Goodbye

On Friday, a 7-year-old buddy of mine died. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you've read about him. I had the priveledge of being his home care nurse for a couple of hours each week for the greater part of the year, and the kid had my heart, which is now breaking to pieces. He was a precocious little man whose home was his world due to his medical condition. Despite the physical boundaries of his home, his insatiable hunger for knowledge and limitless imagination made him the most intelligent, humorous, and engaging boy I have ever known. He invited me into his world each week with re-creations of movies and plays, factoids about dinosaurs and Godzilla, and the scores of every football game played in the NFL the Sunday before. He gave me imaginary homework- and lots of it- so I could work as a scientist in his lab. I've been fired three times. I spent hours listening to him singing Weird Al songs, telling me about the longest bridges in the world, and watching him recite a 45-minute rendition of Walking With Dinasaurs word-for-word (including background music). I can tell you everything there is to know about the T-Rex. And, as I was told one day as I received a call on my work cell during the show, the importance of turning your phone off during a performance. As I reached into my nursing bag to turn the ringer down, I was reprimanded: "Hel-ooo, you're not even supposed to bring it into the arena!"

His countenance became uncharacteristcally quiet the weeks before my maternity leave, and he had plenty of questions and advice: "You look like you're about ready. You have six weeks to go?!" "Your belly is starting to look like a big, round cookie. It will probably be a bit smaller when I see you next time." "Well, get ready to be up all night when that baby comes." His parents fielded questions, too. After announcing to his mother that he would be marrying me, she told him that he couldn't. "Why not?" Because I was already married, she explained. He announced to me later that day that the age difference just wouldn't work out anyway. But one of the last questions my little friend asked me was a quiet one: "when are you coming back?" When I told him it would be sometime in the fall, he lit up. "Like around Halloween?" "Yeah, like around Halloween." "Oh, good, I thought you wouldn't be back until, like, Christmas."

And then he died. I hadn't come back yet.

Two weeks ago a package was brought to my door by the nurse that was taking care of this little guy while I was away. It was from my little friend's family, and the gifts were for Oliver. Picked out, the parents wrote, especially for Oliver from my little friend himself. The teddy bear sits in the living room, waiting for the day when I can tell Ollie about the very special little boy that picked it out for him. In the meantime, I hug Oliver closer, kiss him incessantly, and love, love, love.

It's astonishing how the heart can be full of joy and yet break all over itself at the same time. Goodbye, sweet boy.