertopless,brightredjeep.“Hey,thatlookscool,”Willsaid,leaningdangerouslyoutthewindow.“It is cool.” Laurajane laughed. She lifted her Phillies cap off her head.

“Hey,whatareyouguysdoing?Canyougoforaride?”“We’recleaning,”Hannahsaid,holdingherdustragupforLaurajanetosee.“Cleaning???”Laurajaneshrieked,asWillandHannahlaughed.“Youtell

yourmomthereisabsolutely,positivelynocleaningallowedonabeautifuldaylike this. You two get down here right away and tell your mom she’d bettercome,too!”

Will and Hannah dropped their cloths and flew down the stairs, throwingthemselvesintoLaurajane’sarms.Plantingaloudkissoneachoftheircheeks,sheliftedthemoverthesideofthejeepandbuckledbothofthemin.Asthefourof us backed down the driveway, Laurajane beeped the horn. Claude paused,grinned,andwaved.

Thesunwashigh in theskyandwarmonour faces.Laurajanesteppedonthegas.

“Faster!”Hannahyelledfromthebackseatasthewindwhippedthroughtheopenjeep.

LaurajaneandIglancedateachotherandgrinned.Hereyeswerebrightandwild. I knew mine were, too. Laurajane stepped on the gas. The jeep shotforward.We allwhoopedwith glee. Thiswas themost fun I’d had in a longtime.

“Hey,Mom!”Hannahscreamed.“Icanfeelthewindinmyhair!”

I spun around to look.Sure enough, I could see it for the first time in thebrightsunlight.Hannah’sbaldheadwasnowcoveredwiththeslightestbrushofdown,andeverywispofitwasstandingonendinthestiffbreeze.Hannahranherhandsoverherscalp.

“Ihavehair,”shescreamed.“Ihavehair!”“Yahoo!”Willwhooped,leaningacrosstheseattogiveherahug.Istartedtocry.Laurajanedid,too.Imouthedthewords“Thankyou,thankyou.”Shereachedacrossthefrontseatandgavemyhandasqueeze.Aswehurtled

aroundabend,Hannahshriekedagain.“PastorLJ,Mommy.That’swhereI’mgoingtolive!”Ilookedwhereshewaspointing.There,onthecorner,wasthepinkesthouse

I had ever seen; every inch of it was painted light rose, except for its deepmaroontrim.

“Yuck,Hannah,”Willyelled.“Thathouseistotallypink!”Hannahgiggledandscreamedinhisear.“I’mgoingtohaveapinkcarwith

notoponit,too.”Willshookhisheadandrolledhiseyes.“Girls,”hesaid.

NothingSpecialSUNSETLICKEDLIGHTFROMTHESKY.ITHADBEENanotherwarmspringday.Theairsmelled ripe andmuddy.Claude and I held hands andwalkedwhileWill andHannah ran ahead. Iwas now sixmonths pregnant, and I could feel the babyshiftandsettleintotherhythmofmystride.

Will’s friend David was in the driveway of his house, playing basketballwithhisdad.AlanandClaudehadcoachedaLittleLeague team togetherandsometimes played pickup games of basketball with other dads on Tuesdayevenings. David’s little brother Michael, who was a few months older thanHannah,wassquattinginthefrontyard,pokingastickintothedirt.WillcuppedhishandsandshoutedtoDavid,whogrinnedandhurledalongpasstohim.Willcaughttheball,dribbledtothehoop,andmissed.Hannah,meanwhile,foundastickandjoinedMichaelinthedirt.AlansawClaudeandmeandwaved.BythetimeClaude and I reached them,Alan, ducking andwheeling around the twoolderboys,hadfakedafewmissesofhisown.

“Ineedsomehelphere,buddy,”hecalledout.Claudelaughedandjoinedin.MaryAnn,Alan’swife,pokedherheadoutthe

frontdoor.“Iwaswonderingwhatallthecommotionwasabout,”shesaid,grinning.Shemotionedformetojoinheronthefrontstep.“Hey,Michael,”sheshouted.“Whatareyoutwoupto?”“We’relookingforbugs,”Hannahsaid.“Andworms,”Michaeladded.“Yeah,andworms,”Hannahsaid.“Oh,great,”MaryAnn said, rollingher eyes. “Iguess thatmeansa second

bathforbothofyoutonight.”Itwas right then that ithappened. Itwassuchastrangeandglorious thing

thatifIhadn’texperienceditmyself,Iwouldn’thavebelieveditwaspossible.IforgotthatHannahwassick!

Iwasn’tevenawareofhavingforgotten.ItwasasifIhadbeensuckedoutofthestoryofcancer,treatment,worry,anddeath.Hannahwasplayinginthedirt,andIwasvisitingwithafriend.Itwasamomentofnothingspecial,ofnothinggoingon.

Inaflash,whateverhadsuckedmeupspitmeoutagain.Evenso,somethingfeltdifferent.AlthoughIrememberednowthatHannahwassick,somepartofthestillnesshadremained.

Later,Isatonthefrontporch, in theresidueof thatstillness,peelingawaythe layersofnight sky. Inoticed first themoths,beating theirpowderybodiesagainstthebulboftheporchlight,thenbats,withaerialprecision,whiffingpast.Beyond the bats, the moon, with its huge, unblinking face, then the planetsflickeringandgalaxiesspinningonanendlesscarpetofstars.

Listeningtothenight,Ifeltpoisedontheedgeofgreatness,certainthatthesilenceIwasfeelingwasGod.

CelebrateIHEARDHANNAHPADDINGUPTHESTAIRS. IOPENEDMYeyesandstretched.Itwastime togetup. Iheard the shower running;Claudehadmanaged togetoutofbedwithoutwakingme.Godblesshim.

Thedoortoourbedroomburstopen.“Mommy,”Hannahcried,“isn’tthisagreatdaytobealive?”Shehadstoppedinthedoorway,bright-eyedandbeaming,herpinkblanket

draggingbehindher.Apuffofinch-long,fineblondhairstuckouteverywhichwayonherhead.Hercheekswerefullandpink.Inoticed,forthefirsttime,thattheruffledhemofhernightgownnolongerpooledonthefloor.Icouldseetiny,pink-polishedtoenailswhereitbrushedthetopsofherfeet.AsIsmiledather,she let go of the doorknob and her blanket, ran across the room, and flungherselfonto thebed.Crawling towardme, sheburrowedunder the covers andnestledherheadinthespacebetweenmyneckandshoulder.

“Yes,Hannah,”Isaid,buryingmynoseinherhair.“Thisisagreatdaytobealive.”

JOYISTHEMAGICandstillnessthatstandonthethresholdofeverymoment,theexperience of giving and living fully, without expecting anything in return.Becausejoyknowsnorules,itisn’tafraidtobeimperfect,anditcansurpriseuseveninthedarkestplaces.

Faith

from“mywillbedone”to“thywillbedone”

Everytimethatwesay‘Thywillbedone,’weshouldhaveinmindallpossible

misfortunesaddedtogether.

—SimoneWeil

ThyWill(andMine)BeDoneITWASAGLORIOUSSPRINGDAY,AWEEKBEFOREEASTER.HannahandIhaddecidedtowalktochurch.Willhadriddenhisbikeahead,andClaude,whohadsleptin,saidhewouldjoinuslater.HannahandIheldhands.Bulbsandbuds,dormantallwinter,werebursting into life.Onemagnolia tree, inparticular, caughtmyeye. It was taller than the houses on either side; its branches, covered inenormouswhite-and-purpleblooms,stretchedupward,intoforever.

“Mommy,”Hannahsaid,pointingtoit,“thosearetheflowersI’mgoingtohaveatmywedding!”

“They’rebeautiful,Hannah,”Isaid,exhalingaprayerforittobetrue.“Whoareyougoingtomarry?”

“Daddy,yousilly.”Hannahlaughed.These days, Hannah looked too healthy to be sick. She had already worn

throughherfirstpairofredshoes,andwhenwewenttoreplacethem,herfootwasahalf-sizebigger. In the threeandahalfmonthssinceher transplant,ourlives had once again settled into a deceptively normal routine. I wanted tobelieve it was going to last, but I smelled the not-knowing in the air. Dr.KamalakerhadscheduledaroutineX-rayandCTscanforthefollowingweek.

Sittinginchurch,IstaredatthehugecrossthathungfromtheceilingbehindLaurajane. Ihadneverappreciatedmore fully theChristianstoryof theEasterresurrection. If God was capable of raising Jesus from the dead, couldn’t HesaveHannah,too?

AndifHecould,whatwasHewaitingfor?“Thywillbedone,”Iprayedfromthebottomofmyheart,knowingevenasI

saiditthatwhatIwasreallytrustingwasthatHiswillwasalsomyown.

SayYesCLAUDE’SSNORESWERECOMINGFROMHANNAH’SROOM;thetwoofthemhadfallenasleephalfwaythroughherbedtimestory.Willwaswaitingformetotuckhimin,andIknewwhy.

Less than a week ago, a few days after Easter, Dr. Kamalaker had slid apieceof filmunder theclipofa lightboardandpointed to the spotwhere thecancerhadmetastasized.At the timeofHannah’s transplant,ClaudeandIhadmadeacommitmentnottosubjecthertoanymoretreatments,butthatwasthen;weaskedDr.Kamalakertoscheduleanothersurgeryimmediately.

Early this morning, Claude had loaded our suitcases, Hannah’s andmine,intotheminivanforthetriptothehospital.IhadwalkedWilltohisfriendJeff’shouse, given him a kiss, and reminded him that Liliwould pick him up afterschool.Butwhen schoolwas over, Liliwas not there;Claude,Hannah, and Iwerewaitinginstead.

Now, asWill tossedhis pile of stuffed animals onto the other twinbed tomake room forme, I could seehehadbeencrying.Easingmypregnantbodynexttohim,Igatheredhimintomyarms.

“Oh, Muffin,” I said, kissing the top of his head, savoring his little-boysoftness.

“Mom,”hesaid,hisvoicemuffledagainstmychest,“whydidn’tthedoctorsdoHannah’ssurgery?”

Part ofmewas desperate to avoid this conversation, but I knewWillwastrustingmetobehonestwithhim,andhedeservedtoknow.

“Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “Hannah’s lump is in adifferentplacethistime.IthasgrownveryclosetoHannah’sspinalcordandiswrappedaroundsomeveryimportantveins.Thedoctorscan’ttakethisoneout.”

“But,Mom,”Willcried, liftinghishead to lookatme,“can’t theyat leasttakeoutpartofit?”Hepaused.“Iftheydon’t,”hesaidslowlyanddeliberately,“Hannah’sgoingtodie.”

Myeyesfilledwithtears.Itookabreathandchokedthemback.IwantedtobewithWillinhispain.Ididn’twanttooverwhelmhimwithmyown.

“Thetruthis,Will,”Isaid,pickingmywayslowlythroughthedarknessthatwasthreateningtoengulfme,“nomatterwhatwedo,thedoctorsthinkHannah

onlyhasafewmonthstolive.Ifwedosurgery,eventotakesomeofthelumpout,itmeansHannahwillbeinalotmorepainbetweennowandwhenshediesthanifwedonothing.”

Willthrewhisarmsaroundmyneckandsobbed.Ifeltasifmyheartmightdrowninhispain.Wavesofangersurgedthroughme.Wasn’titenoughforGodthat Hannah was going to die? Did He have to take Will’s six-year-oldinnocence,too?

From infancy,Will had seemedmore mature than other kids his age, butnow, I would have given anything for him to know much less than he did.Monthsbefore,whenHannahfirstgotsick,Ihadgivenhimablankjournalandencouragedhimtodrawhisfeelingsinit.Foralongtime,hehadn’tmadeanyentries.Recently, though,hehadbegun tosharesomeofhispictureswithme.TheearliestonesweremostlyintricatesketchesofwoundedorbleedingbaseballplayersorAmerican Indians,but justbeforeEasterhehaddrawnanelaboratecross alongside what looked like a war memorial with an American flag.Underneath,hehadcarefullyprintedHannah’sname.

“Iamsosorry,Will,”IsaidwhenIfinallyfeltabletospeak.“IwishIcouldhave toldyouanythingelse,but Ibelieveyoudeserve toknow the truth.Thatway,youhavethesamechancethatDadandIhavetoappreciateHannahwhileshe’shere.”

“It’sjustnotfair,”Willcried,shakinghisfistsintheair.“Hannahwantstobeabigsistersomuch.Isshegoingtolivelongenoughtoseeournewbaby?”

“Idon’tknow,Will,” I said,amazedbyhowmuchhehadalready thoughtthrough.“TheonlythingIknowtodoispraythatshedoes.”

“I have been praying,Mom,”Will cried, “but how can God expect us tobelieveinHimifHe’sgoingtoletHannahdie?I’llhateHimifHedoes.”

I nodded, admiring his courage for having said it out loud, but offering aprayertoGodjustincase.Iwasfeelinglessandlesssureofmyfaith.Iwasn’tabouttoruntheriskofpissingHimoff.

“Mom, does Hannah know she’s going to die?” Will asked, his sobssubsiding.

“I’mnotsure,butIthinkshedoes,”Itoldhim.“Well, I don’t want anyone to tell her, because I don’t want her to be

scared.”“I can appreciate that, Will,” I told him, “but I also believe that if Hannahdoesn’talreadyknow,she’sgoingtofigureitout.Ifsheasksme,I’llhavetotellherthetruth.Idon’twanthertoknowshe’sgoingtodieandnotbeabletotalk

tosomeoneaboutit.”Will thought foramoment. “Yeah, Iguess that’sokay,”he finallyagreed.

“ButMom,whenyouknowthatHannahknows,willyoutellme?Iwanthertobeabletotalktomeaboutit,too.”

“It’sadeal,”Isaid,hugginghim.Hewasquiet.“Mom, if all of our grandmas and grandpas are still alive,who isHannah

goingtoknowinheaven?”“Hmm,”Isaid,shakingmyhead,“that’sagoodquestion.”Ipaused.“Well,

yourgreat-grandparentsareinheaven,right?”“Yes,butHannahprobablywon’tknowthem.”“Iguessthat’strue,”Isaid,thinkingasfastasIcould.“IwonderifBub,our

kittythatdied,willbethere?”Willrestedhischininthepalmofhishandandstaredintospace.“Yes,IthinkBubwillbethere,”hesaidfinally,“andIguess,ifyoubelieve

theBible,Jesuswillbethere,too.”Hesoundedskeptical.“Don’t forget the babies you miscarried, Mom,” he added, his eyes wide

openwithexcitementatthethought.“Eventhoughwenevermettheminperson,they’reourbrothersandsisters,too.Wow,that’scool!Hannah’sgoingtogettomeetthembeforewedo!”

Hethrewhisarmsaroundme.“Thanks,Mom.Ifeelalotbetter.”Hewasquietforamoment.Iwaited.“Actually,Mom, I’mglad you toldme,” he said finally. “You know how

HannahalwayswantstosleepinmyotherbedandusuallyIsayno?Well,fromnowon,I’mgoingtosayyeswheneversheasks.”

HealingServiceHypocriteCLAUDE,WILL,HANNAH,ANDIFOLLOWEDLAURAJANEDOWN thecenteraisletothechairsthathadbeenreservedinthefrontrow.Hannahwaswearinghernewred-and-pink-flowered Easter dress, white tights, and her red patent leatherMaryJanes.Sheheldmyhandwhilewewalked,barelyabletocontainherexcitement;she knew this servicewas for her.Will, looking handsome and serious in hisfreshlyironedshirt,bluejacket,tie,andcrisplycreasedchinos,followedbehindwithClaude.Hiscrewcuthadgrownout,andalthoughhishairwasstillshort,he had spent a lot of time in front of the bathroom mirror earlier, parting,wetting,andcombingit.

Aswereachedourseats,Iturnedtolookatthecongregation.Thesanctuarywasfilled,mostlywithpeopleweknew.Thecrowdhadfallensilentwhenweentered, their hush respectful and curious. I was grateful for the attention.Hannah’scancerwasnowthecenterofmyworld;Iappreciatedthat,atleastinthismoment,itseemedtobethecenterofeveryoneelse’s,too.

The news of Hannah’s inoperable tumor had shaken our community. SomanypeoplehadaskedLaurajanewhattheycoulddotohelpthatshethoughtofofferingahealingserviceforHannahatourchurch.WhenshefirsttoldClaudeandmeaboutit,Iwasn’tsureitwasagoodidea.AlthoughIlovedtheideaofpeoplegatheringtosupportoneanother,Iwasafraidthatcallingita“healing”servicewouldcreateimpossibleexpectations.Tome,“healing”meantacure;Ididn’t want anyone to consider Hannah, Laurajane, or themselves a failure ifHannahdied.

IwasworriedaboutLaurajane,too,concernedthatshewasputtingtoomuchpressure on herself, perhaps even challenging God. I remembered ourconversationintheintensivecareunit,whenshehadwonderedabouthowwellsheknewHim,whethershewasup to the taskofbeingaminister. Ihated thethoughtofheroranyoneelseusingHannahasatestcasefortheirfaith.

I also believed that, nomatterwhatwe did, prayerwas not going to saveHannah.

Still, sittingat the frontof thechurch, Icould feelagenuinesenseof loveandcarecomingfromeveryone in the room.IwishedIdidn’t feel likesuchahypocrite in theirmidst. Glancing over at Claude, his fists clenched, his eyes

tightlyclosed,tearsslidingdownhischeeks,IworriedthathemightaccusemeofpoisoningthewholepotifheknewwhatIwasthinking;Ialsoworriedthathewouldberight.Forthefirsttimeinhislife,ClaudehadbeenreadingtheBibleandprayingeveryday.IknewhewouldletSatansucktheheartoutofhischestifitwouldsaveHannah’slife.Myfaithfelthollowandsmallcomparedtohis.

Theorganist started toplay,andeveryonestood tosing.Hannah tuggedatthehemofmydress.

“Pickmeup,Mom,”shesaid.“Iwanttoseewho’shere.”Liftingherontomyhip,Ibalancedthehymnalonmyburgeoningbelly.Will

took the book from my hand and held it up for me to see. I smiled at himgratefully.

“Oh,Mommy, look,”Hannahwhispered loudly, peering andpointingovermyshoulder,“there’sNurseAmy,Dr.Kamalaker,Dr.Edman,andDr.Markoff…andMrs.FisherandMrs.Forsythe, JackieandJeffand theirmomanddad…”

Shesquirmedandtwistedtogetabetterview.Laurajanebeganhermessage,but it was hard for me to hear. Hannah was still whispering the names ofeveryonesherecognizedinmyear.Finally,whenLaurajanebegantorecitetheLord’sPrayer,Hannahpaused.Turningtofacethecross,sheclaspedherhands,bowed her head, and in a loud, clear voice, recited the prayerword forword.Hearingher,Ifeltproudandoddlyreassured.IfHannahwasgoingtodie,surelyitwouldcountforsomethingthatsheknewtheLord’sPrayer.

Itwastimeforthechildrentosing.HannahandWilljoinedtheothersonthecarpetedstepsatthefrontofthechurchforarousingrenditionof“JesusLovesMe.”Will stoodproudlyandprotectivelybehindHannah, restinghishandsonher shoulders. I felt proud of the two of them, and grateful to see so manychildren at this service. It seemed a fitting tribute to the way that Hannah’sillnesshadn’tbeenhushedupandtuckedawayasifbeingsickweresomethingtobeafraidorashamedof.

Rick,oneofthemoreconservativemembersofourcongregation,stoodandasked for a microphone.My smile froze on my face. Every cell in my bodyscreamed“Warning,warning.”Rickstartedspeaking.

“Godiscapableofworkingamiracle,righthere,rightnow.”Thiswas exactlywhat I’d been afraid of.Our faithwas being hijacked; it

wasallontheline.Ibreatheddeeplyintomyrisingpanic,andletmyselfhearRick’swords.

“… Love,” he said, “is the source of all healing.” I exhaled and felt my

resistancebegintoslipaway.Hemotionedforustocomeuptothealtar.Hannahbouncedoutofherseat.

Shewaslovingbeingthecenterofattention.Willfollowedclosebehind,ClaudeandImoreslowly.Laurajanestood,placingherhandsontopofHannah’shead.Hannah closed her eyes. Offering a prayer for Hannah’s healing, LaurajaneinvitedClaude,Will, andme to join her.When all four of us had placed ourhandsonHannah’shead,Rickmotionedforeveryoneinthesecondrowtocomeup.Theygathered inacirclearoundLaurajane,Claude,Will, andme,placingtheirhandsonourshoulders.Graduallyeveryoneinthesanctuaryroseandcametothefrontofthechurch,formingcirclesaroundcircles.

While death is inevitable, knowing you are loved is not. When I sawHannah’s radiant face in the center of that circle, I realized that healing canhappen even without a cure. No matter when Hannah died, she would dieknowing that her life hadmattered, that shewas completely loved. I couldn’timagineamoreprofoundhealingthanthat.

…AndtheCowJumpedovertheMoonAFEWDAYSLATERAPACKAGEARRIVED,ADDRESSEDTO“MissHannahMartell.”Itwas from someone in Colorado. Curious. I didn’t think we knew anyone inColorado.Hannahunwrappedandopenedit.

“Oh,look,Mommy,”shesaid,“it’sthecowjumpingoverthemoon!”She lifted a beautiful, child-size quilt into the air forme to see. Itwas an

exquisite piece of work. The fabric on one side was cream with light pinkflowers and moss-colored ivy. The other side was a delightful patchwork ofgreen, orange, lavender, and pink, surrounded by a borderwith green, purple,and blue cows leaping over crescent moons and white stars in a pink sky.Someonehadputagreatdealoftimeandeffortintomakingit.Iwonderedwho.

At the bottomof the boxwas amanila envelope containing a handwrittennote and a cassette tape. I scanned the note and then ran to the garagewhereClaudewaschangingtheoilinhiscar.

“Read this,” I said breathlessly, handing him the note and the tape. Hefrowned andwiped his hands on a towel. Iwatched his eyes scan the note asmine had done and then return to the beginning, taking his time. Halfwaythrough,hestartedtocry.

The note was from one of Claude’s cousins, someone he hadn’t seen inyears. She told us that when she first heard that Hannah was sick, she haddecided she would make a quilt for her. As the months passed, her life hadbecomebusierandherheartheavier;shehadbeguntothinkshewouldnevergettofinishthequiltbeforeHannahdied.Then,aweekagolastSunday,shewrote,shehadgonetochurch.Assoonastheservicewasover,anelderlywomansherecognizedbutdidn’tknowhadapproachedher.

“Iknowyoudon’tknowme,” thewoman said,handingClaude’s cousinapackage,“butforsomereasonIcan’texplain,IknowIneedtogivethistoyou.”

Shecontinued,“Imakequilts,andsometimeago,Ifeltcompelledtomakethisone.It’sforayoungchild;that’sallIknow.ThewholetimeIwasmakingit,Iwaswonderingwhoseitwas.Istilldon’tknow,butasIsat inchurchlastweek,somethingtoldmethatyoudo.”

Claude’scousinstartedtocry.ShetoldthewomanthestoryofHannahandthequiltshewaswantingtogiveher.Thenthewomanstartedtocry, too.ThestorywassoextraordinarythatClaude’scousinhadgonehomeandrecordedthedetailsofitontothetapeshehadincludedwiththequiltinthebox,“justincase,whenyoutellthestory,peopledon’tbelieveyou.”

Holding the tape inmyhand, I realized Ididn’thave toproveanything tomyselforanyoneelse.SuddenlyIunderstoodthereadingIhadheardsoofteninchurch: “Faith is the substanceof thingshoped for, theevidenceof thingsnotseen.”Thequilt’spresenceatthefootofHannah’sbedwasenoughevidenceforme.

Mother’sDayHANNAHWASSTANDINGNEXTTOTHEOAKTABLEINOURfronthall,holdingaplateofNoah’sArk cookies. Someone had left a box of them, stillwarm from theoven,onourporch thedaybefore.Theywere sugar cookies,perfect forus tobringtothepreschoolMother’sDayTea.Iwasholdingacamcorder,capturingthemomentonvideo.Thecamera, likemy journal,hadbeendocumenting thepastyearofHannah’slifeinfitsandstarts.Hannah’sdiagnosisandsubsequentrelapses hadprompted flurries of photoops and journal entries thatwere thenfollowedbylong,dormantperiodswhen,lulledbytheapathyofroutine,Iwouldbegintofeelthattherewouldalwaysbemoretime.Iknewdifferentlynow.

Hannah set the plate on the table andwipedher hands on the front of herdress.

“HowdoIlook,Mommy?”sheasked.“Youlookbeautiful,Missy,”Isaid.Hercheekswererosy,hereyesbright.Shehadbeenspendingsomuchtime

outside that theMaysunhadalready tannedherskin.Thesedays,peoplewhodidn’tknowuswerecomplimentingHannahonher“haircut.” Itwasstillveryshort, but it had grown in enough to lie flat on her head, like Tinkerbell’s inDisney’sPeterPan.Herdress,printedwith tinypurpleviolets,hadanEmpirewaist, a large lace collar, and amatchingheadband.She smiled at the cameraandpattedthebowoftheheadband.

“Seemyhair andmyhair bow,” she said, “andmydress,” she continued,smoothing the frontof it,“andmy tightsandmyredshoes,”shesaid,holdingonelegout,likeaballerina,forthecameratosee.Sheletherarmshangathersidesforamomentandstaredsilentlyintothecamera.Thenshereachedforthecookies.

“Comeon,Mommy,wecan’tbelateforthetea.”Iturnedoffthecameraandkneeleddowntoarrangeitproperlyinitscase.

Hannahcameoverandstoodnexttome,drapingherarmaroundmyneck.“Youlookbeautiful,too,Mommy,”shesaid.“Thankyou,Missy,”Isaid,givingherahug.Earlierthatmorning,asIstoodinmyclosetwonderingwhattowear,Ihad

realizedthatthismightbeoneofthelastthingsIwoulddopubliclyasHannah’s

mother. I thought of all the ceremonies and graduations that I would neverattend,whenHannah’snamewouldneverbecalled.Idecidedtomakethemostofthisopportunity.WhileHannahsatontheedgeofmybed,IslippedthemostbeautifulmaternitydressIownedovermyhead.Itwasmadeofivoryandpeachsilk.Icarefullyappliedmymakeup,dottedmywristswithperfume,andplacedalightpinkhatwithawide,floppybrimonmyhead.Hannahclappedherhandstogetherandgasped.

“Mommy,that’sperfect,”shewhispered.IheardClaudecomingupthesteps,twoatatime,alreadylateforwork.He

peekedinthedoor.“JustwantedtogivemygirlsakissbeforeIleave,”hesaid.Then,noticing

ourfinery,hesmiledandletoutawhistle.Hannahsquealedandjumpedtothefloor.“Before you go, check how tall I am today,Daddy,” she said, standing as

straightasshecould,liftingherchintowardtheceiling.Claudelaughedandstoodbehindher,drawingtheflatofhishandacrossthe

topofherheadtoaspotjustabovethebuckleofhisbelt.“Whoa,Missy,”heexclaimed,asshe turnedtosee.“You’re taller thanmy

beltbuckletoday.”Hannahgiggledanddancedinfrontofhim.Itdidn’tseemtomattertoeither

of them that they had repeated the same routine every day for weeks. It wasalmost as if Hannah sensed Claude’s fierce resistance to thinking about herdeath.Theirtimetogetherwasaboutbeingsillyandhavingfun.

HannahwasgigglingnowasClaudescoopedherup.“Iloveyou,Missy,”hesaidsoftly.“Iloveyou,too,Daddy,”shesaid.HoldingHannah’shandaswewalked toschool, I felt soblessed tobeher

mom.HowwouldIeverbeabletolethergo?InspiteofmyinitialskepticismatthehealingserviceandthecertaintyinmyheartthatHannahwasgoingtodie,Icouldn’thelphopingforamiracle.Hope, I realizednow,was the irrepressiblesubstance of faith. It welled up naturally in response to fear and uncertainty,returningagainandagain,likealivingthing.

WaitingtoExhaleHANNAHWASSKIPPING INCIRCLESAROUNDTHEKITCHENwhile Iprepareddinner.ThewindowabovethesinkwasopentotheearlyJunebreeze.Theclanginglidonthesouppotandthesteamingsmellssuggestedallwaswell.

Iwasbeginning to think thedoctorswerewrong.Hannahdidn’t looksick.Shehadn’tsomuchassneezedinweeks.Herhair,whichlastmonthhadlainflatonherhead,hadgrownatleastaninchlongerandnowhadapersonalityofitsown;Claude called it “woollymammoth” hair because it stuckup andout allover. She was eating well, gaining weight, and getting taller; the hem of her“robe j’s” swung freely at her ankles now. She had even participated in herpreschoolOlympicsafewdaysearlier,theonlycompetitortoruninredpatentleathershoes.

For the first time inmonths, I had regained a sense of privacy inmy life.Although I felt grateful for everyone’s help while Hannah was sick, I hadsometimes felt as if my whole life was being lived in a storefront window.Friends and family had cleaned my house, rearranged my cupboards, andwashed my dirty underwear. During Hannah’s bone marrow transplant, notwantingtoleaveheralone,ClaudeandIhadmadelovestandingupinthetinybathroomconnectedtoHannah’shospitalroom.

OneofthewaysIhadfoundtomaintainasenseofmyselfwastowithholdtheextentofmypainfromothers. Ithadbeenoneofmyguiltiestpleasures totellpeoplethatIwas“fine”evenwhenIwasn’t.AlthoughIknewitwasn’tthetruth, it kept me from feeling like a gigantic wound that wouldn’t stophemorrhaging.Itwasmucheasiertosay,andpeoplelookedsorelievedwhenIdid.Lately,Ihadbeensayingthesamething,exceptthatnowIwasbeginningtobelieveit.

Istirredthesoup.SuddenlyHannahstoppedskippinganddoubledover.Shecoughedonce,twice,threetimes,thenstoodupandclearedherthroat.Irestedthe spoon on the edge of the stove, my brow creased with suspicion. A carhonked. A dog barked. Hannah’s sequined tutu sparkled in the late afternoonsun.Liftingaclenchedfisttohermouth,sheclearedherthroatoncemore.

“It’sokay,Mommy,”shesaidfinally.“Ijusthaveacoughthatwon’tcomeout.”

Herredshoesclickedacrossthelinoleum.Ibentdownandgatheredherup.She felt solidandstrong inmyarms. I inhaledher sweetness, cherry lollipopsandbabyshampoo,andlostmyselfinherembrace.Thesoup?Itboiledover.

Grandma’sPromiseMY MOTHER AND HANNAH WERE SITTING ON THE FLOOR OF Hannah’s room. TheBarbiedollboxwastippedupsidedown,spillingdolls,clothes,andtinypastelshoesacrosstherug.ThetwoofthemweredressingtheBarbiesforanoutingtotheBarbiemallthatHannahhadarrangedinacornerbythedoor.Hannahwasstillwearingherbathingsuit.Wehadspenttheafternoonatthepool,watchingWill,Grandpa,andUncleBencannonballandbelly-flopoffthedivingboards.

Ever sinceWillwas a year old, he had spent the firstweek of July at theCherryFestivalinTraverseCity,Michigan,withmyparents.Hehadbeggedtobeallowedtogoagainthisyear.Ihadnodoubtthatitwouldbegoodforhim.ClaudeandIweredoingourbesttogivehimloveandattention,butwecouldn’tdeny the fact that our focuswasmostly onHannah.Her health seemed to bedegeneratingslowlybutsteadily.Eachdayshetiredmorequicklyandcoughedmorefrequently.Iwastired,too.Mybodywasfullandheavywiththebabythatwasdueanyday.WhileHannahandIwerecontent tosleepandsnuggle,Willwasunderstandablyrestless.

Ihadstruggledwiththedecision.Ididn’twantWilltomissthebirthofourbaby,and Idefinitelywantedhim tobewithus forHannah’sdeath.Since thedoctorscouldn’ttellusexactlywheneitherofthesethingswasgoingtohappen,Ihadtotrustmyintuition.ClaudeandItookaleapoffaithandenlistedbothsetsofgrandparents tohelp.MyparentsandbrotherBenhadagreed todrive fromMichigan toNew Jersey to pickWill up, andClaude’s parents had agreed tobringhimbacktendayslater.

Hannahsetherdollonthefloorinfrontofherandlookedatmymother.“Willyoupromisemesomething,Grandma?”Hannahasked.“Sure,Hannah,”mymothersaid,focusingonthehalf-dressedBarbieonher

knee.“No,Grandma.Iwantyoutopromisemesomething,”Hannahsaidquietly.Mymotherlookedup.Hannah’seyeswereonher,intent,serious.“Yes,Hannah,”shesaid.“Anything.”Hannahwassilent.Mymotherwaited.“Grandma,”Hannah said finally, “Iwant you to promise that you’ll never

forgetme.”

My mother’s eyes filled with tears. Hannah’s were dry, resting on hergrandmother,waitingforherreply.

“Ipromise,Hannah.Iwillneverforget,”mymotherfinallysaid.

CircleofLifeIAWOKEJUSTBEFOREDAWNWITHLABORPAINS,KNOWINGthattodaywastheday.IcalledNurseKatie,who had offered to staywithHannahwhileClaude and Iwenttothehospital.TherewasnopointincallingWill.Heandhisgrandparentswerealreadyontheroad,headedbacktous.TheywerenotscheduledtoarriveinNewJerseyuntilthefollowingday.

Thestreetswerequietinthefirstlight.WhileClaudeloadedthecar,Iwroteout the instructionsforHannah’smedication.Fourdaysearlier,Dr.KamalakerhadstartedheronTylenolwithcodeine,butdespitethefactthatshewastakingit every four hours, Hannah could barely walk, she was in so much pain.Yesterday, we had called Pat, Hannah’s hospice nurse. She was scheduled tocometoourhousethiseveningtoinstructusonhowtogiveHannahmorphine.Inowhadmyfingerscrossedthatthisbabywouldbebornquickly,andwewouldbehomebythen.

Hannahwoke just asKatie arrived. I gave her a kiss as she crawled ontoKatie’slap.

“Callmeassoonasthebabycomes,”Hannahsaid.Afterfivebreathtakinghoursoflabor,MargaretRoseslid,wetandwailing,

intotheworld.Shewasbeautiful,almosteightpounds,withlotsofhair,sturdylegs, chubbycheeks, andperfect rosebud lips.Claudewipedhis eyeswith theback of his sleeve and couldn’t stop smiling. As I held my littlest girl, herslipperyskinagainstmine,foronelong,perfectmomentIwantednothingmore.

WhilethenurseswipedandwrappedMargaret,ClaudecalledHannah.“Congratulations, Hannah. You’re a big sister now,” Claude said. “Our

baby’snameisMargaretRose.”“Oh,goody,”Hannahsaid.“Agirl,justlikeBriarRose.Okay,tellMargaret

thatmeandNurseKatiewillbethererightaway.”“No, Hannah,” Claude interrupted, “you don’t need to come. The doctors

havesaidthatMomandMargaretarewellenoughtocomehometoday.YouandKatiecanwaitthere.We’llbehomeassoonaswecan.”

Anhourlater,standinginthehospitalnurserywatchingthenursesbatheandweigh Margaret, Claude heard someone banging wildly on the window. HelookeduptoseeHannahinKatie’sarms,grinningandwaving,wearingahuge

buttonthatread“I’maBigSister.”“I tried to tell her she didn’t have to come, but she insisted,” Katie said.

“Hannah toldme that, because sheandWillhadgone to the ‘BigBrother/BigSister’class,sheknewthatoneofthemostimportantjobsabigsisterhasistovisitthenewbabyatthehospital.”

“Whataboutherpain?”Claudeasked.“Shetoldme‘bringthepillsjustincase,’”Katiesaid.“Oh,onemorething,”Katiesaid.“Youdidn’tmentionit,soIdon’tknowif

youknew,butWillandhisgrandparentscalled.TheyleftMichiganadaysoonerthantheyhadoriginallyplanned.They’llbeatyourhousethisafternoon.”

WhileIwaitedforourreleasetobeprocessed,ClaudeheadedhometomeetWillandhisparents.Hannahaskedtostay.ShetookadoseofpainmedicationandfellasleeponthebedwithMargaretandme.

Holdingmygirls,Icouldn’tbelievehowluckyIwas.Iknewthereweresomany otherways thingsmight have happened, and I hadn’t been alone inmyworry.WhenIhadfirstsharedthenewsofourpregnancy,somepeople’seyesglazed over. There is no polite way to say, “You’re crazy. What were youthinking?”

WhenthedoctorsgaveHannahonlythreemonthstolive,ithadn’ttakenmemore thanasecond tocalculate that thisbabywasgoing tobeborn justwhenHannah was expected to die. It had seemed an impossible situation. Yet, thedecisionClaudeandIhadmadetogetpregnanthadn’tbeenmadeinourminds;ithadbeenmadeinourhearts.IcouldonlytrustthattheGodwhohadahandinallofitwouldbetheretoseeusthrough,onewayoranother.

Now,listeningtothebreathofmylittlegirlononesideandmybabygirlonthe other, I knew that only themost awesome grace could have arranged thisday:bothmygirlsinthesameworld,andWillcominghome.

MetamorphosisIWASSITTINGINAROCKINGCHAIRINOURBEDROOM,nursingMargaret,whowasaweekold.Willwassittingonthefloor,staringoutthewindow.Apicturebookabout dinosaurs lay open at his feet.Hannahwas on the bed, lying in a half-seatedpositionagainstapileofpillows,coveredbyherpinkblanket.Hereyeswereclosed,butIdidn’tthinkshewasasleep.

Severaldaysbefore,shehadannounced,“Ihurttoomuch.IwanttosleepinthebedthatsmellslikeyouandDaddy.”

Hertumorwasgrowingrapidlynow,largeenoughtopressagainstherribsandspinalcord.Althoughaconstantdoseofmorphinewasbeingpumpedintoherbody,twenty-fourhoursaday,Hannahcouldnolongerwalk;shehadtobecarried.Otherthanaskingtogotothetoilet,sheseemedcontenttostaywhereshewas.

Ifeltfrustratedthattherewasn’tmoreIcoulddotohelpHannah,andlongedforinformationabouthowtoprepareherandusforherdeath.Pathadgivenmewhatshecould,butthehospicesheworkedforrarelydealtwithdyingchildren;noneofthehospicesinourareadid.Itseemedalmostinconceivabletomethatthere had been shelves of books, videos, and even classes at the hospital toprepare Hannah for Margaret’s birth. Where were the experts now, when Ineededtoprepareherforherdeath?

I had done my best to anticipate what Hannah might need. The antiquerockingchairwasatestamenttothat.IthadalwaysbeenHannah’sfavoritespottosnuggleandread.IhadaskedClaudetobringitupstairs,imaginingitwouldbe the perfect place for us to spendher final days. Iwaswrong. “It hurts toomuch,”shesaid.MyimageofusrockingpeacefullyintoherdeathwassimplyonemorethingIhadtoletgoof.

Willlookedup.“Mom,howlongdoesittakeabodytobecomeaskeleton?”HannahheardWill’squestion.Hereyespoppedopen.Thesedays,deathwas

oneofherfavoritesubjects.You’vegottobekidding,Ithought.Iwasallfortellingthetruthandfacing

fears;butIwasn’treadyforthisconversation.“I’mnotsure,Will,”Isaid,feelingthatIdidn’twanttoknow,either.

He screwed up his lips and creased his brow, as if hewere contemplatingprobableratesofdecomposition.Hannahhadherownideas.

“You know,” she said, her eyes brightwithmischief, “they can bury yourbody,buttheycan’tburyyourspirit!”

Shewasgrinning.Willlookedatherandgrinned,too.“That’sgreat,Hannah,”hesaid.Heturnedtome.“What do you think,Mom?Do our spirits go to heaven even though our

bodiesareburied?”I had beenwaiting for this question for awhile. I had evenwondered if I

shouldbringitupmyself.Ilovedthatthetwoofthemhaddoneitontheirown.“Well,”Ibegan,mythoughtstrippingsevensentencesaheadofmywords,“I

believe thatwhen thebody is too sickor tooold to live anymore, it dies, andthenthesoulisfree.”

“Whathappenstothesoulafterthebodydies,Mom?”Willasked.“I’m not really sure,” I admitted. “Some people believe that souls go to

heavenafterthebodydies.IthinkIbelievethat,too.”“Me,too,”saidHannah.Willwanted toknowmore.“Iknow theBiblesays that,butdoesanybody

else?”heasked.“Well,” I answered, “I’ve been reading books about something called a

‘near-death experience.’Sometimespeople die for a fewminutes, like in veryserioussurgeriesorcaraccidents,butthendoctorsmanagetobringthembacktolife.When this happens, those people describe death as a long tunnel with abrightlightattheotherendthatdrawsthemintoaplaceofbeautifullove.Noteveryonebelieves that’swhathappens. Iguesswecan’tbesureuntilwedo itourselves.”

I continued. “Youknowhowabutterflygrows inside the cocoonuntil it’sreadytofly?Orthewayahermitcrablivesinashelluntilitgetstoosmallforhisgrowingbodyandthenmovestoanother?Iliketothinkdeathissomethinglikethat.”

“I’m going to be a butterfly,” Hannah stated, andwith that settled, rolledbackontothepillowsandshuthereyes.

OntheThresholdHANNAHWASDOZINGONONESIDEOFTHEBED,HERLONGlegsbarelycoveredbyherpinkblanket.Shewaswearingonlyapairofcottonunderpants.

“Clothesaretooscratchy,”shehadsaid.One of her arms lay acrossMargaret, whowas asleep next to her, tightly

bundled in fuzzypinkpajamas.Thehumof the air conditioner in thewindowaccountedforthenipintheairdespitethefactthatthelateJulysunwasbakingtheroofoverhead.ThesickerHannahgot,thecoldershewantedtheroomtobe.

I rocked to the rhythmof themorphine pump’s click.AsHannah’s tumorgrew,sodidtheamountofmorphinesherequired.Iwasgratefulforthewaythedrugseemed todullHannah’spain,but themoreeffective itwas, theeasier itwastodenythatshewassickenoughtodie.Fordaysnow,Ihadfantasizedthatshe might wake up, ask to get dressed, and suggest we all go out to dinner.Claude seemed evenmore lost in the fantasy. Every timeDr. Kamalaker hadprescribedan increase inherdose,hequestioned theneed todo it, explainingthathewasafraidshemightgetaddicted.Nobodyhadthehearttotellhimthataddictionisnotpossibleforsomeonewhoisdead.

Icontinuedtorockbackandforth.AstackofbooksonthedresserwithtitleslikeLivingWithDeathandDying,Embracedby theLight, andHowtoGoonLivingWhenSomeoneYouLoveDieswasasneglectedastheshriveledpieceofcheese thatHannahhad requestedand then refused toeat.EvenherChristmasdress,whichshehadaskedmetohangonthecurtainrodwhereshecouldseeit,seemedtobeholdingitsbreath.

Iclosedmyeyes.Mylidsfeltheavyandwarmfromtoolittlesleep.Icouldfeel Hannah looking at me. I opened my eyes slowly. Her arms wereoutstretched,reachingforme.

“Mommy,Iwantyoutocarrymetomyroom.”Icamealive.Itwasthefirsttimeindaysshehadaskedtogoanywhereother

than the bathroom.Perhaps thiswas themoment everything had beenwaitingfor.Hannahwas taking an interest in life again. I gently and gingerly ranmyhandsunderherbonyhipsandbackandliftedherfromthebed.Imovedslowlytogiveherbodytimetoadjust.Icouldalmosthearherinternalorgansgroanasthetumorshifteditsbulkinsideher.Hannahwrappedherthinarmsaroundmy

neckandlockedherlegsaroundmyhips.Shepinnedherselfagainstmewithastrength that surprisedme.Herhead restedonmy shoulder. I breathedher in,felt her soft, “woolly mammoth” hair against my cheek. Her body wasunnaturallywarmgiventhecoolnessoftheroom.Shewasburningwithafeverthatwouldnotbreak.Herchestroseandfellagainstmine,andIcouldfeelbothofourheartsbeating—mineslowanddeep,hersquickandlight.

AsIliftedherfromthebed,Itriedtoimaginehersittingonthefloorofherroom,surroundedbybabydollsanddress-upclothes.Iknewtheimagewasasfragileasapainter’swetcanvas.AsIadjustedHannah’spositiononmyhip,shewinced.Theimageslidoutofmymind.ItrieddesperatelynottojiggleorjarhertoomuchasIcarriedherdownthestairs.Whenwegot to thedoorwayofherroom,Hannahreachedoutandgrabbedthewoodenmolding.

“Don’tputmedownanddon’tgoin,”shesaid.“Ijustwanttolook.”The two of us stood on the threshold, watching dust dance in the late

afternoon sun. A pink comforter and her cow-jumping-over-the-moon quiltstretched neatly, without wrinkles, across her bed. Dolls and stuffed animalsstaredblankly fromtheirpercheson theshelf.Twoseashells fromapreschoolfield trip leanedagainsteachotheron topofherdresser.Themagicwandshehadmadeatherbirthdaypartyalmostayearagolayinthemiddleofthefloor.Iwantedtowaveitthroughthehushandbringeverythingbacktolife.

I knew she was saying good-bye, but I wasn’t ready. This room with itssugar-pinksweetness,Barbiedolls,andredpatentleathershoeswasHannah.IfIweretosaygood-byetothis,whatpartofherwouldbeleft?

Releasinghergriponthedoorframe,Hannahwrappedherarmsaroundmyneck,andburiedherfaceinmyshoulder.

“I’mreadytogobacknow,”shesaid.As we climbed the stairs, I walked as slowly as I could, savoring the

closenessofher.Beforereturninghertothenestofpillowsandblankets,Istoodsilently,swayingfromsidetoside,asifinatrance.Ididn’twanttolethergo.Iwantedtoremaininthismomentforever.

Ithoughtaboutherroom,howpossibleandyetinconceivableitwasthatshewouldneverseeitagain.Iwonderedifitwouldalwayswaitforhertoreturn,ifitwouldalwaysbeherroom,ifitwouldeverforget.Iwonderedthesamethingsaboutmyself: if I could accept that shewouldnever return, if Iwould alwaysfeellikehermother,ifIwouldeverforget.

EverywhereIAm,ThereYou’llBeIWASSITTINGATTHEFOOTOFTHEBED,SNUGGLINGMargaret. Itwasearly in theday.Claudehad left forwork.Willwas sittingon the floor, eating cereal andwatchingTV.

Hannahstirredandsatupslowly.Iturnedtolookather.Herskinwasalmosttranslucent.Shehadn’teatenmorethanabiteortwoofsolidfoodforalmostaweek.Asshehadgrownthinner,hertumorhadgrownbigger.Herleftsidewasswollen grotesquely out of proportion. The skin that stretched across her ribswasdeeppurplefromthemassofbloodvesselsthathadaccumulatedthereinavainattempttosatethecancer’sappetiteforblood.Sometimessheaskedmetorubherside.IhatedknowingthatasIlovinglyranmycoolpalmsoverherhot,numbskin,Iwasgentlycaressingher tumor.Hannahhadmadefriendswith itsomehow,treatingitgingerly,deferentially,adjustingherpillowssoitcouldrestonacushionofsoftness.Iwasn’twilling.Iwantedittobegone.

Hannahlookedatme.Shewinced,andthensmiled.“Mommy,”shesaidquietly,“doyouknowthatevenifIgotoheaven,I’m

goingtocomeback?”Ipausedbeforeanswering.Iwantedtotellherthetruth.Theproblemwas,I

wasn’tsureexactlywhat the truthwas. Ihadread thatgrievingchildrenundertheageofsiximaginedeathasashortabsenceandexpectlovedonestoreturnsometimeafterthefuneral.IwonderedifthiswaswhatHannahthought,too.

I took a breath.Hannahwasgrinningnow, her head cocked to one side. Istudiedher face.She looked light, expectant,unconcerned. I felt as if shewasreading my mind, and was amused by my dilemma. I closed my eyes for amoment.There,behindmyeyelids, I sawsomething I couldhardlybelieve: ItwasHannah,dancing in the sparklydarkness, radiant, laughing, andwaving. Igrinned,myeyesstillclosed.

In that instant I knew that, nomatter what happened, there was a part ofHannahthatwouldalwaysbewithme,somethingofherthatwouldneverdie.Itwasn’tabelief.Itwasn’tahope.Itwasaknowingbeyondtheworkingsofmymind,thequietest,deepestexperienceoffaithIhadeverknown.

IopenedmyeyesandletgoofthebreathIhadbeenholdinginmyheart.“Yes,Hannah,Iknow,”Isaid.

Hannahleanedbackintothepillows,closedhereyes,andsmiled.

FAITHISNOTABOUTBELIEVINGbutaboutlettinggoofbeliefs.Faithdoesnothopeandprayforthingstobedifferentsometimeinthefuture.Faithisthestillheartthatrefusesnothing,ourwillingnesstotrustthingsastheyare.

Compassion

fromspecialnesstobelonging

…Itisassentingthatmakesthemangels…theironlyworktoshineback,howeverthepassingbrightnesshurtstheireyes.

—JaneHirshfield

AsRealasItGetsHANNAHWASSPEAKINGLESSANDLESS;EVERYWORDFROMhernowmightbeherlast.

“Mommy,where’sWill?”sheasked,hervoicealmostawhisper.Will rolled over and sat up. He had been lying on the floor, watching a

movie,thevolumesolowitwaspracticallymute.“I’mrighthere,Hannah,”hesaidsoftly,turningofftheTV.Hannahshiftedherheadtotheside,justenoughtofacehim.Theylookedat

eachotherquietly.“Will,”Hannahasked,“doyouknowI’mtoosicktoeverplayagain?”Iwasafraidtospeak,afraidtobreathe,wonderingwhatWillwouldsay.“Yes,Hannah,Iknow,”hesaidquietly.“Doesthatmakeyousad?”Hannahpaused,stilllookingathim.“No,”shesaid,shakingherhead.Thetwoofthemturnedtome.Icouldfeeltheireyestakinginthewispsof

hair that had escaped the clasp of my barrette, my creased forehead, heavyeyelids, and pale skin. I didn’t feel as tired as I knew I looked. I felt awed;humbled by the simplicity with which they had stepped into one of themostintimatemoments twopeople could share. Inonebreath, the twoof themhadshownmewhattellingthetruthandlivingthetruthwereultimatelyallabout.

SorrySheAskedIKNOWSHEMEANTWELL;SHESIMPLYHADNOWAYOFknowing.

When thewell-dressed,middle-agedwoman stepped into the elevatorwithusat JCPenney thatSundayafternoon, thingswerenotwhat theyseemed.ShesmiledsweetlyatmeandpeekedatbabyMargaretinmyarms.

ShewinkedandturnedtoWill,whowaseyeinghercuriously.“Youmustbethebigbrother,”shesaidwithexaggeratedimportance.“Your

motherissoluckytohavetwobeautifulchildren.”“Ihaveanothersisterathome,”Willsaidproudly.“HernameisHannah.”“Ooohhh,”saidthenicelady,“whyisn’tsheshopping,too?”I could see it coming and needed aMissManners book fast.Will didn’t

hesitate.Hejumpedrightin.“She’sathomewithmydad.She’sdying.”Headdedhelpfully,“We’rehere

togetanoutfitformybabysisterMargarettoweartoHannah’sfuneral.”Thewoman turned tome, the skinonher face twoshades lighter thanher

makeup.IfeltsorryforherandsmiledassympatheticallyasIcould.Shewasn’treadytoletitgo.Shearchedherbrowsandpastedacheerysmileonherface.

“Well,”shesaidloudly,“Ibetyou’regratefulforthebabiesyou’vehad.”Therewas no stoppingWill now. “That’s for sure,” he said emphatically.

“Mymom’shadfourmiscarriages,too!”Lookingasifshemightbesick,thewomanturnedandpunchedthesecond-

floor button. When the doors slid open, she brushed past a group of peoplewaitingtogetinanddisappeareddownthehall.

“Shewasanicelady,wasn’tshe,Mom?”Willsaid,takingmyhand.“Yes,shewas,”Isaid,“butIwonderifitwashardforhertohearaboutmy

miscarriagesandHannahdying.”“Maybe,” Will said, shrugging his shoulders. “But she was the one who

asked.”

TheBathroomGuiltTripI HAD TO GO TO THE BATHROOM, BUT I WAS AFRAID TO leave. It was clear toeveryonethatHannahwasdying,butnoonecouldtellmewhen.

A small light was still burning in the corner of the bedroom for Pat, thehospicenurse,whohadalreadycomeandgone.Everynight,shecheckedinattwoa.m.Iwasalwaysawakewhenshecame.Wewouldwhisperquietlysowewouldn’twakeClaude or the kids.All of uswere sleeping in the same roomnow:WillandClaudeinsleepingbagsonthefloorandMargaret,Hannah,andIinthebed.

Earlier tonight, I had asked Pat the question I always asked: “Howmuchlonger?” She had given me the answer she always gave: “It could happenanytime.”

Ichidedmyselfnowfornothavinggonetothebathroomthen.Ihadheardabout children who lingered near death for days and chose to die in the onemomenttheywereleftalone.IfIweretogotothebathroomnowandHannahdiedwhile Iwas gone, could I livewith having to tell people that, instead ofdyingpeacefullyinmyarms,HannahdiedwhileIwasonthetoilet?Idecidedtoholditawhilelonger.

IwatchedHannahbreathe,imaginingeverybreathtobeherlast.Isawhowshe looked already dead in the long, irregular pauses between breaths: thin,translucent,notbreathing. I remindedmyself that if sheweredead, shewouldfeelnopain.IbegantotellmyselfthatHannah’sdeathmightnotbesuchabadthing; that it would be okaywithme if shewere to remain in her breathless,painlesstranslucence.

I was feelingmore desperate to go to the bathroom and guilty for havingimaginedHannah dead.How couldmy body even think about relieving itselfwhenHannah’sbodywasstrugglingtobreathe?Ilaynexttoher,prayingforherbreathtostop,thenprayingitwouldcontinue.IfeltasifGodwerewaitingformetomakeupmymind;Icouldn’tdecidewhichwouldbebetter.

NowIreallyhad togo.Everyminute I toldmyself, “Ifyouhadgone twominutesago,youcouldhavedoneit,andshewouldstillbehere.”

WhenIcouldn’twaitanother second, I ran to thebathroomandsaton thetoilet,barelyabletocontaintheextentofmyguiltandmyrelief.

Then I returned toHannah’s side. Shewas still breathing. I felt a rush ofgratitudefollowedbyacrushingpain.HowcouldIhavewishedevenonemoremomentofthisdistortedlifeonher?Ibegantosob,overwhelmedbygrief,guilt,and frustration. I buried my face in a pillow, not wanting to wake anyone.Hannahmoaned.Isobbedharder.Ihadneverfeltmorefrightenedoralone.

Suddenly,afeelingofwarmthfloodedthroughme.Iliftedmyfacefromthepillow,certainthatthisunexpectedpeacemustbeasignthatHannahhaddied.Iwaswrong.Shewasstillbreathing.Iclosedmyeyes.Thewarmthremained.IknewthenthatIwasn’talone;thatwhateverwasgoingtohappen,itwasn’tuptome.TheonlythingIcoulddowasbewithHannah;everythingelsewasinGod’shands.

StillnessI LIFTED HANNAH OFF THE TOILET, GENTLY, SPREADING MY handswide under herhipssothatherweightwouldbedistributedmoreevenly.Shewinced.

“I’msorry,Hannah,”Isaid.Shenoddedbutdidn’tspeak.Throughoutherillness,evenduringherbonemarrowtransplant,Hannahhad

refusedtowearadiaper.“Diapersareforbabies,”shehadsaid.Daysago,Pathadsuggestedtomethatperhapsitwasfinallytime.Hannah

hadn’tevenwaitedformetorespond.“Nodiapers,”shesaid.“Whataboutacatheter?”Patasked.HannahleanedtowardPat,lookingdirectlyintohereyes.“Nodiapersandnotubes.Ever.Youhavetopromise,”shesaid.Now, as I stood up, I could feel Hannah’s heart racing against my chest.

BeforeIcouldmaneuverherlonglegsthroughthedoorway,Hannahleanedovermyshoulderandlookedinthemirror.Sheurgedmetomovecloser.Iobeyed.

Hannahhadn’tseenherselfinweeks.Asthetwoofusstaredsilentlyatherreflection,sheseemedsurprised,notfrightened,bywhatshesaw.Shetippedherheadtooneside,slightlypuzzled,evenamused.Icouldn’ttakemyeyesoffher;itwasasifI,too,wereseeingherforthefirsttime.Herblondhairwasdullanddry,stickingupalloverherhead.Herskinwaspale,almostblue,therightsideofherfacegaunt,skinstretchedtautoverbone,theleftsidecollapsed.

Asoureyesmetinthemirror,shelookedintomethewayshehadwhensheblewoutthecandlesonhercakealmostelevenmonthsbefore.IknewthenthatHannahwasmorethanthisfrail,sickchildIwasholding;partofherwaslivingbeyondthissuffering,inthatstillnessIcouldfeelbutcouldnotsee.

SilenceTHEHOUSEWASQUIETANDSMELLEDLIKEICERIPENING.Iwroteinmyjournalandwatched Hannah breathe. Although it had been less than three weeks sinceClaudecarriedherupstairs,itfeltasifshehadbeendyingforever.Iglancedattheclock.Twoo’clock.Willwasplayingatafriend’shouseandMargaretwasasleep in one corner of the bed. Exhausted from toomany sleepless nights, Iclosedmyeyesandrocked,restingmyheadonthebackofthechair.

Suddenly, Hannahmoaned.My eyes flew open. Hannahwas reaching forme.Ijumpedup,checkingthemorphinepumpandBroviactubestomakesurenothinghadmalfunctioned.

“Does ithurt,baby?”Iasked,stroking the topofherhead.“ShouldIpushthebuttonandgiveyoumoremorphine?”

Hannah nodded, stillmoaning and reaching forme. I pushed the button. Iwasstartingtofeelscared.AlthoughherconditionhadseemedstablewhenDr.Kamalakerstoppedbyyesterday,somethinghaddrasticallychanged. Idecidedtopickherup,notknowingwhatelsetodo.Iliftedheroffthebedandsatontheedgeofthemattress,restingherbodyonmylap.Placingasoftpillowbetweenherheadandmyarm, I covered the restofherwithherpinkblanket.Hannahstoppedmoaning.Althoughherbreathsoundedstrange, rapidandshallow,hereyeswere open, looking atme. I reached for the phone and called Claude atwork.

“Ithinkyoushouldcomehomerightaway,”Isaid.Claude sighed. He sounded exasperated. This wasn’t the first time I had

madesuchacall.Ifeltabit likeapregnantwomanwithtoomanyfalse-alarmlabors.

“Okay,assoonasIclearoffmydeskI’llbethere,”hesaid.Imadetwomorecalls:onetoPat,theothertomyfriendKate.Katehadbeen

agodsend in thepastyear.Shehaddonepracticallyeverything:deliveredhot,home-cookedmeals,watchedmykids,arrangedforahousekeeper,washedandfoldedourlaundry,andmowedourlawn.MinutesafterIhungupthephone,Iheardherrunningupthestairs.WhensheopenedthedoorandsawHannahonmylap,Katebegantocry.

“Isthisit?”shewhispered.

“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.KatepickedupMargaret.“We’llwaitdownstairs,”shesaid.“Could you do one other thing?” I asked. Kate nodded. “Will is at Lili’s

house,playingwithPhilippe.Pleasecall,askhertobringhimhome,andwhenhegetshere,sendhimuprightaway.”

Kate left the room,closing thedoorbehindher.Hannah’seyeswereopen,watchingme.Herbreathingwasmorelaboredandirregular.Istartedtocry,andthen,feelinghelpless,Ibegantoprayandsing.HymnsthatIhadn’tthoughtofsince childhood, theLord’sPrayer, and theTwenty-thirdPsalmpoured out ofme.

The door opened, and Pat came in. Our eyes met, but neither of us saidanything.ShekneeledonthefloorinfrontofmeandgentlyexaminedHannah,whose body was now thrashing intermittently. When she looked up, she hadtearsinhereyes,andIknew.PagingDr.Kamalaker,shequietlyexplainedwhatwashappening,listenedforamoment,nodding,andthenhungup.Therewasatentativeknockonthedoor.Willsteppedintotheroom.HelookedatHannahonmylap,andthenatme.

“Isittime,Mom?”heasked.“Yes,Will,”Isaid.Willbentdown,strokedHannah’shair,andkissedthetopofherhead.“Iloveyou,Hannah,”hesaid.Hereyesrolledtowardhim.Thetwoofthem

lookedateachotherforamoment,andthenWilllookedatme.“Mom,Iwanttowaitdownstairs,butassoonasHannahdies,comeandget

me,okay?”Inodded.HekissedHannahoncemore.“Remember,Hannah,Iloveyou,”hesaid,thenturnedandlefttheroom.At ten minutes to three, Claude’s car pulled into the driveway. The door

slammed.Iheardhisfootstepsthuddingonthestairs.Hethrewopenthedoor.“What’s happening?” he asked Pat, whowas sitting on the floor with the

morphinepump.“Hannah’s dying,” I said, more calmly than I could believe. “She’s been

waitingforyou.Youhavetotellherit’sokaytogo.”Claudefelltohiskneesandletoutalowmoan.Hisbodyshookwithsobs.

Heliftedhishead,leanedover,andkissedher.“It’s time foryou togo,Missy,”he said. “Don’tworry aboutus.We love

you.We’regoingtobeokay.”AlthoughHannah’sbodycontinuedtofightfortwentymoreminutes,some

partofheralreadyfeltfree.Then,onemomentshewasaliveandbreathing;thenext, she wasn’t. I couldn’t believe how unexpected it felt. I looked into hereyes.Nothing but blue. The room had filledwith an almost palpable stillnessthatenvelopedusinitsthick,whitepeace.

P.S.I TURNED JUSTASWILLCAME IN.HEGLANCEDATHANNAH’Sbodyon thebed,andthenliftedhisfacetowardtheceiling.

“Hi, Hannah,” he said. “I know you’re here. I’m glad you’re not hurtinganymore.”

HesatontheedgeofthebednexttoHannah’sbody.“Isitokayformetotouchit,Mom?”heasked.“Sure,”Isaid.Iwatchedasheranhisfingersslowlyoverherarm,thenstrokedherhairand

hands.“Whenwillshestarttofeeldead?”heasked.“Idon’tknow,”Isaid,“butprobablysoon.”Hestoodandlookedtowardtheceilingagain.“Hey,Hannah,I’mgoingtohavesomepizza,”hesaid.“I’llbebacktocheck

onyouinalittlewhile.We’llseeifyou’remoredeadthen.”

AmenASMALLGATHERINGOFFRIENDSANDFAMILYWEREASSEMbledatHannah’sgraveon themorningofherburial.Thesunwasshiningbrightly,promisinganotherhotday.Willandhiscousinswere jostlingeachotherandgigglingwhile theywaitedfortheservicetoend.Theywerethesamechildrenwho,thedaybefore,had stood around Hannah’s open casket at the funeral home. Encouraged byWill, some of them had stroked and pokedHannah’s body.A few adults hadlooked on disapprovingly; theywere the same oneswho, now,were trying toshushthegravesidecommotion.

Claudeand Ihaddecided toburyHannah rather thanhavehercremated. IwantedtobeabletocometohergraveandknowthatthelittlehandsIhadheldand the form I had lovedwere there, even if theywere underground.Claude,Will, and I had visited a couple of cemeteries before agreeing that we allpreferredthesmaller,quieterone.Therehadbeensomediscussionaboutwhichplot to choose. Claude had liked the one nestled in a stand of pines.We hadeventually agreed on the oneWill preferred. It was situated between a smallpondandabeautifulgazebo.“Thatwaymykidswillhavesomewhere toplaywhenIcometovisitHannah,”Willhadexplained.

Now,InestledMargaretagainstmychestandglancedatLaurajane,whoseheadwasbentinprayer.Shelookedveryofficialinalongwhiterobe,although,inthehumidity,’herhairwasaswiryandunmanageableasever.Standingattheedgeof theholewhereHannah’sbodywasabout tobeburied, Iwas trying toholdmyself together.Before coming to the cemetery,Claude,Will,Margaret,andIhadgonetothefuneralhometoseeHannahforthelasttime.Ihaddecidedtoburyher inherChristmasdresswithapairofher red shoes,but I chose tokeep her pink blanket. I was sure that she would understand; Will was nowsleepingwithit.Willhadaskedtoclosethecasket.Beforeloweringthelid,hehadplacedoneofhispillowsunderherheadandlaidabeadedEastercrossinherhand.

“Good-bye,Hannah.We’llmissyou,”hehadsaid.Outof thecornerofmyeye, Inoticed thatWanda, thecemeterymanager,

hadstoodup.OneofthethingsClaudehadbeenemphaticaboutwhenwemetwithherwasthat,whenitcametoburyingHannah’sbody,hedidn’twantany

mix-ups.Hewantedtoknowforsure,whenwedroveaway,thatHannah’sbodywouldremaininthegravewehadleftherin.Wandahadthoughtaboutitforaminuteandthensuggestedthat,shortofburyingHannahourselves,thebestwayto address Claude’s concern would be for us to witness the closing of theconcretevaultafterHannah’scaskethadbeenloweredintoit.ClaudeandIhadagreed.

WhatI’mcertainWandatoldus,butIhadn’tfullyunderstood,wasthatthisprocedureinvolvedabackhoe.

“Amen,”Laurajanesaid.Wandaclearedherthroatandsteppedforward.“ClaudeandMariahaveaskedtowitnesstheclosingofthevault,”shesaid.

“We’regoingtoneedsomeroom,soifallofyouwouldbekindenoughtostepbackabouttenfeet…”

The rest of her words were drowned out by the cough and sputter of anunusually loud engine. Froma spot in the distance behind a clumpof trees, abackhoe,withagiganticcementlidswingingfromachainaffixedtoitsshovel,began chugging toward us. As the children started shrieking and running incircles,theadultsstumbledoverthemselvestogetoutoftheway.

Thebackhoecontinueditscrawltowardus.WhiletwocemeteryemployeesloweredHannah’scasket into theconcretevault in theground, theadults,nowwatching from a distance halfway up the hill, didn’t know whether to lookrespectfullyinterestedorpolitelyaway.Thechildren,however,hadmovedinasclose as they could. They high-fived each other, clapped, and cheered as thebackhoeoperatorexpertlydroppedthelidintherightspotonhisfirsttry.

ClaudeandIgrinnedateachotherasIcaughtLaurajane’seye.Hannahhadneverhesitatedtorewritetherules;itseemedperfectthatherburialhadbeennoexception.Iwassurethatshewouldhavegiggled,too,atthebackhoetouchattheend.

VacuumMARGARETAND IWERELYINGTOGETHERONTHECOUCH.The Indian summer sunwarmed thepicturewindowglassandspilledontomy lap.Exhausted, IdozedwhileMargaretnursed.Whenshefinished,Islippedmyfingerbetweenherlips,releasing the suction of hermouth onmy breast. Awarm trickle ofmilk ranacrosshercheek.Shestirredandnuzzledme.Inhalinghersweetness,Ibegantocry. I felt overwhelmed with love for this tiny baby who had so effortlesslyemergedinourlivesandmyheart.IfeltadeepsadnessthatthesedayswithherwerebeingswallowedbymygriefbeforeIhadachancetotastethem.

ClaudewasatworkandWillwasatschool.Thehouselookedandsmelledlikeamuseum.Thesedays,Ihadnoenergyforanything.Ifelttired,endlesslytired, and barely able to think. Sometimes my thoughts, like a pack of dogs,chasedeachother incirclesforhours.Other times, itseemedthatawholedaypassedwithoutmyhavingthoughtasinglething.Thefourofuswerestilleatingandsleeping in the same roomupstairs, like inmateswho refuse to leave theircellsoncetheyarefreed.LifefeltmoremanageableandclosertoHannahwhereherscentstilllivedinthesheets.

ThefirstfewweeksafterHannah’sdeath,Imovedthroughmydaysfeelingnumb but efficient. I had returned phone calls, written thank-you notes, andfilledvaseswithbouquetsof flowers thatarrivedeachday.At first, analmostconstantstreamofvisitorsandmailpouredthroughourfrontdoor.Gradually,asthe flurryabated, Ihadstarted toclean.Beginningat the topof thehouseandworkingmywaydown,Iwiped,washed,andvacuumedeverysurfaceineveryroomexceptHannah’s.ThenImadelistsof thingsyet todoandpeopleyet tosee.Imightaswellhavewrittenmyplansininvisibleink.

It was as if I had been lowered into a vat of slow-drying cement; I hadbecomeimmobilegradually,andnowfeltalmostcompletelyparalyzedbygrief.

BreathI WAS DREAMING, BUT I FELT AWAKE. EVERYTHING AROUND me was darker anddeeperthannight.Ihadnoeyestoopen.Hannahwaswithme.Icouldfeelherweight onmy lap and the softness of her hair on the top of her headwhere Irestedmy chin. Shewas leaning againstme, or perhaps Iwas leaning againsther.Iheldherquietly,breathingherin.

Myeyesopened.Icouldbarelyseetheoutlinesoffurnitureintheroom.HadIbeenawakeorasleep?Iwasn’tsure.IcouldfeelHannah’spresence,lingering,asifshehadjuststeppedawayforamoment.

Iclosedmyeyes,knowingshehadbeenhere,greedyforhertoreturn.

ChoiceBYTHESOUNDOFITSENGINE,IKNEWTHECARWAScomingfast.Istoodonthecurb,and, with a sense of calm detachment, rolled the image around in my mind.Beforetheunsuspectingspeedercouldslamonhisbrakes,Iwouldthrowmyselfinfrontofhim.

Threemonths afterHannah’sdeath,my life felt completelyoutof control;thepainoflosingherwasmorethanIcouldbear.IfeltasifIwerecaughtinadownwarddeathspiral;thereseemedtobenorelieffromgrief.Ihadexpected,havinghad ayear toprepare forHannah’sdeath, that bynow Iwouldhave ahandle on things. I felt like a failure because, instead of feeling better, I keptfeelingworseandworse.

My rational mind’s desperate attempts to convinceme that I had a lot ofreasonstolivekeptgettingblottedoutbymypain.Ifeltdetachedfrommybodyandeverythingelse.DespitehavingtwochildrenIloved,despitemybondwithClaude, life seemed empty and meaningless now that Hannah was dead. ThesameimpotenceIhadfeltintryingtoprepareforHannah’sdeath,Inowfeltinmygrief.

Awhitesedancrestedthehillandroaredpast.Iturnedmyheadandclosedmy eyes as a whirl of dust blew into my face. My body started to shake.Steppingbackfromthecurb,Icollapsedinaheaponthegrass.

I didn’t knowwhat to do.Allmy life, whenever I had been facedwith aproblem, I haddonewhat I could to control the situation. I had read about it,made lists, andcarefullyplannedmy response to it. I hadcopedbycreatingasenseoforder in themidstofchaos,by finding somethinggood in it.Now, itwasasifHannah’sdeathhaddismantledme;Icouldnolongerthinkclearly.MyattentionspanwassolimitedthatIfounditalmost impossible toread.Sincealife without Hannah felt pointless, planning for it or trying to find somethinggoodaboutitseemedobscene.

Icouldn’tunderstandwhyourfamilyhadbeensingledoutforsuffering.ThesightofotherchildrenHannah’sagemademyheartshrivel.Ifeltcheatedbylifeandhatedthattheyhadlivedwhileshehaddied.IknewthatwhathadhappenedtoHannahwasn’tanyoneelse’sfault,andIfeltdeeplyashamedforfeelingthewayIdid.

Curledupinthegrass,Iletthetearsandfrustrationpouroutofme.ThenIslowlysatup,wipedmyfacewith thesleeveofmysweater,and tookadeep,shudderingbreath.Thecoolautumnaircreptintomylungs,fillingmychest.Iwassurprisedbyitsbite.Iheldmybreathforamomentandthenexhaled.Ithadbeen so long since I had felt myself inmy body. I loved how good it felt. Imomentarilyforgotaboutmythoughtsandbegantoconcentrateonmybreath.Iinhaledagain,thistimemoreslowly.Ipaused,thenexhaledthroughmyteeth.Iinhaled again, this time through my mouth, and exhaled quickly through mynose. I savored the fullness in my chest as I breathed, amazed to feel lifecoursingthroughme.

IrealizedthenthatmybodywastellingmeIdidn’treallywanttodie.AsIcontinued tobreathe, Isoftened intoanawareness that Ididn’tneed tocontrolmylife,denymyfeelings,ortrytogetbetter.IonlyhadtoallowmyselftobewhoIwas,whereIwas,inthemoment.Lifewoulddotherest.

DescentITWASACOLD,WETNIGHT,BUT IWANTEDDESPERATELY toescapethehouse.Ourfourteenth wedding anniversary was a week away, but that hadn’t stoppedClaudeandmefromengaginginabitterargument.Claudehadwantedtomakelove; I had refused.Weeks of unspoken resentment had poured into the spacebetweenus.Foryears,thispatternofadvance,rebuff,resentment,andfrustrationhadbeenasourceofpainandtensioninourmarriage,butwhathadfeltbeforelikeaseriesofskirmishesnowfeltlikeafighttothedeath.

Iwas resentingmore andmoreClaude’s expectations ofme as hiswife. Ialsoknewthatwehadcreatedthemtogether.Intheearlyyearsofourmarriage,it was I who first believed that I would have to be perfect in order for ourmarriage towork. I had devotedmyself tomakingClaude happy.Although Ieventually resented his dependence on me, I had loved it, too; the moreindispensable I felt, themoreworthy of love I believed Iwas.Now, fourteenyears into our marriage, Claude and I had both come to expect that a “goodwife” meant hand-packed lunches, a clean, quiet house, home-cooked meals,well-behavedchildren,andsexondemand.

AfteralifetimespenttakingcareofClaudeandeveryoneelse,ahungrybearwaswakingupinme;afiercecommitmenttomakingsomethingofmyselfwaslumberingthroughthedarkcaveofmysoul,sniffingcautiouslyinthedirectionofthelight.Istillfeltmostlyoverwhelmedbysadness,sothemomentswhenIwasn’tsuffocatingwereespeciallyprecious.Iwantedtospendthemcarefully,tobehonestaboutwhatIneeded,todoonlywhatreallymatteredtome.

Forourmarriage,myshiftinprioritiescouldn’thavecomeataworsetime.Both of us were clinging to the wreckage after Hannah’s death, tryingdesperately to reassemble our lives. Everyone we knew, including Hannah’sdoctors,nurses,andsocialworkers,hadbeenimpressedbythewayClaudeandIhadmanagedtowalksidebysidethroughHannah’sillness.Butnowitseemedthatthechasmsthathadalwaysbeenbetweenuswerewidening.

As convinced as Iwas that I needed tomake something ofmy life, Iwasevenmore determined tomake thingsworkwithClaude. I didn’t think that Iwouldbeabletosurvivewithouthim.Iknewthestatisticswereagainstus;Ihadreadthatmorethanseventypercentofcouplesdivorcewithinfiveyearsoftheir

child’s death. I wasn’t willing for us to become one of them.Despite all ourdifficulties,ClaudewasHannah’sfather,theonlypersonintheworldwhocouldever know the extent ofmy loss and share the depth ofmy grief. Iwould doanythingtosaveourmarriage;beingaloneinmissingHannahwasmorethanIcouldbear.

Bendingmyheadintothepeltingrain,IsteppedintotheDecembernightandbegantowanderthroughourneighborhood.Lookingat thewarmlightspillingfromotherpeople’swindows, I feltmoreandmoredesperateand lonely,as ifthelifethathadabandonedHannahwasnow,inadifferentway,abandoningme.

ItmademesickthewayeverythingwasmovingonfasterthanIcouldkeepup,as ifHannah’sdeathhadalreadybeenforgotten.Whycouldn’t itbe likeagiantgameof freeze tag,whereeveryonegot temporarily frozen,not justme?WhileIresentedthatClaudehadbeenabletotakerefugeinhiswork,thatmyfriendswerebusywith theirownfamiliesandlives, Ihadnowishtoreturn tothe way things used to be. Almost everything I’d once cared about seemedfoolishandmeaninglesstomenow.

IhadnoideawhatIwanted;IonlyknewthatIwasterrifiedofbeingaloneinit.

ThefearIhadbeenholdingatbaytookadeepbreathandswallowedmeup.Idoubledoverinthemiddleofthestreet.Alowmoanrolledoutofme.IbegantoruntowardLaurajane’shouse,twoblocksintheotherdirection,pleadingwithGod to letherbehome.Stumblingacrossher frontyard, I sloshed throughanankle-deeppuddle,sonumbthatIbarelynoticed.Alightwasoninanupstairsroom.Irangthebell,collapsedonherfrontstep,andwaited.Nothing.Irangitagain and began pounding on the door, hammering my fists into the wood,rammingmyshoulderagainstit.

Nothing.Isanktomyknees,mybodywrackedwithsobs.Draggingmyselfhome,Iletmyselfinthefrontdoorandclimbedthestairs

tothenurserywhereMargaretwasasleep.Isatinthedark,inHannah’sfavoritechair.Whilethestormragedoutside,Irockedmindlessly,myrain-soakedjeansstainingthegreenupholsteredseat.

Istaredintonothingandstoppedresistingmyloneliness.Itenvelopedmeina pillow of darkness. I closed my eyes and felt myself descending into asightless,soundlessplace.Iinhaleditssilenceandthen,openingmymouth,letoutasilentscream.ItwasasifIwerereleasingalltheintensityofmysufferinginto the world without making a sound. It poured out of me until there wasnothingleftbutmypresence,withoutform,suspendedinthesenseofaloneness

thatwasaliveinme.Iletmyselfrestinthestillness,feltitholdingme,breathingme.Iwasalone

butnot lonely. I realized then that alone and lonelywere twodifferent things.Lonelinesscamefrommybeliefthatsomethingwasmissingfrommylife;thatIneededsomeoneorsomethingelseinorderformetobecomplete.

ButthisalonenessInowfeltwasthefullestexperienceofmyselfthatIhadeverknown;init,IknewthatIwasatonceincompleteandwhole.

DreamingaNewLifeIPUTTHEKETTLEONTHESTOVEANDTOOKTWOMUGSfromthecupboardassoonasIheardLaurajane’sjeeppullintothedriveway.Ihadbecomeaccustomedtoherfrequent, unannounced visits and looked forward to them. Today I wasespeciallygladtoseeher.LastSunday,shehadremindedthecongregationthatEaster, the seasonofmiracles,was coming. Iwanted to know, if thiswas theseasonofmiracles,whenIwasgoingtogetmine.

Although I was beginning to have more moments where I inhaled theripenessofmelons in themarket, laughedout loud at a joke, or bentdown towipeascuffmarkfromthetoeofmyshoe,theyfeltfleetingandpainful,asifacardboard match from a cheap matchbook had lit up my solitude just longenoughtoburnmyfingertipsbeforeIblewitout.Thesedays,Ihadnodesiretoletgoofmygrief,convincedthatifIdid,IwouldalsohavetoletgoofHannah.

Thefrontdooropenedandclosed,andthenLaurajane’sfootstepscametwoatatimeupthestepsintothelivingroom.

“Thereyouare,”shesaid,givingmeakiss.“Where’smygirl?”“Takinganap,anddon’tyoudarewakeher,”Isaid.“Iwon’t,”sheanswered,tiptoeingupthestepstoMargaret’sroom.WhileIwaitedforhertocomeback,Ipouredhotwaterintothemugsand

droppedateabagintoeachone.WhenLaurajanereturned,wesatdownnexttoeachotheratthekitchentable.Laurajanetookasipofherteaandgrinnedatme.

“You’re pregnant,” she said. “I had a dream about it last night. I’ve hadpregnancydreamsbefore.I’veneverbeenwrong.”

Ihesitated.Sheseemedsocertain.Ihatedtodisappointher.“It’snotpossible,” I toldher. “I justhadmyperiodabout twoweeks ago.

There’snoway.”Laurajanestoppedsmilingandstudiedme.“Are you sure? I don’t believe it,” she said defiantly. “I’ve never been

wrong.”“I’msure,”Itoldher.It was true that, despite our problems and perhaps even because of them,

Claude and I had crawled back into each other’s arms and decided that wewantedtohaveonemorebaby.Wehadalsoagreedthatitwasnowornever.We

hadjustinthelastmonthstoppedusingbirthcontrol;Iwouldhavebeenshockedtobepregnantsosoon.

Twoweekslater,Iwatchedthewhitepadonthepregnancyteststicksplitintwobyathinlinethatdeepenedfromchinatorobin’s-eggtodeep-seablue.

PeelingtheOnionofGriefIPEEKEDINTOWILL’SROOMTOSEEIFHEHADFALLENasleep.

“Hi,Mom,”hesaid,hisvoicemuffledbehindthecomforterhehadpulleduptohischin.

“Howareyou,Muffin?”Iasked.“Prettygood,”hesaid.“Doyouthinkyoucouldliewithmeforawhile?”“Ofcourse,”Isaid.WillrearrangedhisbluebunnyandHannah’sblankettomakeroomforme.

HewasnowsleepingintheroomthatusedtobeHannah’s.Ithadbeenhisideatomakethechange.AsIclimbedinnexttohim,InoticedthathehadmovedasmallframedphotoofHannahfrommydresserandplaceditonthetablenexttohisbed.

Thetwoofuslayquietlyinthedark.IhadalmostfallenasleepwhenIheardWillspeak.

“Mom, how can we be sure Hannah was really dead?” His voice wasquivering.“I’mafraidshewokeup inhercoffinand there’snowayforher togetout!”

He started to cry. Iwas surprisedbyhis concern, becausehehad spent somuchtimewithHannah’sbodyafterherdeath.ButIalsoknew,fromthebooksIhadmanagedtoreadaboutchildrenandgrief, thatachild’sunderstandingofdeathchangesovertimeashematures.

“Oh,Muffin,”Isaid,encirclinghiminmyarms,“rememberthepolicemanwhocametoourhouseafterwardtoofficiallydeclareHannahdead?Rememberhowcoldandhardherbodywasthreedaysafter?I’mpositiveshewasdead.”

“Areyousureitwasthreedaysafter?”Willasked.“Yes,Will,I’msure,”Isaid.“HannahdiedonWednesday,andherbodywas

buriedonSaturday.”“Oh,”hesaid,wipinghistearswiththesleeveofhispajamas.“There’ssomethingelse,too,”hesaid.“Rememberhow,whenyoutoldmeHannahwasgoingtodie,Isaid,‘From

nowon,wheneversheasks,I’mgoingtolethersleepinmyotherbed’?Well,onetimeIwassomadatherfortakingsomeofmysuperherofiguresfrommyroom,thatwhensheaskedtosleepwithme,Itoldherno.Ican’tbelieveIwas

somean.”Nowwewerebothcrying.ItwastenmonthssinceHannah’sdeath,andgrief

wasbeginningtofeellikeanonionwhoselayersgetthickerandmorepungentthe deeper you go. These days, I couldn’t stop replaying the last months ofHannah’slifeinmyhead.Icouldn’tbelieveIhadeverthoughtitwouldbeokaytolethergo.Ifeltguiltyforeverything,fromthemomentsIhadleftheralonetogo to thebathroom to the timeswhen, frustratedandexhausted, Ihad lostmytemper. I knew that Claude was filled with regrets, too.Weeks before, I hadwoken in themiddleof thenight to thesoundofhimweeping,ourwholebedshakingashesobbed.

IliftedWill’schinuntilhiseyeswerelookingintomine.“I’mgladyousharedthiswithme,”Isaid,kissingthetipofhisnose.“Ifeel

sadalotthesedays.ImissHannah,too,andIfeelsorryaboutsomeofthethingsIsaidanddid.ButIalsoknowIdidthebestIcould,andIthinkyoudid,too.”

“Yeah,Mom,Iknowthat,”Will said,snifflingandwipinghisnoseon theblanket.

“Hannahtoldmethathumanbeingsaren’tsupposedtobeperfect.”“Shedid?”Isaid,surprised.“Whendidshesaythat?”“Justtheotherday,”hesaid.“HannahandItalkaboutstuff.Shehelpsmea

lotandmakesmenotfeelsosad.Shesaysheavenisreallycool,andshe’snotscared.Theyhavebaseball there,youknow,andHannah’son thegreen team.Guesswhatelse,Mom.”

“Icouldn’t,”Isaid.“Hannahissoexcited’causenowthatshe’sinheavenshe’sgoingtogrow

her hair long, and she doesn’t have to wait until she’s sixteen to get piercedears.”

DeadIsDeadSITTING INTHEMIDDLEOFTHEFLOOR, I SORTEDTHROUGH thesmallpileof thingsthatwereallthatwasleftofHannah’slife.IliftedherEasterdresstomynose,wantingtobelievethatherclothesstillsmelledlikeher,feelingsickthatIwasnolongersure.Iwasfinallybeginningtounderstandhowgoneshewas.

Amonthandahalfago,inahazeofdisbelief,Ihadsloggedthroughthefirstanniversaryofherdeath.LaurajaneandfiftyothersgatheredwithusonthefrontlawnofourchurchtodedicateasmallmagnoliatreethathadbeenplantedthereinHannah’sname.Itfeltlikeabeautifulbutinadequateconsolation.

I couldn’t help thinking that sincewe hadmanaged to survive a full yearwithouther,Hannahshouldbeallowedtocomeback.Whenshedidn’t,IspentthreedaysinthedeepestdepressionIhadknownsinceherdeath,emergingfromitlikeaspiderrescuedfromdrowningwhoselegshavetobeuntangledbeforehecanmoveon.

Two weeks later, faced with Hannah’s fifth birthday, I’d had enough ofdepression. Claude, Will, and I decided to celebrate by doing something weknewHannahwouldlove.Werentedaconvertible,aredone,sincetheguyatthecountertoldustheydidn’thaveanythinginpink.Thefourofus,ClaudeandI in the front seat,Will andMargaret in theback, spentHannah’sdaydrivingaround,feelingthewindinourhair.

Now, I wrapped the Easter dress, robe j’s, and Hannah’s first pair of redshoesintissuepaperandplacedtheminabox.ThenIcarefullylaidherBand-Aid collection, sea shells, and preschool art projects on top. Closing the lid,resting theboxonmy swollenbelly, I carried it upstairs and slid it under ourbed.

Thesethings,Idecided,weretoospecialforanyoneelsetouse.Istoredtherestofherclothesinthecrawlspaceabovethehall,andmoved

herdress-upbox,dollhouse,Barbies,andteasetintoMargaret’sroom.WhenIfinished,Ilayinthemiddleofthefloorandcriedmyheartdry.

AreYouLookingatMe?STANDINGINFRONTOFTHEBATHROOMMIRROR,ISTAREDatmyreflection.Ibarelyrecognizedmyself.MyfacelookedmoreangularandwornthanIremembered,myeyesfocusedonsomethingIcouldnotsee.Ilookedtired,determined,wise.Whoseformwasthis?Iwondered.Whatlifewasitwantingtolive?

Amonthbefore,inlateNovember,MadelaineGracehadbeenborn.Holdingherforthefirsttime,Ifeltcompleteasamother,andknewshewasthelastbabyIneededtobringintotheworld.Besidesfeelinganumbinggratitude,Ihadalsofelt deeply afraid.WhileMadelaine’s birth had givenme onemore reason tolive,italsomeantIhadmuchmoretolose.Ididn’twanttobedisappointedbylifeagain.

I also knew that I had to start living my life. The hungry bear of mydetermination,which had sniffed cautiously at the lightmonths ago,was nowstandingupright,pawingrestlesslyattheair.Shecouldnolongerwaitformetofeel better, stronger, or less sad. In the sixteenmonths sinceHannah’s death,Will had learned to read,Margaret hadwalked, Claude had raisedmoney forcancerresearch,andMadelainehadswallowedherfirstgulpoftheworld.Inolongerfeltwillingforlifetocontinueonwithoutme.

Lookingintomyowneyes,Isawawomanwho,havingbeendismantledbysuffering,hadmanagedtopieceherselfbacktogether.Ifeltadeeprespectandcompassionforher, for theemptinessshehadknown, for thestrengthshehadfound.Inowknewthat,justasHannahhadbeenabletoseebeyondherbody’sdeterioration,Iwasmuchmorethanabereavedmother.Myangerattheworldhaddiffusedintoadeterminationtodosomethingpurposefulandrealinmylife.

Thegrief that once threatened to swallowmeuphad foundahome inmybones.Mysufferingwasn’t something Iwasgoing tohave to letgoof; ithadbecomepartofwhatIhadtooffer,partofwhoIam.

SocialGraceI SAT SILENTLY BETWEEN KIM AND KATE AT A LINEN-covered table at theNewcomers’Ladies’Luncheon.Theyhadtalkedmeintocomingthisafternoon,having assured me that it would do me good. Since Hannah’s death, I hadresistedputtingmyselfinsocialsituationswithpeopleIdidn’tknow.Istillfeltlikealoosecannon,asifHannah’sdeathhadleftmewithoutapoliteboneinmybody. I was never sure of how I would respond to the awkward and painfulquestionsthatstrangersinevitablyasked.

“Howmanychildrendoyouhave?”wasthemostdifficult.IfIsaid“three,”IfeltawfulforhavingexcludedHannah.IfIsaid“four,”thenextquestionalwayswas,“Howoldarethey?”

Once people were confronted with the story of Hannah’s death, almostanythingcouldhappen. Itwas insomeof thosemoments that Ihad frequentlywantedtobitesomeone’sheadoff.Thequestionthatincensedmemost—usuallyaskedbyothermothers—wassomeversionof,“Didyoufeedherhotdogs?”Iresentedtheimplicationthat,sinceIhad,IhadcontributedtoHannah’scancer;Ialsorecognizedthedeepfearthatlurkedbeneaththesurfaceoftheirconcern.

I,too,hadoncebelievedthatIcouldprotectmychildrenfromharm,controlthe things thathappened tomeand them.Asamotherof threeotherchildren,partofmestillwantedtobelieveIcould.IhadspenthoursbacktrackingthrougheverydetailofHannah’slife,tryingtofigureoutwhyshehadgottensick.Istilllonged toknowif therewassomethingelseIcouldhave,shouldhave,done. Ihadn’t yet accepted that Imight never know, anddidn’t appreciate having thequestionstirredupinmeagainandagain.

Now,althoughIcouldn’thelpfeelingasifmyrealselfwashidingbehindamade-up,dressed-upcardboardcutout, Iwasbeginning to thinkKimandKatemight have been right to bring me here. The three of us had successfullynavigatedthecocktailhour,KimandKatestickingnervouslyclosetomyside,steering conversations toward benign subjects like the difficulty of finding areliablegardener.Iimaginedtheyhaddecidedbeforehandthatsuperficialitywasasaferbetthansubjectsthatcouldbringupwordslike“cancer”or“death.”

Now, although the three of us had been seated at a tablewith seven otherwomen, none of whomwe knew, it seemed that wemight get through lunch

unscathed, too. Once everyone had ordered their food, a lively conversationsprangupaboutthehassleofgettinganewdriver’slicensewhenonemovestoanewstate.

Onewomantoldanelaboratestoryofhavingmade threedifferentvisits tothe department of motor vehicles in an effort to get a decent photograph. Iquietly sippedmywineandstudied the facesatour table.Howmanyof thembelieved,asIoncehad,thatonly“other”people’schildrendie?Icouldn’tseeatraceofsufferingonanyofthem.Iwonderediftheywouldsaythesameaboutme.Despite the carefullymanicured fingernails andheads of perfectly coiffedhair, I knew I couldn’t know perfection by the way things looked. I knew Icouldn’tknowsufferingthatway,either.

Oneofthewomen,withteased,blondhair,theonewhohadrecentlymovedtoNewJerseyfromAtlanta,brokeintotheconversation.PullingaGucciwalletfromherbag,sheflippedthroughastackofcreditcardsbeforefindingwhatshewaslookingfor.

“Takealookatthis,”shesaidloudly.Shehandedherdriver’slicensetothewoman next to her. “I almost diedwhen I saw it. I look like a chemotherapypatient,forGod’ssake.”

KimandKatefroze.Ilookedatthewoman.IwantedtotellherthatthemostbeautifulfaceIknewhadbelongedtoachemotherapypatient,butIsaidnothing.

I knew there had been a time in my life when I had been oblivious tosuffering—my own and everyone else’s. I had believed that people broughtsuffering onto themselves. I had felt superior to them and thought thatcompassionwasabout feelingsorry for the fact that their livesweren’tperfectlikemine. I now knew that I, too, had always suffered; I simply hadn’t beenwillingorabletoacknowledgeit.

Thisbig-hairedwomanwith thechemotherapydriver’s licensewasnotmyenemy.Shewasmyself.

BelongingSOME OF THE PARENTS WERE ALREADY STANDING. SHAKING with anticipation, IsqueezedClaude’shand.Ihadbeenlookingforwardtothiseveningfora longtime.

“Hannah Catherine Martell,” the woman announced into the microphone.The sound of Hannah’s name bounced off the beamed ceiling of the church.Claude and I stood proudly, tears streaming down our cheeks, while anothercandlewaslitonthealtar.Everypairofeyes,eventhoseinfront,hadturnedtoacknowledgeus.Thesepeopledidn’thavetoknowuspersonallytoknowwherewehadbeen;itwastheirstory,too.

Thiswas a different kind of graduation ceremony, amemorial service forbereaved parents hosted by a group called theCompassionateFriends.Claudeand I had begun to attend their weeklymeetings and, for the first time sinceHannah’sdeath, foundaplacewhereweweren’t strangeor special forhavinglostachild,wherepeopleweren’tafraidofourtearsoranxiousforusto“moveon.”TheweeklygatheringswerealsoawayforClaudeandmetogivetimetoeachotherwhilekeepingHannah’smemoryalive.Sitting in thecarafterward,nokids insight, talkingaboutour feelings, itwasalmostas ifweweredatingagain.

In the past year, I had also begun to connectwith other bereavedmotherswhose children had died of cancer. One of the social workers at the hospitalclinicwhereHannah had been treated suggested thatmy experiencemight beabletohelpothers.Ihadagreedtotry.Now,fifteenofusgatheredregularlyineachother’shome.ItwastheonlyplaygroupIknewofwherethekidsplayedwhilethemotherscried.

I no longer felt special or singledout forhaving lost a child.Where I hadoncebelievedthatsufferingwassomethingthatonlyhappenedtootherpeople,Inowknewthatitwasapartofmethathadbeenthereallalong.Ihadlearnedtohavecompassion formyself, andnow, recognizing suffering inothers, I couldhavethesamecompassionforthem.

As the roll call of names came to an end, a sanctuary full of family andfriendsbegan toclap, filling thespacewithaswellof loveandrespect for theparents who continued to stand. I couldn’t remember ever having felt more

deeplyhonored.Aseveryonefiledoutandgatheredforcoffeein theadjoiningmeetingroom,afewofusstoodinacircle,talkingaboutourkids.

IwasinthemiddleofastoryaboutHannahwhenoneoftheothermothersbrokein.

“Oh,myGod,” she said.“You’re themother of the little girlwith the redshoes!”

HernamewasBarbara,shetoldus,andherdaughterErinwastwoyearsoldwhen she died. She had been treated in the same hospital as Hannah, in thepediatricintensivecareunitwhereHannahhadrecoveredfromhersurgeries.

“Theresidentsandnursesthereweresogreat,”Barbarasaid.“TheytreatedErinlikeshewasapersoninherownright.Theyalwaysintroducedthemselveswhen they came into the room. And they paid attention to details that mightseemsilly tosomepeople,butmeanta lot toErin—like lettingherchooseherownBand-Aids.”

ClaudeandIsmiledateachotherandsqueezedeachother’shands.Barbaracontinued.“ThenursestoldmethatErinremindedthemofanother

littlegirl.They still thought abouther all the time, they said,because shehadchanged theway they did a lot of things.They couldn’t tellme her name forprivacy reasons, but they always referred to her as ‘the little girlwith the redshoes.’”

Claude and I began to cry again, not from a place of sadness, but from aprofoundsenseofprideand relief. It seemed thatHannah’s lifewasmakingadifferenceintheworld,intheheartsandlivesofpeoplesheloved,andinmanyotherssheneverknew.

COMPASSION DOES NOT FEEL sorry in the face of suffering; it knows that allsuffering is its own. When we recognize this connection between us andeveryoneelse,weknowthatwebelongtoeachother;wedonotsufferalone.

Wonder

fromneedingtoknowtolettinggo

Startwalking…your legs will get heavy and tired…Thencomesthemoment,offeelingthewingsyou’vegrown,lifting…

—Rumi

Thirst“DOYOUEVERWONDER,’WHAT’STHEPOINT?’”LAURAJANEasked.

Shewas standingwith her back to our living roomwindow, the afternoonsunpouringinbehindher.Shecouldhavebeenmistakenforared-haloedangelexceptshelookedtooexasperatedtobeholy.ThethingIhadcometoloveaboutLaurajanemorethananythingelsewasthewayshedivedrightin.

“I mean, really,” she continued, “what is God thinking? Theremust be apoint.Ican’tbelieveHe’dgotoallthistroublefornothing.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. These days, feeling stronger and moredeterminedthanevertomakesomethingofmyselfandmylife,Iwasreadytotackle the two questions that had wrapped themselves around my heart andrefusedtoletgo:WhyhadHannahdied?Wherewasshenow?Ifeltimpatient,asifIknewbothtoomuchandtoolittleatonce.WhileIwassurethatHannahhad died for a reason, I didn’t knowwhat it was. I also sensed that she wassomewhere;Ijustdidn’tknowwhere.Itseemedthat,nomatterwhatIdid,thiswas always where I ended up. I felt certain that if I could answer these twoquestions,everythingelseinmylifewouldfinallyfallintoplace.

“I’mtiredofwonderingaboutthesamethingsoverandoveragain,”Isaid.“Whydon’twedosomethingtotrytofigureitout?”

Aweeklater,LaurajaneandImetatmyhousewithafewotherwomenforthe first gathering of what we eventually began to call our “Friday MorningSpiritualGroup.”Together,webeganasearchforanswers.Laurajane,whohadfor years been exploring other religious traditions as a way to deepen herunderstanding, served as our informal leader. At her suggestion, we startedreading and discussing books on topics ranging from dream interpretation topsychicphenomenatotheinherentwisdominotherreligions.WhereIoncehadmet with friends to drink coffee and gossip, I was now drinking coffee andtalkingaboutreincarnation.

IfeltasifIwereatinybird,peckingfromtheinsideofmyshell,justabouttohatch. I felt drasticallydifferenton the inside,while the exteriorofmy lifestilllookedmuchthesameasithadbeforeHannahgotsick.AfterallIhadbeenthrough,IfeltfrustratedthatIhadalmostnothingtoshowforit.Ilongedformyouterlifetobemorepassionateandspontaneous,toreflectthegrowingsenseof

freedomandboldnessIwasfeelinginside.ButIwasalsohesitanttomaketoomany changes too soon.A senseof stability hadonly recently returned tomylife;therewassomethingthatfeltcomfortableandsafeaboutthewaythingshadalwaysbeen.

AlthoughIwashesitanttostepfullyintoanewlife,thebooksIwasreadingand the conversations I was having were opening something in me. I waslearninga language for experiences Ihad lived through thathad seemed,untilnow, beyond words. The part of me that had always felt like an outsider,differentfrommostpeopleIknew,feltlessstrangetomenow.WhileIstillfeltadeeprelationshiptomyChristianfaith,Inowfeltfreetoexperimentwithotherways toexpressandexperiencemydevotion. Ibegan tokeepa journalofmydreams, light candles, and burn incense, things I had done instinctively as ateenagerbuthadabandonedyearsago,asifIhadto“growup.”

WhenIsharedmyenthusiasmwithClaude,hewasn’timpressed.“Youandthosefriendsofyoursarejustabunchofcrazyweirdos,”hesaid.

Hewasonlyhalf-joking.Althoughapartofmebelievedhemightberight,Iwasn’tabouttogiveup

the search.Like a parched desert pilgrimwhohad caught the scent of a leafyoasisinthedistance,therewasnostoppingmenow.

FragilityTHECHRISTMASPARTYATCLAUDE’SOFFICEWASFINALLYwindingdown.Everyonehadenjoyedcookies,punch,andsquaredancinginthecafeteria,andwaitedinalong line to visit with Mrs. Claus and Santa. It was late; many families hadalready gone home. The hall was empty as we walked to the elevator. I wascarryingMaddy,whileWillchasedMargaretincirclesaroundClaudeandme.

From the other end of the hall, awoman and a young girl beganwalkingtoward us. As they got closer, Claude recognized the woman as one of hiscoworkers.Westoppedto introduceourselvesandthenallofus, includingthewomanandherdaughter, stepped into theelevator.As thedoors slid shut, thewomanglancedaround.

“Aren’tyoumissingone?”sheasked.ClaudelookedatWill,Margaret,andMadelaine,andthenatme.“No,”hesaid,turningtothewoman.“Whatdoyoumean?”“That’scurious,”thewomansaid,herbrowsknitted,“I’msurewhenIfirst

sawyouinthehallway,youhadfourchildrenwithyou,notthree.”ClaudeandIlookedateachother,bothwonderingthesamething.Iwanted

morethananythingtobelievethiswasavisitationfromHannah,butIwasafraidto look at it too closely. Even a breath of doubtmight disturb such a fragileconnection.

DreamweaverIPULLEDINTOTHEDRIVEWAYANDPARKED.LEAVINGTHEgirlsbuckledintotheircarseatsso theycouldn’twanderoff, Ibegan tounload the flatsof impatiensandpansiesfromthebackofthecar.Itwasspring.Thesamebuttonwoodtreesthathadunfurled their nubsof greenwhileHannahwas aliveweredoing it again.NowitwasMargaretandMadelaine,insteadofHannah,wholovedtovisitthepond, feed the ducks, andwave to the giantmagnolia tree. I felt as if Iwereascendingaspiralstaircasewheretheviewkeptreturning,buteachtimemyownperspectivehadchanged.

AsIfinishedunloadingtheflowers,Ibrushedthesoiloffmyhandsandthennoticedthatsomeonehadhungalargeplasticbagaroundthehandleofourfrontdoor.Probablysomehand-me-downclothesforthegirls,Ithought.Ipickedthebagupandpeekedinside.Iwaswrong.Insidewasanoteandwhatlookedlikearolled-uppieceofwool.Ireadthenotefirst.

DearMrs.Martell,This rug is for you. It is fromyourdaughterHannah.Pleasedonot

thinkIamstrange.Nothinglikethishaseverhappenedtome.Althoughyou and I have never met, I heard about Hannah when one of mydaughters attended Meadow Flower preschool. A few years ago, Ilearnedtheartofrugweaving,anddecidedtomakearugforeachofmyfourgirls.WhenIfirststartedthisrug,Ihadbelieveditwasforoneofthem.Itwasn’tlongbeforeIrealizedIwaswrong.EverymomentIspentwith it, I found myself thinking about Hannah. In some way I cannotexplain, I knew Hannah wanted me to weave this rug for you as amessagefromher.Inthepastyear,asthetwoofusworkedonthisrugtogether,HannahhaschangedthewayIfeelaboutlifeafterdeath.Iamnolongerafraid.Ifeelblessed.Hannahlovesyouverymuch.Thankyouforbeinghermother.

Love,Joann

AsIunrolledtherug,Ifeltmywonderingmindunravel.Thebackgroundoftherugwastheexact,unusualshadeoftealasthecarpetinourhouse.There,inthe

middleof it, abarefoot,blond-hairedangelhungsuspended ina starrysky. Inherhandssheclaspedalarge,pinkrose—Rose,thenameHannahhadchosenforMargaret’smiddlename.

Standing in thedriveway, I began to cry.This, I knew inmyheart,was amessagefromHannah,andIlovedthatshehaddroppeditintothemiddleofa“nothingspecial”day.

ExhaleMARGARET HAD TURNED THREE OVER THE SUMMER. SHE andMadelaine, like tworhesusmonkeys,were always together; everywhereMargaretwent,Madelainewent,too.Thesedaystheywereaskingalotofquestionsabouttheirbigsister,Hannah.Itwastime,Idecided,toshowthemtheboxofHannah’sspecialthings.Ihadjustpulleditoutfromunderthebedwhenthephonerang.

“Waitasecond,girls.I’llberightback,”Isaid.“Okay,Mommy,”theyreplied.Ishouldhaveknownbetter.Iraceddownstairsandpickedupthephone.It

was the mother of one of the boys fromWill’s basketball team, calling withdirections to thisevening’sgame. Iwrote thedirectionsdown,and thenaskedherabout theend-of-seasonpizzapartywewereplanningfor the team.As thetwoofustalked,Ilosttrackoftime.SuddenlyIrememberedthatMargaretandMadelainewerewaitingforme.Ihadjustsaidgood-byewhenIheardthegirlscomingdownthestairs.

“Don’tIlookbeautiful,Mommy?”Maddysaid.“Andmetoo,Mommy,”Margaretchimedin.Ihungupthephoneandturned.MaddywaswearingHannah’spink-floweredrobej’s.Thenightgownwasso

longonherthatshehadtohikeituparoundherwaisttokeepfromtripping.Shestuckonefootouttowardme.

“Look,Mommy,theyfitjustperfect,”shesaid.Sureenough,Hannah’sredshoeswereonherfeet.

“IhelpedMaddybucklethem,”Margaretsaidproudly.IturnedtoMargaret.IhadbeensodistractedbyMaddy’sgetupthatIhadn’t

noticedhers.Everyinchofexposedskin,fromherheadtohertoes,wascoveredwithHannah’sBand-Aid collection. The two of them stood there, grinning atme.

Ihadn’trealizeduntilnowthatIhadbeenholdingmybreathsinceHannahdied;afraid thatmymemoriesofherwouldvanishifIwasn’table topreservethemagic in these special things.Now that the spellhadbeenbroken, Iknewtherewasa lotmore life in thoseBand-Aids, robe j’s,and redshoesyet tobelived.IhadtoletHannah’smemoriesoutofthebox,andIhadtoletmyselfout,

too.LookingatMargaretandMadelainebeamingatme,Ididn’tknowwhethertolaughoutloudorburstintotears.

“Youtwolookgorgeous,”Isaidfinally,kneelingandopeningmyarms.Asthetwoofthemfellgigglingintomylap,Iadded,“AndHannahwouldthinkso,too.”

GivenI COULDN’T TAKEMYEYESOFF IT. STANDING IN FRONTOFMonet’smasterpiece inNewYorkCity’sMetropolitanMuseumofArt,IrealizedthathisboldwhipsofpainthadcapturedthemomentwhenavaseofsunflowersonacrimsonclothisallyouneedfromGod.

ThenextdayIboughtasmallsetofacrylicpaints,afewbrushes,astretchedcanvas,andahow-tobook.Ispreadsheetsofnewspaperoverthediningroomtable, filledasmallbowlwithwater,dabbedsmallbuttonsofpaintonapaperplate,andbegantomixthecolors.Itookmytime,lettingeachstepleadme.

Istartedsketching,lightgraypencilonwhitecanvas,andwatchedasturdywood cabin settle into a valley of rolling hills, surrounded by a mountain oftrees. Gradually a stream emerged, its white water spilling over rocks in thebend,thenslowingtodeep,cooleddieswhereitswungpastthehouse.Ibuiltatinywell,completewithanoakdippingbucket,andaddedawell-wornflower-edgedpaththatledtothecabin’sbackdoor.

I touched the first strokeofpaint to thecanvas tentatively, thengotbolderwith each subsequent one. The colors on the tip of the brush swallowed thepencildrawing,leavingmetotrust,notmyplan,butthevisionthathadinspiredit.ThemorepatienceIhadwiththeprocess,themoreithadtoteach.Ilearnedthat a leaf is a mosaic of light and green, that a roof of cedar shakes offershairlinecracksofgoldtotheafternoonsun.Evenmistakesweretransformedonthecanvas:Whentoomuchbluewasaccidentallymixedintotheyellow,mossyshadowsIhadn’tknownwerethereemergedaroundtherocksinthestream.

AsIpainted,Ifeltcompletelyalive,filledwithasenseof joythatwasnotorientedtotimeorplace.IrememberedwatchingHannahasshesetthetableforthe teaparty, andknew that Ihad finallyacceptedher invitation toparticipatefully inmy life. Itwas the quality of presence and attention that I brought towhatIwasdoing,nottheactivityitself,thatmadeitwhatitwas.

Twomonths later, Isignedmynamein thebottomrightcornerandleanedthecanvasagainstthewindowabovethekitchensink.IwatchedClaudethroughthe window, pushing Margaret and Madelaine on the swings. As the girlssquealedwithdelight,soaringinandoutofawarmpatchofsun,Irememberedmy fingerpainting afternoonwithHannah. I could almost see the drips of red,

blue,yellow,andgreenwinkingatmefromthegrass.

GratitudeI WAS A BLOCK AWAY FROM THE TRAFFIC LIGHT, AND IT WAS red. I was late anddidn’twant to slowdown. Just before I liftedmy foot off the accelerator, thelightturnedgreen.

“Thankyou,”Ibreathed.Thesedays,tiredoftryingtofigureitallout,Ihadstoppedpraying“please,

please,please”andhadstartedsaying“thankyou,thankyou,thankyou”instead.Beginning with the obvious blessings in my life—my kids, my friends, myhealth,theeffortClaudeandIwereputtingintoourmarriage—onceIstarted,Ifound that I couldn’t stop. Themore I looked, themore I found. Soon Iwasthanking everything: trees for their shade, sweaters for their comfort, dogs fortheirfur.

Gratitude had begun to transform theway I saw and experiencedmy life.Becauseofit,Icouldseethateachmomentcontainedsomethingtobethankfulfor,evenifitwassimplythegiftofanotherbreath.IwasremindedofHannahand the way she had harvested kernels of joy almost everywhere she looked.Thispracticeofbeingpresentwithwhatwashappeningwas farmore thananexerciseinpositivethinking;itwasareturntothedeepstillnessshehadsharedwithme.

Within that stillness, I began to realize an evenmore awesome thing. Nosinglemomentstoodonitsown;eachwasacombinationofallthosethatcamebeforeandallthosethatwouldcomeafter.Therewasapattern,anintelligence,inthewaytheywerewoventogetherthatseemedtosuggestthatIwasnotlivingmylife;mylifewaslivingme.

SeaChangeIWALKEDALONGTHEEDGEOFTHEWATER,SAVORINGTHEslidingcrunchundermyfeet.Ilovedtheocean,andIfelthumbledbyitsexpanseandrelentlessness.

Iwasfilledwithasense,bothfrighteningandexhilarating,thateverythinginmylifeneededtochange.IntheyearssinceHannah’sdeath,Ihadwriggledoutof theclaustrophobicexpectationsIhadoncehadformyself.NowI longed tohaveaclearersenseofpurpose,tolivealifethatincludedmoreofme.

AlthoughClaude and Iwere still trying to save ourmarriage, our love, asrealandunstableasshiftingsand,waserodingbeneathourfeet.Bothofusweredesperately unhappywith theway thingswere but couldn’t agree onwhatweneeded to do to change them. I still couldn’t imaginemyselfwithout Claude;divorce seemed like a faraway option.While I felt desperate to let go of thethings in my life that were no longer working, I was terrified of losingeverythingthatstillmatteredtome.

Sittingdownontheedgeofadune,Ileanedbackintoitscurve.Iclosedmyeyesandlistenedtothepoundingofmyheartoverthecrashofthewavesonthebeach.Iinhaledthestiffwindandlickedmylips,tastingthesaltonmytongue.Ilayquietly, lettingtheimmensityenvelopme.Ifeltsmall, infinitelysmall,andyetfullyembraced,held.IcouldfeelthetideofmylifesuckingmeawayfrommyoldideasaboutwhoIwassupposedtobe.Ilongedtosurrendertoit,butfirstIneededtobecertainthatwhereveritwasgoingtotakeme,Hannahwouldbethere,too.

Iheardthesquawkofagulljustaboveme.Iopenedmyeyesandsatup.Shading my eyes with my hand, I squinted into the brightness of the

afternoonsun.Thebrownmottledformwithitsexpanseofwhitewingswoopedand dived towardme.As he dipped and juked, the bird’s brown beaded eyesneverleftmine.Helandedonthesandafewfeetinfrontofme.Thetwoofusquietly studied each other. At first glance, he looked like a thousand otherseagulls,butas I continued to stareathim, Inoticed thathisbellywaswhiterthanmost,onlythetipsofhiswingfeathersweredippedinbrown,andhisrightlegwas slightlymangled. Hewinked one eye and then ruffled his feathers. Irealized,asIlookedathim,thathewasascommonandsingularasme.

Iknewthenthatthesamemysterythathungthemoon,turnedtheearth,and

replenishedtheseahadgivenlife toHannah,madethisseagullandme; itwasthe source of everything, arising and falling away, constantly changing andforeverunchanged.Whatever Idid,whereverHannahwas, the twoofuswereforever part of eachother. Itwasn’t just a poetic fantasy, designed to comfortme;itwasthetruth.

I could give up trying to figure everything out.Therewas no single, rightanswer to the questions I was asking; their uncertainty, fullness, andmysterysimplyhadtobelived.

HarvestMARGARETANDMADELAINEWERESTRAPPEDINTOTHEIRCARseatsintheback.Willwasinthefrontnexttome.Iliftedmyfootfromtheacceleratorasthecaraheadslowedtomakealeftturn.

“Mommy,look!”Maddycriedexcitedly,pointingherfingerandwigglinginherseat.“That’swhereHannahandIplayedinheavenbeforeIwasborn!”

Shewaspointing toHannah’s favorite house, the light pinkonewithdarkpinktrim.

Ihadnoideahowsheknew,anddidn’tneedto,either.IreceiveditsimplyasagiftfromHannah’slife,evidenceoftheunfathomablemysterythatlivesinallthings.

Lookingback,IrealizedthatthroughthelastyearofHannah’slifeandinthethreeandahalfyears sinceherdeath,my faithhadbeenpatiently ripening. Itwas in this single, exquisite moment that it finally released its hold on theuppermostbranchanddropped,plumpandjuicy,intomylap.

DanceTHEPINK-FROSTEDCAKEWITH ITSCLUSTEROFWHITE candlessat in themiddleofthe breakfast table. Today was Hannah’s eighth birthday, and we would becelebratingjustaswehadeveryyearsincethedayoftheredconvertible.Beforethey left for work and school, Claude and Will had blown up three bags ofballoons,whichwerenowhanginginbrightbunchesalongsidethetissuepaperstreamersthatswoopedfromeachcorneroftheroom.MargaretandMadelainehad been happy to “help” by unwinding miles of cellophane tape from thedispenser,butwhenIstopped to load thebreakfastdishes into thedishwasher,they began to jump up and down, begging me to hurry. Hannah’s birthdaywasn’t the only special thing about today; it was also Margaret’s andMadelaine’sfirstdayofballet.

IhadknownwhatthisdaywouldlooklikeeversinceIdreamedofbeingthemotherof a littlegirl.Mydaughter, like theothers inher class,wouldwear alight pink leotard and light pink tights. She would carry her light pink balletslippers toclass inablackpatent leathercase.Herhairwouldbeswept intoaneatponytail,fastenedwithapinksatinbow.Inmydream,theothermomsandIsmileproudly,andtheyall lookprettymuchlikeme.Wewear tailoredslacks,crispcottonshirts,leatherflats,goldwatches,bracelets,andearrings.Ourhairispulled back into sleek barrettes; our younger children, the babies in theirstrollers,areclean,burped,andsleeping.

Yes, I knew theway the firstdayofballetwas supposed to look, and thisdefinitelywasn’tit.Madelaine’sleotardwaslightpink,butitwascoveredwithchocolateandlastnight’sspaghettidinner;shehadwornitnonstopfortwodays,too excited even to take it off before bed.Her pink tights and slipperswouldmatchtheotherlittlegirls’,butherhairwasalreadyescapingfromagarishpom-pom,fluorescentgreen,pink,andblue.Insteadofablackpatentleatherbag,shecarriedhershoesandMargaret’sinayellowvinyltotefilledwiththebooksandBarbiedollsshehadpacked“justincase.”

AsforMargaret,shehadpooh-poohedmysuggestionofapinkleotardandchosentowearadancecostumefromherdress-upboxinstead.Itselectric-bluesequins and shimmering, multicolored tutu clashed only slightly with the redtights underneath. She wore sparkly silver bedroom slippers that looked like

balletslippersbutweren’t,andarhinestonetiarafitforCinderella.Catching our reflection in the hallmirror, I hesitated. Nomatter what the

othermotherswouldbewearingtoday,Iknewthatmylongskirt,blackleatherboots, and red wool wrap would look as out of place asMargaret’s sequins.Where had that other woman—the one I was in my first-day-of-ballet-classdream—gone?

Suddenlyavoiceinmemadeitselfheard:“Maybeyoushouldchangeyourclothes into something more appropriate. Or at least insist that Margaret andMadelainechangetheirs.”Ialmostlaughedoutloud.This,Iknew,wasthevoiceofthatotherwoman,theonewhohadalwaysbeenconcernedaboutwhatotherpeoplemightthink.Shewasafraid,butIwasn’t.

As I stood in front of themirror, gazing at thepicturewemade, I felt thesidesoftheboxIhadbeenlivinginforyearsdropoffandfallaway.Iknewthenthatpartofmewouldalwaysbeafraidofgettinghurt,makingmistakes,ornotbeingloved.Ididn’thavetowaitformyfeartogoaway.Likemysuffering,itwassimplypartofwhoIam.

IturnedtoMargaretandMadelaine.“Youtwolookgorgeous,”Isaid.“Youdo,too,Mommy,”theysaid,giggling.“Thenwhatarewewaitingfor?”Isaid.“Let’sgo!”Hannahhad taughtme that there is adeathmorepainful than theone that

tookherbodyfromthisworld:asoulsuffocatedby fear leaves toomany joysunlived.AsIwatchedMargaretandMadelainemarchintodanceclass,smiling,theirheadsheldhigh,IknewthemagicofHannah’sredshoeshadfinallycomefullcircle.Shehadnotonlygiventhisgifttome;shehadgivenittohersisters,aswell.

RememberingIWASASLEEP,SUSPENDEDINASILENCEWHERENOTHINGwaspresentorhappening.Something broke through the surface. The stillness let go. I floated upward,towardconsciousness.Iwasn’talone.Idriftedslowly,gently,towardthisother.Myeyeswereclosed.Iwasnotafraid.Iheardherbreathandfeltthepatienceinherwaiting, and knew shewas standing besideme, next to the bed.My eyeswerestillclosed.Iletthembeclosed.Shewaited.Iopenedthem.

Shestoodinthefirstlight,smilingquietly,asifshehadknownallalong,andstill knew. Itwas spring, shewas sick, andwehad alreadybeen told shewasdying.

“Mommy,”shesaid,“Ihadadream.”Iliftedthecoversandfeltthewarmthofagoodnight’ssleepescaping.She

climbedin,wiggledherbodyclosetomine,andturnedtofaceme.“Mommy,Ihadadream,”sherepeated,“averyveryspecialdream.”Ourfaceswerealmosttouching.Shepaused,hereyesshining,asifshewas

abouttospillasecret.“IdreamedthatGodandHisangelscameandpickedmeupandcarriedme

intoHisworld!”Sheclappedherhands.“Mommy,”sheexclaimedexcitedly,“wouldn’tthatbesogreat?”Shethrewherarmsaroundmyneck.IheldherascloseasIdared.

EpilogueSEVENYEARSAFTERHANNAH’SDEATH,MANYTHINGSHAVEchanged.

Claude and I did divorce. For me, our parting was both painful andinevitable.Afterweeksof soul-searchingand truth-telling, the twoofus satatourkitchentableanddraftedourowncustodyandsettlementagreement.Justaswehaddonemanytimesbefore,weusedDr.Markoff’sruleandmadethebestdecisionswecouldwiththeinformationwehadatthetime.

For the rest, I have walked into the life I sensed was there all along; itsfoundationisthestillnessthatemergedinmylastyearwithHannah,whichhascontinuedtodeepeninme.Mylifetoday,whichincludesanewmarriage,isripewiththeexhilarationoflivingwiththeunansweredquestions.

Will,Margaret,andMadelaineareflourishing;inpart,Ibelieve,becauseofHannah’scontinuedpresenceintheirlives.WillstilltalkstoHannahmostnightsbeforefallingtosleep.MargaretandMadelainespeakproudlyandoftenoftheir“bigsister.”

Hannah’s magnolia tree, planted in front of our church, bloomed the firstyear. It has become a place of remembering and return for those who lovedHannah.Angelandbutterflyornamentsandachild’splasticbeadnecklacestillhang on its lower branches; bouquets of flowers are delivered to it on herbirthdayandontheanniversaryofherdeath.

Hannah’s red shoes were never returned to the box under my bed. Theycontinued to click and dance through life onMadelaine’s feet until the patentleatheronthetoeswasrubbedoff,thestrapssplitatthebuckles,andtheheelswerealmostgone.Theimageofthemcontinuestoliveinmyheart,a timelessreminderofHannah’sbrightspirit.

AcknowledgmentsI AMCOMPLETELYUNAPOLOGETIC INMYGRATITUDETO everyonewhohasbeenapartofthisbook,itswisdom,anditsstory.TothoseIhavenamedhereandtothemanymoreIhaven’t,Iopenmyarmsandhearttoyou,andbow.

ToToniBurbank,myeditoratBantam,mydeepestrespectandgratitudetoyou for your clarity, generosity, and integrity.Your fierce commitment to thisbookandtomeisamanifestationofgraceinmylife,andIknowit.Thanks,too,toBethRashbaum,BarbBurg,SusanCorcoran,andmanymoreatBantamfortheenthusiasticsupportandattentionyoucontinuetogivethisproject.

ToB.G.Dilworth,myagent,itisanhonorandajoytobeworkingwithyou.Thankyouforyourunwaveringfaith in thisbookandeverythingit represents.Your open heart, sharp intellect, and willingness to dream outside the boxcontinue to inspiremyworkandmyvisionofwhat ispossible in it.ToDebraEvans,thisbook’sdoula,Icelebratebothyourintuitionandyourwillingnesstoactonit.

To Mark Matousek, China Galland, Jeremiah Abrams, and Joan Oliver,thankyouforyourinvaluableeditorialinput.TheloveanddelightIexperienceasyour friend is irrepressible and irreplaceable.To JaneHirshfield, thankyounot only for your thoughtful beauty and friendship, but for openingme to thepoetry that lives in my heart. To Father Dunstan Morrissey, thank you forallowing my work to ripen in the solitude and sanctity of Sky Farm. To Dr.Clark, my high school English teacher, this book is what it is because yourefusedtogivemeA’suntilIdidmybest.Thankyouforthat.

ToJenniferWelwood,yourfriendshipisasourceoflightinmylife.ToJohnWelwood,Iamdeeplynourishedbytheintegrityandheartyoupourintoyourcontinuedsearchforwhatreallymatters.ToPalden,Ibowtoyouandthesilencewherewemeet.ToRahim,thankyouforsogracefullyreceiving,asyouputit,“the silkenwhack ofmy angelicZen stick.”ToSusanShannon, it is a joy towalkalongthepathofdevotionwithyou.ToFlorenceFalk,thankyouforyourfriendship and wisdom. To Diane Berke and Tony Zito, your friendship andgeneroushospitalityallowmyvisitstoNewYorkCitytobebothmorefrequentandmorefun.

ToMaryandPhilLore,Iwillalwaysbegratefulforthewaythetwoofyou

walkedthroughthefirewithme.ToJohn,Kaitlin,andSamantha,thankyouforsharingyourhomeandyourhearts.

To Amy Fox, Vanda Marlow, Kath Delaney, Gary Malkin, Nick Hart-Williams,andJeffHutner,yourfriendshipandsupportofmeandmyworkgoesfarbeyondthecallofduty.ToWendyPerry,thankyouforopeningyourhometoRogerandme,mychildren,andmywork.ToFarhadandMinaNawabandJohn Salz, I thoroughly enjoy the simplicity of our café friendship and thethought-provoking conversations we share. To Darlene at Donut Alley, muchgratitudefortheglazedandjelliedinspirationyoucontributedtothelonghoursIsatinfrontofmycomputer.

To Dr. Peri Kamalaker, Dr. Joel Edman, Dr. Mark Markoff, Dr. JoelBrockstein, Dr. Bekele, Dr. Saad, Dr. Bagtas, Jill Kurnos-Wichtel, Susan,NursesPat,Katie,Amy,Bridget,Kathy,andotherswhosenamesIcannotrecallbutwhosefacesIcannotforget,Iwillbeforevergratefulforthedegreeofcareand compassion you offered Hannah and our family. To the Christ ChurchUnitedMethodistcongregationinFairHavenwhoprayedforus,cookedforus,and supported our family through Hannah’s illness and after her death,particularlyMarthaandRichWagner,Dave,Maureen,AllisonandSaraSquires,NancyFarr,BonnieHallowell,KarenGanson,andPatMagowan,thankyou.

To Laurajane Baker, your friendship and love continue to live in me. ToRalphandCarolynBaker,thankyouforallowingmetoincludeLaurajane’slifeandlaughterinthisbook.TotheFairHavencommunity,particularlyRheaandFredHarris,Bob andLoukiaLoPresti,Daryl andTomLey,Brenda Jacobson,MeaghanLadd,JamieSussel-Turner,NancySheridan,MaureenCampion,NinaFisher,JoanForsythe,RhettCastner,and theMeadowFlowerNurserySchool,thank you. To KimMontella, Kate Shevitz, Lili Carroll, Ann andMark Orr,BarbaraandJimmyShaw,youwerethere,andIwillalwaysbegratefulforthat.

To all the children whose lives live on in the hearts of those they loved,includingScottLore,DanielleMarkoff,ErinBarbolini,KimberlyPertrillo,RyanSaberon,BryceZiegler,DavidBínaco, StephenVerdícchio,DavidVanderbilt,Sara Appelbaum, Cliff Dainty, Tushar Bhatnagar, Margaret Rose Delatore,Debbie Steup, PamelaMullen, andAnthonyMar tell, I bow to you and yourmoms.

ToClaude,IamgratefultoyouasWill,Hannah,Margaret,andMadelaine’sdad, and respect theway that eachofuscontinues todo thebestwecanwithwhatweknow.Totherestof theMartellfamily, includingWilburandHeleneMartell, Marien and George Kissling, Susan Martell, Ruth and Larry Allen,

CharlesandCindyMartell, JuliaMartell-SchnaarandRodSchnaar,MollyandAlanLynchosky,andDianaMartell,thankyoufortheuniqueplacethateachofyouhadinmylife.

To Yann Housden, Gladys Housden,Mark and Elke Housden, and ClaireandIanStone,thankyouforopeningyourlivesandheartstome.

Tomyparents,RonandLenoreSchlack,youhaveneverstoppedremindingmehowcapableand loved Iam.Thisbook isa testament toyourunwaveringloveandsupportofmeandeachother.Totherestofmyfamily,includingDianaand Chris Root, Laura and Brock Albaugh, Ben Schlack, Karl and MarileeSchlack, Larry and Marilyn Schlack, Betty Hoodak, and Kathleen and LouRoehrig,thankyou,thankyou,thankyou.

To Will, Hannah, Margaret, and Madelaine, each of you is a fount ofwisdom,love,andbeautyinmylife.Itismygreatestjoytobeyourmother.

ToRogerHousden,myhusband,mylove,whenyoulookedintomethefirsttimewemet,IknewthatIhadfinallybeenseen.Thankyouforeverywaythatyousogentlyandfiercelysupportedmeandthisbook.Iknowthatitstandsinits fullness because of you. I am grateful for everything you are, all that youhavegiven,andforourlove,astimelessandinconsequentialasalastbreath.

AbouttheAuthorMARIAHOUSDENisalecturer,author,andpassionateadvocateforqualityoflifeattheendoflife.From1995to1999,MariaservedontheBoardofDirectorsoftheKimberlyFund, a nonprofit organization that raisedmoney for families ofchildrenfacinglife-threateningillnesses.Inaddition,aspartofhercommitmenttohelpingothers learntolivelifemorefully,shehasledgroupsofwomenoncontemplative,silentjourneysthroughDeathValley.

The mother of three children in addition to Hannah,Maria is a native ofTraverse City,Michigan. She and her husband, Roger, live in a beautiful logcabin in Woodstock, New York. You can reach Maria by e-mail athannahsgift@juno.com.

Praise‘Alyrical,heartbreakingandheartwarmingaccountofamother’sthree-year-olddaughter’sillnessanddeath…Housdenherselfoffersarealgift tousallwiththisbook.’PublishersWeekly

‘IabsolutelycouldnotputHannah’sGiftdown.Itbrokemyheartandfilledmewithjoyandgavemewisdomformyowndailywalk.’AnneLamott,authorofTravellingMercies

‘Maria Housden’s testament to a dying daughter’s transcendent wisdom, amother’sall-too-earthlydevotion, and love’suncannygift for transforming thegreatestsufferingintojoyandself-awareness,comesasagifttousall.’MarkMatousek,authorofSexDeathEnlightenment

‘IloveHannah.Iloveherhandsandhershoes.Ilovewhatsheknewandknows.Iloveyourbook.’EveEnsler,activistandplaywright,TheVaginaMonologues

‘Superlatives seem pointless; I have only gratitude for the lessons of self-realizationemerginghere.Readitandweepforthesheerjoyofbeingalive.’JeremiahAbrams,authorofMeetingtheShadow

‘Hannah’s Gift is a celebration of life in all its richness, pain, mystery, andwonder.MariaHousdengivesus renewed faith in the transformativepoweroflove,’JohnWelwood,authorofTowardaPsychologyofAwakening

‘Thisisaprofoundandextraordinarybook;asmalltreasurewhichI’mgratefultohaveandgladtorecommendtoanyonewhowantstounderstandhowsorrowandjoyareinseparable.’SusanGriffin,authorofAChorusofStones

‘MariaHousdengivesusthesureknowledgethatlovenotonlysurroundsusbutgoesonafterdeath.’ChinaGalland,authorofTheBondBetweenWomen

‘… Housden’s skilful writing and mature understanding of grief make this aspirituallyinspiringstoryaboutlife.Sureyou’regoingtocry.Butit’sthekindofheart-cracking-open cry that comes froman abundanceof feelings: sorrow forthiswiseandgut-honestnarrator;tendernessforWill,theloyalelderbrotherthatHannahleftbehind;andloveforthisbaffling,wonderfullifethatgivesusgiftslikeHannah.’GailHudson,SpiritualityEditor,Amazon.com

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