Last year, my neighbor's five-year-old son was hit by a car and badly injured. That was bad enough, but when they took x-rays at the hospital they found....a brain tumor. This kind of news of like an anvil suddenly dropping from the sky. THUNK. You think, No way. I did NOT just see an anvil fall from the sky. But there it is, right in front of you, large as life and just as inconceivable. So two days ago, when my husband brought our daughters back from their annual checkup, he mentioned casually that the pediatrician wanted our five-year-old to get some blood work done. "He saw some burst capillaries under her skin," he said. "Something about platelet counts." THUNK.
Husbands do not notice anvils falling from the sky. Mothers do. My heart dropped through a hole that had just been created in my stomach; my mind said, "Childhood leukemia." My husband must have noticed something in my face, because said, "You're not gonna freak out about this, are you?"
"Yes," I said. "I am." The next day--yesterday--I took my daughter to get her bloodwork done. She cried some, but she held still and even waved goodbye to the nurse when we left. We came home, ate dinner; I baked oatmeal cookies for my older daughter's class. Whenever I thought about it, I said, "Keep me, God," as in the Iris Dement song, and I kept reminding myself that we are all of us basically okay, no matter what.
This morning at 8:15 there was a message on my cellphone from the pediatrician. Can't be, I thought. Why is he calling so soon? There was that heart-falling-through-the-stomach effect. The minutes I spent on hold were immensely long. I did not think. I stared straight ahead. Then the doctor's voice on the phone: "Just wanted you to know that everything's perfect," he said. "Now you can have a good weekend." He is a kind man.
My neighbor's son made a full recovery; his brain tumor turned out to be benign. This week is the first anniversary of his surgery. My daughter's blood work is "perfect." Sometimes those anvils fall and hit you on the head, the way they did the day the doctor used the word "terminal" when referring to my father's cancer. Sometimes they miss. And you think, Thank you, God. Thank you that I did not have to get to know that particular anvil.