January 12th, 2008

            My oldest daughter Haley and I are driving back from Gilda’s Club. Every Saturday morning there’s an art therapy session for kids whose parents have cancer. The club is named for Gilda Radner, former SNL player, who died from cancer.  I’ve been taking Haley, who is seven, for about a month.  Kelly, my two-year-old, is too young to understand what is happening to her mom. 

We’re almost home when I see Hollywood Hot Dog coming up quickly on the left.  Seems like the perfect lunch for this brutal winter day, so I quickly change lanes amidst busy traffic and turn left into the parking lot.  We get out of the car and rush toward the front door as the cold Chicago air bites our cheeks.  Inside almost every seat is taken.  The overworked kitchen warms the entrance of this small, old, wooden building.  The smell of hot dogs, beef sandwiches, and gyros, makes it seem like summer. 

We pick a booth by a steamed up window in the back.  I leave Haley and go up to the counter to order.  I bring back our food to the table.  Haley puts her seven-year-old hands in little fists and shakes them in excitement when I place her lunch in front of her. She is still at an age where getting a hot dog and lemonade is as exciting as going to Disneyland. I sit across from her, looking out the window and watch across the street as the winter wind is blowing the car dealership banner, trying to free it from its ties.  I wonder how long of a winter may be in store for us.

            Haley’s voice snaps me out of my daydreaming. “Daddy, Mom could die, right?” Haley blurts out in between bites of her hot dog.  I wasn’t expecting the question, but thrilled she brings up the topic on her own.  I’ve always worried that if I initiated this conversation I would somehow scar her for life.  So instead, I practiced this conversation over and over in my head, and yet, even in my mind, I could never get it to come out naturally: “Now Haley, did you ever wonder what happened to people when they die?” “Boy Haley, did that weekend go by fast, kinda like our time here on Earth.” “Hey Haley, whatcha playing?  That sure looks like fun, you know what’s not fun though, people dying.  Come on, let’s talk.”

Now, with no warning, Haley asks me if her mom could die and I suddenly feel as if I am in that dream, running in my underwear down the school hallway, late for the final exam, and I need that A.  “She could die, Haley, she is very sick,” I say, trying to keep my voice at an even keel.  “We are going to do everything we can.”

Haley takes another bite, and then picks up her lemonade. The straw is on the wrong side of the cup.  Her other hand is holding the hot dog and she can’t move her straw.  She stretches her neck like a giraffe to the far side of the cup to take a sip.  She puts the cup down. “Right, she probably won’t die.” She says “But she could.”

            “Correct.” I say.

Think Matt think, I tell myself. Say more!  Should I tell her mom probably will die but we hope she doesn’t, or just leave it as is?  This conversation could not be progressing any slower and yet it is moving at lightning speed.

            “If she dies, can Christina be my new Mommy?” Haley asks in the same tone as if asking for a cookie. Christina is her support group leader at Gilda’s Club.

            “It doesn’t really work like that,” I answer.

I’m taken aback how quickly Haley has replaced Lisa. I try to put myself in her shoes and think like a seven-year-old.  Why not?  I wonder.  Why shouldn’t she?  Aren’t we all built with self-preservation?  The needs of a seven-year-olds are basic; if Mom dies, who will be the new Mom to take care of me?  And if I’m seven, don’t I think I get a choice in who that new Mom will be?  At this age, what’s the difference between this and replacing her Winnie-the-pooh stuffed animal the dog chewed up?

            “Christina will of course always be there for you to help you out with your feelings,” I tell her, “but you wouldn’t have a new mom.  I would take care of you girls.  The only way you would get a new mom would be if I found someone I liked very much and decided to marry that person.  But I can tell you, that probably won’t happen, at least not for a long time.” I realize that last part is more for me than her.   

            “Oh… but even if Mom does die, can we still go to Gilda’s Club?” Haley asks

            “Of course, you can go there for the rest of your life - once a member, always a member.”

            “What if Mom doesn’t die?”

            “Still a member, you’ve had a person close to you with cancer; you can go from now on no matter what.” 

            “Cool!!  Boy with Mom being sick, I’m sure going to have a lot of play dates,” she says now with a nervous laugh. I know that laugh and I can tell she understands enough for this to scare her.

I don’t respond; I am fascinated with this line of questioning. I wait a few minutes to see what she says next.

“Hey Dad, we don’t want Mom to die, right?” Haley asks, and puts down her hot dog and looks me right in the eye.

I feel my anger at the world build in my stomach; it moves to my face as the blood rushes upwards and my ears get hot, my fingers discreetly squeeze into my palms and form a fist.  I hate that my seven-year-old has to ask me these questions.  She’s just a kid, we’re eating hot dogs.  Shouldn’t our conversation be, “Hey Dad, which do you think is prettier, yellow butterflies or red ladybugs?”  Instead, this girl is trying to sort out the complex implications of guilt verses play dates. Does Haley think because fun things will happen to her if mom dies, that she would somehow be responsible for her death?

            “Right Haley,” I say “we do not want Mom to die. We very much want her to survive this sickness.  However, listen to me, this is important. If Mom does die, it will be very sad for all of us, but it won’t be any of our faults.  Nothing we think or say can change the course of what is happening to Mom.  It will never be any of our faults.”

I wait for her response and she just nods and eats her hotdog.  There is no way Haley is this calm and collected.  It looks like this is going to be a game of patience, even though I want one conversation and have her set for the rest of her life.  But if Lisa is not around for Haley when she finishes grammar school, gets her first boyfriend, goes to prom, gets married, has babies and becomes a mother herself, Haley will grieve the loss of Lisa each time.  It scares me to think when she, Kelly, and eventually Molly, will start to understand the ripple effect of growing up without a mother.  This realization could be in 5 years, could be in 10.  But as I watch Haley trying unsuccessfully to get the ketchup off her chin by using her tongue, clearly, today is not the day she will understand all that could lie ahead.