Attachments
I don't remember where I got it, but I think it was the Saugus swap meet. Nevertheless, it was her favorite—her tickle. The butter yellow squares of the quilted blanket were patched together by machine, not by Great Grandma, whose stiff fingers could no longer piece together remnants of her family's cast-off clothing to make a collage with a slice of history documented in each square. Christie's cradle-size blanket came fresh out of a plastic bag with a warning that read, "Danger of suffocation. Keep out of reach of children." Christie wasn't even born when I tossed the bag and laundered the quilt.
My only child arrived on June 20, 1983, five weeks before her scheduled time, and came home after two and a half weeks in the hospital. Since she was tiny, although she then weighed six pounds, she slept in a cradle. The yellow quilt covered her rounded butt when she slept with her fanny pointing to the ceiling, her legs tucked under her as if she were going to leap frog out of the cradle.
Christie outgrew the cradle, but the quilt kept turning up time and again to cover her. It had softened from the many washings. The ruffle drooped, and the color had lost luster. From the moment Christie learned to grasp, she'd gather a ruffle of the blanket in her hand and tickle her pug nose and her long, thick eyelashes. She'd trail the quilt point into the hairline of her dark silky hair, down her chin, and then to the palm of her other hand. When Christie began to babble, she'd say "Tickle, tickle" as she caressed herself, her first words after "Da Da" and "Ma Ma."
As a toddler, Christie dragged the tickle through the house, ate breakfast with it, napped with it, even took it outside on the patio. It went to preschool, doctor's appointments, and visits to Maw Maw's house. I did my best to keep it laundered, to wash away the jelly stains, the grit from the patio, and the stiffened areas that formed where she had dried her tears. She tolerated the tickle's absence when it went into the washing machine. When it came out of the dryer all fluffy, she hugged it tighter, her face buried in the softness that smelled of Downy.
Time drew near for Christie to start school, and I didn't know how I was going to send her without her tickle. The school didn't allow blankets. One day, while Christie and I were visiting the library, I ran across a book about the very problem with which I struggled. The book told a tale of how a little girl coped with separation when she started school.
After five years of constant devotion, Christie's tickle was held together with prayers and love. The batting was protruding between the seams and was missing entirely from some squares, dissolved in wash water. The color had faded, but my daughter was as attached to the quilt as her arm was to her. According to the book, the mommy, knowing of her child's blanket attachment, began trimming the blanket, reducing its size every day. When it came time for the little girl to start school, the blanket was the size of a quarter. The mommy tucked the remnant into her daughter's pocket and sent her to school. The little girl could reach into her pocket and touch her blanket, feel its familiar texture and its comforting presence.
Inspired, I began a similar process, daily paring down Christie's tickle. While she understood what I was doing, she never saw me throw away the pieces I trimmed. She was content with what remained. On Christie's first day of school, the tickle was the size of an index card. (I didn't have the heart to pare it down to coin-size.) It was so thin it easily folded into the pocket of her pink Oshkosh overalls. We probably would have survived the start of kindergarten without it, but Christie had something familiar with her and I was reassured my daughter had more self-confidence. And of course, she did. She adapted quickly and loved school.
Still, the tickle remnant was always close at hand, especially at bedtime. During the day, Christie never gave it a thought, unless she was sprawled in front of the TV. Then she might collect her tiny tickle and absently caress her hand. As Christie grew older, the remnant tickle was relegated to her dresser drawer where a brief glimpse would afford a dose of comfort should she need it.
When Christie was seven years old, she got very sick. My husband and I rushed her to the emergency room where we learned she had pneumonia. Doctors admitted her for a round of I.V. antibiotics and breathing treatments. I saw the fear in Christie's blue eyes. Although she'd heard my nursing stories, she'd never experienced needle sticks or pulmonary treatments or that lost feeling one has when held at the mercy of doctors and nurses, trapped in foreign territory. Ben and I were spending the night with her, but we were ordered to wear full isolation garb to protect her from our germs. Dressed in masks, gowns, and gloves, we didn't look like her parents but invaders from space. No wonder she was scared. And we didn't have the tickle with us. Ben offered Christie his handkerchief, thankfully clean. She clutched it as if it were magic and could transport her home with one tickle. Dodging the nasal prongs delivering oxygen to her sickened lungs, she caressed her face. It soothed her to sleep.
Christie's pneumonia resolved, and she returned to school. Within three months, Christie had another of her many earaches, so Ben took her to the doctor. After further tests, I got a call from Christie's pediatrician. Ben was home, and Christie was in school. Without preamble, Dr. Kaufman said, "Your test turned out negative."
The silence lengthened. Unconsciously, I sat down in the oversized living room chair. Ben took a seat on the adjacent sofa and stared at me.
"Christie's test was positive," the doctor said abruptly.
I trembled. My hand fumbled the phone receiver, nearly dropping it. Tears flooded my eyes as I looked over at Ben. He frowned at me, trying to decipher the news. I couldn't speak. I needed to breathe but couldn't catch a breath.
"The test was positive," Dr. Kaufman repeated. "Christie has AIDS."
He said it! Dear Lord, he validated my worst nightmare. "Oh my God, this can't be happening."
Ben jumped off the sofa and perched on the chair arm. He put his arms around me.
I thought I was going to have a heart attack and die. My heart hammered, and my throat constricted. I couldn't breathe. I am choking, dying while holding onto the telephone, with my husband's arms around me.
When I failed to respond, Dr. Kaufman went on, "Her immune studies from July are fairly indicative of her condition, plus her bouts with pneumonia and her chronic ear problems."
Suddenly, her ear problems were chronic, different from the routine childhood illnesses he repeatedly proclaimed children suffered. How often did he tell me not to worry? He only performed the immune studies because I practically badgered him into ordering them when Christie was in the hospital. "How could this have happened?"
"She must have gotten a blood transfusion." He sounded nonchalant.
"She's never had a blood transfusion."
"No surgery or transfusions?"
"No!" Was this the same doctor who had taken care of my daughter for seven and a half years?
"She must have had a transfusion," he insisted.
"No, she's never had a transfusion."
"I'm sorry," he said, and quickly hung up. No words of consolation after eviscerating me with his news.
Sobs choked off words, yet Ben understood what the doctor had told me. I clung to him, our tears flowing unchecked while we rocked in each other's arms, agony crushing us. What comfort could we offer each other? How would we tell Christie?
My eyes were red and swollen from crying, but behind my sunglasses, no one would notice the anguish I was trying to conceal. No one would notice my heart hemorrhaging. Ben and I walked the paseo that led to Christie's school to collect our daughter. The trees in Southern California were beginning to change color as autumn invaded. I barely noticed.
As I stood on the edge of the playground awaiting Christie's release from school, happy children darted from their various classrooms and ran to waiting parents. The playground pulsated with life, and the lump in my throat grew. Why was my child damned? She had so much to live for, so many opportunities available to her. Among all the children scampering about, why was my child singled out for this battle?
When I saw Christie ambling across the schoolyard, I observed for the first time how thin she looked when compared to the other children. Both Christie and her friend Kristy had slender builds. As they drew closer, I noticed Christie's eyes ringed with dusky circles and sunken in her gaunt, pale face. Her face didn't have a healthy glow like her friend's, but, as usual, Christie was all smiles and looked as if she had another fun day at school.
Why hadn't I noticed Christie's pallor? I remembered thinking she was having a growth spurt because her legs looked so long, but maybe her legs appeared longer because she was losing weight. "Observation is the key to nursing," my nursing educators stressed, yet I failed to observe obvious signs in my own daughter.
Ben and I withheld the news from Christie, lacking the courage to tell her she would die before her eleventh birthday like the doctors predicted. "It's a new asthma treatment," I told her about our frequent trips to the hospital for IV infusions, procedures, blood draws, and experimental medications. She rarely complained, which added to my guilt.
Finally, a year and a half after learning Christie's diagnosis, Ben and I decided to tell Christie she was HIV positive. (We were still too cowardly to reveal her AIDS sentence.) Since Earvin "Magic" Johnson's disclosure of his HIV status, HIV information abounded on television. Screening delicate information from Christie's television viewing was impossible. Magic, Christie's favorite Lakers player, appeared on Nickelodeon with stern warnings to teens about safe sex. Ben and I feared Christie might realize her parents had been lying to her. Christie deserved to know she was not only being treated for asthma but also for HIV.
Dr. Church, Christie's doctor, and the social worker, Marcia, told Christie of her disease during one clinic visit. I can't remember all of Dr. Church's words because I was watching Christie's reaction. Her solemn expression didn't waiver. She accepted the information like a brave war hero ordered on a suicide mission. Dr. Church warned us in advance children always ask, "Am I going to die?" Christie never asked. I think she already knew the answer. Dr. Church used words like "serious" and "control," but he never mentioned the "die" word to Christie.
I barely contained my threatening tears as my arms tightened around my daughter. Marcia related the similarities of Magic's disease with Christie's. She placed emphasis on staying healthy and feeling good by taking her medicines and eating nutritious foods. Dr. Church asked Christie if she had any questions. Christie shook her head. Seeing understanding in Christie's eyes sickened me. I suffered to breathe as I choked back the flood welling within me. She's too smart, too brave. Not one tear fell from her eyes.
The subdued, half-hour drive home was uncomfortable. What should we say now? In character, Ben kept the mood light. I held out until we got home. "Do you want to talk about what Dr. Church told you?" I asked Christie.
"How did I get it?" she asked.
"When you were born, you got some blood, and the blood carried the HIV virus," I explained and decided to get the rest of the story out in the open, the facts of which I had discovered by reading Christie's hospital records that I had requested. "Mommy and Daddy believe that it was wrong to give you bad blood."
Ben continued, "So we got a lawyer to help us ask the judge in the court to decide if the people at the hospital were wrong. If they were wrong, the judge will make them pay your doctor bills."
"You remember Marty?" I reminded her. "He's the lawyer helping us. Christie, Magic Johnson was very brave when he announced he had HIV. Many people are afraid of people with HIV and think you can catch HIV just by talking to someone with HIV. That isn't true." I searched for the proper words, horrors of Ryan White's struggles flitting through my mind. "Some people might treat you differently if they know you have HIV. They might not be as nice to you."
"For right now, we don't want you telling anyone you have HIV," Ben said.
Christie frowned.
"Well, Maw Maw and Paw Paw, Grandma Mae and Grandpa Don, and 'Uncle' Jimmy can know about it," Ben said.
"While we're involved with the lawyer, it would be best if you didn't tell your friends or the neighbors," I reinforced. "But honey bear, that doesn't mean you can't ask Daddy or me or your grandparents questions or talk about HIV and your feelings. You can always talk to us."
Ben gave Christie a bear hug. "We love you." Her thin arms embraced him tightly and inside, I died a little more.
During the three years following Christie's diagnosis, my daughter made many visits to the clinic and a few trips to the hospital. Occasionally, she took her tickle remnant. Since she was older and wiser about the hospital landscape, she could substitute other tickles—even a washed out, frayed bath blanket from the hospital linen cart. She had learned to find comfort through touch.
On Valentine's Day, 1994, Christie was feeling well enough to attend her fifth grade party at school. By that time, we had disclosed Christie's diagnosis to the school board, Christie's principal, teacher, and class. What we feared most—ostracism—never occurred; in fact, everyone who heard Christie's story embraced her. The warm and sunny afternoon was a special treat even for California. Christie, dressed in red and white with a heart-printed bow tied around her ponytail, toted a sack of valentines she had worked so hard signing and then stuffing into envelopes along with candy heart treats. Ben drove us to school where we located the class outdoors at tables beneath the pergola. Christie tightened her hold of my hand as we approached the group. I remembered the tickle remnant she had carried her first day of school, secretly wishing I had thought to tuck it in her pocket today. Perhaps because of Christie's sporadic attendance at school, she seemed hesitant to see her classmates.
"Come on," I urged. "I know it's been a long time since you've seen your friends, but I bet they'll be glad to see you."
Christie merely nodded. Did she notice her own changes? Did she realize how thin she'd gotten? Was she embarrassed to confront her healthy friends? My heart ached because of her uneasiness.
Shouts and squeals of joy welcomed my daughter to the party. Christie's girlfriends hugged her and chattered nonstop while the boys grinned bashfully at her. No one had forgotten her. Christie said a shy hello to her teacher and principal. While the children snacked, I distributed Christie's valentines to her classmates. Each child had decorated a paper bag to hold the valentines, and Christie hadn't been overlooked. Her teacher produced a fancy bag for Christie to collect her special mail, and it quickly filled with envelopes. Too soon for the children, the teacher convened the class to return to the schoolroom. Everyone wished Christie well and expressed hope she would return to school. Oh, how I wished that would happen, but in my heart, I knew this was not a Valentine's Day celebration but a farewell party. Tears burned behind my eyes, threatening to explode, again.
Christie's energy dwindled a little more each day. Most of the time, she rested on the day bed watching television. Inspector Gadget and Get Smart were her favorite shows. Ben and I played board games with her or read books to her when she was willing. We rented movies and tempted Christie to indulge in fattening snacks, but Christie's appetite was nonexistent. On her better days, Christie sat in front of the house painting at her easel. She frowned with concentration and dedication to the task. A smile on her face became a rare occurrence. Although the pain of disease dimmed the sunlight that once shone bright upon her face, Christie never complained other than to say she wasn't hungry. I knew she didn't feel good, but she pushed herself beyond her limits, to achieve one more happy day, one more fun activity.
Christie's next clinic visit showed her weight down nearly two pounds. She weighed forty-one and a half pounds. Dr. Church upped the dose of prescribed Tylenol with codeine and encouraged Christie to take the medicine. The end was rapidly approaching, and I was powerless to stop it. All I could do was pray for her decline to be painless.
A week later, Hospice was arranged. Every day I watched Christie deteriorate a little more. She lacked energy and was forced to rest more often. Walking became difficult because she was so weak, but she was determined to stroll the paseo daily. From the time Christie learned to walk, she had always loved exploring the plants and flowers along the paseo, so her outings were important. Ben and I helped her as much as we could, but she hated when we hovered. We obtained a pediatric wheelchair, fire engine red. Christie hated it the moment she saw it, hating what it represented. For a while, she refused to be coaxed into a ride. Eventually, she yielded, and Ben and I took her for rides on the paseo and to the shopping center behind our house. Her tiny thin body must have pained her because I noticed she winced whenever the wheelchair rolled over the tiniest bump. To cushion her frail body, I padded the chair seat with a chunk of Eggcrate mattress hidden in a pillowcase. We continued our outdoor excursions, but some days Christie acted embarrassed she had to ride in the chair. My heart broke for her suffering.
Ben's and my constant attentiveness annoyed Christie, and she began to distance herself from us. She wanted to be left alone, which was hard for me to accept. I should have been talking with her about her feelings, whether or not she was afraid to die. I was such a coward. Unable to deal with my own feelings of sorrow, I couldn't provide Christie with the support she deserved. Guilt and self-loathing were my constant companions.
Most days Christie nibbled only a few teaspoons of food. On occasion, she ate well. She refused Ensure and most nutritious foods, but she loved pretzels and munched them throughout the day. Christie denied having severe pain, so a low dose of morphine kept her comfortable. She had stopped taking her routine medicines, complaining that her stomach hurt when she swallowed them. I didn't force her to do anything she didn't want to do.
At Christie's clinic visit, her weight was below forty pounds. I reported to Dr. Church Christie wasn't taking her medicines.
"Have you had enough of the medicines?" Dr. Church asked Christie.
Christie nodded.
"Do you know what will happen if you stop taking your medicines?"
Christie nodded again.
"You will die," Dr. Church said softly.
Christie nodded bravely, her sunken eyes dry.
The doctor's statement shocked me. Only later did I realize he was more in tune to his tiny patient than I was. Experienced with his patients' last wishes, he knew when they had accepted their fate and could no longer tolerate their treatment.
"I understand your decision," Dr. Church said.
Christie allowed Dr. Church a tiny smile, and they shook hands. Dr. Church nodded to Ben and me before he left the room, his tread slow, his face somber.
I was at a loss as to what to do. Part of me wanted to remain in the security of the exam room and wait for a miracle reprieve; the other part of me wanted to flee out the door screaming like a maniac. This can't be all! I'm not ready to let her go. I'll never be ready. The hopelessness crippled me like a blow to my body that struck deep. I wasn't one tenth as brave as my daughter, but her courage galvanized me. I collected my feelings and tucked them in a remote corner until I could confront them one day. Ben was quiet. I hugged Christie, then helped her from the exam room for the last time. The staff members lingered in the hallway like a condolence line at a funeral and murmured their final good-byes. We waved good-bye, no future appointment needed. The silence screamed for an interruption, but I didn't trust myself to mutter a syllable for fear of bursting into tears. What could I say to comfort my daughter? What must she be thinking? What kind of parent was I who couldn't alleviate my child's pain?
In the car, Ben's eyes stayed riveted on the road, his thoughts locked inside. Christie stared vacantly out the window. Each of us was so deeply disturbed we were unable to reach out to one another. There was so much we should have been saying, yet fear or cowardice stifled us. At home, Christie retreated to the den, alone. I rambled aimlessly around the house lost in thoughts and self-loathing. Communication between Ben and me was limited to the bare necessities. How long would this segregation continue?
St. Patrick's Day promised a special celebration. My parents, Don and Mae, had just arrived from Illinois, my father still recovering from quadruple bypass surgery. I needed them. Having survived the Northridge earthquake and spending two months restoring the house, I did not believe I could as easily survive the rapid decline and imminent demise of my daughter without my parents' support. Like a mother hen gathering her chicks while the fox circled the barnyard, I collected my family and closest friends together. Maw Maw and Paw Paw, Ben's parents, arrived for supper, as did my dear friend "Uncle" Jimmy and my girlfriend, Denise. Christie was happy to see everyone but spoke very little, and soon she sought refuge in the master bedroom where she seemed to prefer the day's fading shadows. Her thin legs dangled over the edge of the waterbed while she hovered over a TV tray and played Hangman with Grandma Mae until dinnertime.
At dinner, Christie's appetite was better than usual. Still, she was withdrawn and hated for anyone to fawn over her; consequently, the officious group taxed her. From shyness or exhaustion, Christie hung her head, her messy tresses hiding the dimming liveliness of her face. "I'm full," she said, and shuffled back to the peaceful bedroom. I cautioned our friends and family to exercise restraint. Christie wasn't like she used to be. Now she shunned lights, photographs, noise, and too much activity. That was hard to believe of my daughter, who was once a whirlwind of action.
Despite suffering weakness, nausea, and pain, Christie remained respectful and polite. She thanked "Uncle" Jimmy for bringing her a bright red Mickey Mouse pillow to cuddle in bed. She joked with Denise while I dressed her for bed in an old T-shirt, a soft favorite of hers that sagged below her knees. The shirt, received at some long forgotten school function, bore the phrase "Drugs Stink."
The guests filed into the bedroom saying their goodnights, giving and receiving hugs and kisses. Maw Maw and Paw Paw, like Grandma Mae and Grandpa Don, hated to leave their girl, but Christie's drooping eyelids signaled an end to a pleasant evening. She was asleep in minutes.
After the guests departed, my parents and husband sat with me in silence, staring at the TV news. Dread muted even the most mundane conversation. Eventually, we retired for the night. Ben claimed the den because Christie slept with me. Nurse Mommy was always on duty. I crawled into bed next to Christie and watched her sleep. She looked peaceful, not in any pain. I knew I had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before Christie needed more medication or a trip to the bathroom. Like every night, I held her tiny hand, touched her beautiful face, brushed back her stray locks, whispered that I loved her, and fell asleep inches from her side.
Around four in the morning, I felt Christie stirring.
"Do you have to go potty?" I asked her.
"Uh huh," she mumbled.
I helped her sit up and then guided her to the bathroom. By the glow of the nightlight, I smiled at her rumpled form hunched in her baggy T-shirt on the commode, her narrow bare feet so like my own. When she was through, I helped her back to bed, her gait a little wobbly.
"Do you need something for the pain?" I asked.
Christie nodded.
I poured her a dose of morphine and gave her a suppository for the nausea she experienced from either the drug or the disease. When I returned to bed, I arranged Christie's blankets and pillows so she would be comfortable.
She scowled and waved me away. "I'm fine," she said, hating my fussing.
I settled into bed, listening to her regular breathing. "She hasn't coughed in days," I thought as sleep overcame me.
Around five-thirty in the morning, I bolted out of a sound sleep and rolled toward my daughter just as she was sighing her last few breaths. Oh my God, this is it. Despite being a nurse and having witnessed countless deaths, I didn't know what to do.
I enfolded her to me. "It's okay, honey bear. You are going to be with Jesus now. Follow the light and the angels. Daddy and I will be fine," I lied. "Everyone will be fine. Go with Jesus." Heartbreak wet my face.
My role as mother ended. I had mothered for ten years, eight months, and eighteen days. For me, it was too brief, a mere fraction of the life Christie could have had. I should've felt blessed for the noble way Christie died...no muss, no fuss. She wasn't bedridden or plagued with greater problems. She bore her suffering alone without questions or complaints, and, on her last day, she had enjoyed a fine supper and said her good-byes. Death came easily, quietly.
In the aftermath, I yearned for my daughter, the ache acute and immobilizing. Christie was caring, well mannered, generous, and loving. Mature beyond her years, Christie's curiosity and sense of adventure fueled her imagination and intelligence. She attacked every project with intensity, competency, and cheerful dedication. I would miss her painting at her easel.
As I moved through the empty days, I lamented most the everyday activities spent with Christie. I could visualize Christie after her bath, her body bundled in two huge towels with a large towel turban twisted on top of her head. Clouds of steam billowed from the bath while rivers of condensation dribbled down the mirror. The temperature inside the small bathroom equaled that in a sauna. "Hurry, shut the door," Christie shrieked when I peeked inside and caused a draft of cool air to enter her warm space. A long time later, Christie emerged from the bathroom in her robe and dashed into her bedroom. She dressed and finally loosened her turban. Damp tendrils cascaded from their confines. "Mom, I'm ready for my hair," Christie shouted. Gently I picked out her tangles, then dried and styled her tresses to her specifications, coordinating her bow to her outfit.
Then, Christie took over again. Meticulously she applied makeup in front of her mirror. On school days, she used only a tinge of blush, but other days she had fun applying eye shadow and mascara, even lipstick. When she was four years old, she had a tantrum in K-Mart because I wouldn't buy her an eyelash curler like Maw Maw's. She seemed to understand the brevity of her life, seeking experiences reserved for those beyond her years.
Christie didn't always appear as if she were a fashion model. She enjoyed getting messy in the kitchen while trying to create a new recipe, and romping with our dog Cinders left her as shaggy as the dog. Her outdoor play brought me many a laundry stain. "Don't worry," Christie told her friends about her stains, "my mom can get out anything."
When Christie was diagnosed, I learned to appreciate the ordinary moments, to take pleasure in something as simple as buttering a piece of bread. I had an opportunity to store up my memories, to prepare for the day I wouldn't have Christie with me. I had treasured each memory, each small accomplishment in my daughter's life. I had loved, guided, nursed, and helped mold an admirable daughter.
One day, when I was packing away Christie's things, I found that old remnant tickle in her dresser drawer, faded and flat without its stuffing. I clutched it to my heart. Such a little piece of cloth.
Christie's been gone now for fifteen years, and, occasionally, I open the drawer and touch that remnant tickle.
