This story does not have a happy ending. As much as I may desire to lead you into a false hope that everything will turn out alright, decency will not allow it. It may be my role as purveyor of this story to guide your emotions, yet, in this particular case, it would be dishonorable. Such deceit would only serve to insult the memory of a life that deserves more.
My wife and I were only a year married when we discovered we were expecting our first. The emotions were a roller coaster from the start, between morning sickness (a very misleading phrase) and feeling incredibly unprepared for parenthood. To be honest, true excitement didn’t really come until late in the pregnancy, when we decided to find out the gender. At the discovery of a little girl on the way, everything finally started to feel a little more real. I had to deal with quite a lot of tears, and even Sarah shed a few, herself.
We started dreaming about the things we would love to do with our little girl someday, and would point things out to one another as we went for walks; an elaborate, wooden doll house in an old antique shop, pretty little dresses at the little-tikes store, soccer balls and hoola hoops, tea sets and skates. I guess that’s how we ended up in the little ballet studio in the first place.
We could see the reflections of children doing their stretches in a room of mirrors. Entering the studio itself, we brushed off the instructor and moved around the edge of the studio discussing where our little girl would stand, how she would twirl, and leap, and other fancy ballet things. That was when we saw her.
She was smaller than the other girls, looking thin and tired, but with a fierce determination in her eyes as she attempted a certain move again and again. We could see the frustration building as she stumbled, as she fell. After one particularly painful looking tumble, Sarah went over and knelt next to the girl. I followed warily, scanning for some uppity parent who would tell us off for ruining the concentration of their rising star.
No one came. No one looked. No one cared.
Amy was eight years old. Her mother had left. Her father was an alcoholic that didn’t care whether she came home or not. She spent her days at the ballet school in order to have something to be proud of. Something her father might be proud of. The owner of the school allowed her to keep coming so long as she didn’t distract the other girls whose parents were paying for a “prestigious tutorage.” Uppity parents…
Well, the rest of the day had us running around getting new ballet shoes, proper food, and other such things for Amy, who had very quickly endeared herself to our hearts. She was brilliant and polite, with a fiery spirit. We started coming back day after day, spending time with her and offering our encouragement and assistance (Sarah had long ago been in such a school). We even convinced the instructor that Amy should be allowed to dance in the solo recitals coming up in a few weeks.
Then we noticed the coughing. It was subtle at first, one here and there, but after a few days we became worried. We thought she looked thinner, even smaller than she already was. The coughing got worse, and we made the decision to take her in to the hospital. After a difficult few hours of tracking down her father and getting her health care information, we got her in. It wasn’t news we were ready to hear. A raging lung infection combined with significant damage from long-term malnutrition had been destroying her body inside. Nothing more could be done. She had two weeks, at best.
We were devastated.
This little girl wasn’t even ours, but in our hearts she was. We felt like we had raised her, like she was our first child. Looking back, that really is what she was. As we both wept bitterly, she only smiled, weak and in pain, and said that everything was going to be okay. Her faith was stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.
After a few days of resting in the hospital, we were allowed to take her home. When we did, her father, mercifully sober for once, shrugged and said we could take care of her if we wanted. We took her home and made sure she wanted for nothing. Of course, what she wanted most was to dance. We could see the pain as she struggled through the routine we prepared for recital. She wouldn’t give up and continuously would say, “As long as you’re there, I can do it.”
Recital day came. We dropped her off at the studio early so we could go pick up a few things for celebration after. Traffic was thick, backed up from an accident, and impossible to get out of. We rushed to the doors late and stressed out, made worse by the fact that they wouldn’t let us in because the seats were all full. Sarah almost burst into tears when we heard Amy’s song start to play. In desperation, we ran through the halls to the backstage door and made our way to edge of the curtain so we could watch.
Tears ran down Amy’s cheeks as she spun and leapt, noticeably weaker than in her practicing. She didn’t see us. We had left her too. Then we watched her foot catch, and she tumbled toward the stage edge as the crowd inhaled sharply. Sarah stifled a cry as Amy barely caught herself hanging over the six-foot drop. Then our eyes met hers. In an instant we saw her fire return, a radiant smile lighting up her face. She pulled herself up and continued her routine with renewed strength and energy.
Despite its complete lack of uppity propriety, the audience cheered.
As the final notes of the song faded away and Amy took her bow, she collapsed. All was such a blur after that. Sirens. Waiting rooms. Doctors and nurses, coming and going. Finally being able to see her all propped up in a hospital bed, looking exhausted, but content. We didn’t understand how she could be so full of peace, so full of hope. Her diagnosis was coming to a close. We had maybe only minutes with her.
I’ll never forget her words to us.
“I’m not scared. I don’t have to be sick anymore. I don’t have to be sad. I get to be with Jesus. I love you mommy. I love you daddy. I’ll see you soon.”
As her heart stopped, ours shattered. I wanted to scream at God, to hate Him for this pain, but faced with the simple hope and faith of our little girl, I could not. He took her home. He stopped her hurt. He gave her peace. That was enough for me.
Three months later, our little girl was born and our hearts began to mend. We called her Amy.
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