Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry (18 page)

ABOUT FOUR MONTHS LATER,
you’re leaving a local pharmacy when the same woman you had seen at the healing service approaches you in the parking lot. She stops and tells you she remembers you from the healing service at Mission Hill.

“Were you in a car accident?” she asks.

“No, most people assume that’s what happened to me. Actually I had a brain hemorrhage and stroke that paralyzed my left side.”

Normally, you would have made up a ridiculous story, like you were a matador in Spain and the bull let you live to spread the word that bulls rule! The look on this woman’s face, though, tells you that you shouldn’t make such a joke.

“Why were you at the healing service?” you ask her.

“I have ovarian cancer and I travel to attend as many healing services as are available. My son and I are going to Lourdes next week.”

You can feel her desperation. She wants to live so much. Back in the pharmacy you just left, people are buying vitamins at the counter and someone is impatient about a prescription and the front page of the tabloids are howling about something a celebrity did wrong, but there you are outside, two strangers in a parking lot.

Life is bustling around you, and you’re standing in a little bubble together, enveloped by your own mortality.

After you part, you think how strange it was to encounter, in your own hometown, the one person you noticed at the healing service forty miles away from where you live. Some people say, “What a coincidence!” There is no such thing as coincidence. Everything has a reason. The two of you were meant to see each other again. You may never know why, or what happened at Lourdes, or even if she is still alive. You may never know anything except that you both got something from your encounter.

Every now and then, you think of her and pray she has fared well.

STILL GRASPING FOR ANYTHING
that can put you back in one piece, you try another spiritual avenue. Your mother had read about a young girl named Audrey who supposedly held miraculous powers. When she was three years old she fell into the family pool and was drowning for enough time that she went into a coma. She’s now about fifteen—and still in a coma. People believe that she has healing powers and that she has created miracles.

Your mom is excited about Audrey, having first heard about her via word of mouth and then later actually reading about her in the newspaper. The newspaper seemed to confirm what she heard, so it must be true.

Mom encourages you to visit her and pray for a miracle.

Your internal reaction is, “Wow, this is too weird to be true. I’m going to hang out with a coma-ridden, fifteen-year-old girl, and through osmosis, I’m supposed to be healed!”

But you hear yourself say, “Okay, sure. I’ll try it.”

Desperation has this weird effect. It gets rid of barriers and leads to a new openness.

You want Berbie’s daughter, Daisy, to go, too.

DAISY AND RORY
were born two days apart. When you and your dear friend Berbie were pregnant together, people often joked that you must have been at the same party.

Berbie, being Rory’s godmother, took care of him when you returned to work after taking pregnancy leave. Many people asked Berbie if the two children were twins; they each had healthy, chubby faces and mirrored each other in development that closely. Berbie loved to respond to this question by not answering affirmatively. Instead she would say, ambiguously, “They’re two days apart.” That always left people scratching their heads, and probably reaching for the
Guinness Book of World Records
to check the index under “birth phenomena.”

When the babies turned two years old, Daisy was diagnosed with a cancerous tumor on the brain stem. She had emergency brain surgery and the doctors were able to remove 100 percent of the tumor. But this type of tumor usually leaves residual cancer cells, which meant Daisy had to undergo intensive chemotherapy treatment for a whole year. It was the same chemo you eventually had to allow them to push through your own veins: Cytoxan.

A month after her third birthday, there was a second occurrence of the tumor. She needed to have six weeks of full brain and spine radiation. This treatment caused her blood count to drop, and she frequently needed blood transfusions. She developed shingles, which required more hospitalization. Berbie and Daisy spent more time at the hospital than they did at home. Many holidays passed during those stays.

THREE MONTHS BEFORE
her fourth birthday, Daisy has an MRI that shows that the tumor has reappeared. Having already used all the conventional treatments available, she was left to a course of treatment that involved experimental drugs. Her doctors tell Berbie that this treatment carries a projected 5 percent survival rate.

The Make a Wish Foundation arranges a trip for Daisy, her older brother (who’s your godson), and her parents to go to Disney World. The doctors are saying she should enjoy her life while she’s feeling well.

The trip creates the illusion that life is normal and happy and wonderful and this is exactly what the doctors, and Daisy’s family, are attempting to do. Smoke and mirrors.

“This trip, will it make things easier or more difficult for the family when you get home?” you ask Berbie.

She has to think about that one.

YOU ARE ADAMANT
that a mistake has been made. You beg Berbie to get Daisy another MRI before she begins the treatment with the experimental drugs. You keep telling everyone who will listen what your heart is telling you: “It’s a mistake. She doesn’t have another occurrence of a tumor. They misdiagnosed her. I know it.”

You say it so often, and to so many people, that Jim sits you down in the kitchen one afternoon and asks you a question.

“Are you absolutely sure,” he asks, “that you’re not saying she’s misdiagnosed for some reason that has nothing to do with her condition?”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe you really want that to be the truth. Like maybe you want to believe doctors are wrong about this kind of thing.”

You have to think about this. It’s a possibility. Why
do
you feel so strongly about it?

And yet…does it really matter what your motivations are? How could it hurt anything to make the doctors take another look at their patient?

“No, Jim. I’m listening to my intuition. My intuition says they’re wrong. Misdiagnoses happen. If they didn’t, I’d be dead now.”

WHEN DAISY’S FAMILY RETURNS
from Disney World, you and Berbie talk.

Berbie agrees that it is important enough to check twice. She requests another MRI before the drugs with the 5 percent survival rate are administered to her little girl.

IT’S A FEW DAYS
after this, following your discussion with your mom, that you call Berbie again, this time to ask her to accompany you to see Audrey Santos.

Berbie’s of old Yankee stock—and she’s skeptical by nature. You expect her to roll her eyes and assume you’re suggesting a voodoo consultation. Hey, it’s a strange request. “Berbie, I’m going to see a girl who has been in a coma for years and she’s going to heal me, so let’s bring Daisy, too.” But she agrees, and the severity of Daisy’s condition actually wins you a slot to see Audrey the following week.

Is it all insane? All you know is, you want to be the way you were, completely able-bodied, and you want Daisy to be well again, too. The way the doctors are talking, that means you each need a miracle. So fine—you and Daisy are in the market for miracles now.

The following week, Berbie, Daisy, Nancy, Mom, and you set out for Worcester to visit a fifteen-year-old girl in a coma.

A MAKESHIFT ADDITION
to the family’s tiny house is meant to be used as a chapel. There are a slew of cars parked in front, and dozens of people are lined up on the sidewalk. You wonder what the people in the neighborhood think of this spectacle.

Somebody comes out to check names. You’re told that only one companion is allowed per name on the list. Nancy won’t be allowed in and will have to wait outside. You and Nancy are disappointed, but you both know she will be among many other people who don’t get to come inside.

The people standing behind you in line have been waiting over a year for this day, and have traveled all the way from Canada. Maybe there’s something to this. Why would people wait years and travel so far if there weren’t miraculous happenings? Why would television programs investigate this story unless there was some truth to it? The statues in the house, you have read, have cried a mysterious oil; the crucifix inside has bled.

YOU’RE TOLD TO SEAT
yourselves in the makeshift chapel. There is a crude altar with religious statuary crammed in every available space. The statues have clear small plastic cups taped or rubber-banded to their sides, supposedly to catch the oil.

The room has several rows of metal folding chairs lined up all the way to the back. You, Berbie, Daisy, and your mom take the second row from the front. You turn to your mom and whisper, “I’m really bummed that they didn’t let Nancy in with us. She’s been by my side throughout so many things since this happened to me.”

Then, to your astonishment, Nancy joins you in the front row.

“Did you pay someone off to let me in?” she whispers to you.

“No, why?”

“Because I was the only one in the whole crowd they singled out. I have no idea why they decided to let me in.”

Weird.

The room fills quickly, but stays silent. It feels like children have been playing church and have put this room together. There is nothing sophisticated about it. You’re not sure exactly what’s supposed to happen here.

A bare-foot woman appears in the room. She is about five foot two and has a disheveled appearance, certainly not a professional spokesperson. She is Audrey’s mother, Linda.

She tells you that Audrey is glad that you have all come here and that Audrey is praying for everybody. She instructs you on the procedures. You will go into her bedroom in small groups. Your group is first.

You move into a tiny room where there is a draped glass partition dividing the area. The ten people in your group stand silent, anticipating a personal cure.

The drapes slowly part to reveal Audrey in a hospital bed.

You’re reminded of those old black-and-white movies where the newspaper reporter is witnessing a nurse tending to a patient. You’re struck by how pretty she is. Her hair flows down the length of the bed and has a silky glow. Her skin is an unblemished milky white. Remarkably, her nails look healthy; you thought they’d be yellow and gnarly from the years of intravenous nutrition. If she wasn’t in a coma, she would’ve most likely had braces for an over-bite, but her teeth are bright and healthy.

Again, it strikes you that the girl is absolutely beautiful. You wonder if this is real or a hologram.

Her appearance alone is miraculous, given that she has been in a coma for ten years. You can’t stop staring at her. You are mesmerized by her appearance, and you sense there is something special about her.

Linda explains that Audrey is aware of what is happening around her, but she chooses to remain in her coma. She exhibits the stigmata—wounds approximating those on the image of the crucified Christ—on her hands and feet.

As you stand in union staring at Audrey, some people start to sniffle and well up. Linda starts the group reciting the Our Father and the Hail Mary. You mumble the prayers, not really investing commitment. You are too much in awe. You have all these mixed emotions—you are confused by her and her situation. Part of you thinks it is a freak show, thinks her mother is exploiting her by displaying her like a circus sideshow. It feels weird to be in a group, staring at her. Why would this little girl
choose
at such a tender age to be connected to God with such confining earthly ties? Yet part of you agrees with what you have heard about her—that she had a choice to become cured or to remain connected to Christ, and chose to stay connected. Could it be possible, Linda was
sharing
her? Attempting to help people who have lost hope, giving them another reason to hope again.

You also had a choice.

You had the opportunity to stay or go when you fell unconscious in your hemorrhage. You suffered heart failure and it appeared that you had a seizure. What you saw was a white ladder with no beginning or end. It was a ladder to God. You could choose which end you wanted to occupy, what your proximity to God was going to be. You were given the choice to go to eternity or to stay. In this dreamlike state, you knew that if you chose to stay, it would be in a different body.

ON THE WAY OUT
of Audrey’s home, if one could really call it that, none of you has much to say. What you just experienced certainly didn’t feel like a religious experience. Daisy is exactly the same. You are exactly the same.

As you leave, attendants give each of you a plastic bag with a cotton ball that contains the mystery oil. It’s like a souvenir. As they hand you the little bag, you consider asking, “Do you guys sell it by the case? Because this one little swatch isn’t going to cover my problem areas.”

Is some unidentified oil really going to cure your shattered body?

Does it make sense to keep praying to return to the person you were before your injury?

You know you want to get better. But do you still want to be that person?

YOU’RE GLAD YOU WENT,
even though you can’t really articulate why. It could be that you want to be able to say to yourself that you’ve left no stone unturned in your quest to become healed. But now somehow that quest seems different.

You ask yourself, after this strange journey to Worcester, whether you should be praying to be healed, to be restored to where you were. Or should you be praying for help in rebuilding a new life in the body that’s impaired, praying for the ability to accept this new life.

A sense of bewilderment sets in. During the long drive back home, you wonder what the hell this trip was all about. You’re pretty sure it had something to do with you, and with Daisy, and with Audrey, and with choice.

WHEN THE RESULTS COME BACK,
the doctors call Berbie and tell her they have good news and bad news about Daisy’s second MRI—the one you had insisted on as a double-check before the drug treatment began.

The “bad news” is that the doctors made a mistake in diagnosing Daisy with a recurrence of an inoperable brain tumor. (Berbie’s not sure exactly how this counts as bad news, and neither are you when you hear about it, but the wording does reveal something interesting about how doctors look at the world.)

The good news is that the tumor, as you had insisted, really hasn’t reoccurred at all. What the doctors had spotted before turned out to be a part of Daisy’s normal brain structure.