Requiem for Katie

A light went out in my life Sunday afternoon. My sweet 15 year old niece left this life. I was not with her when she died as I would like to have been. I was away making memories with six of my eight children, and my daughter in law.

I had the privilege of being with her when she was born. Katie had Spina Bifida, and Hydrocephaly. She had an opening at the base of her spine the size of an egg, and her head was the size of a two-year old's--on a little seven pound infant body. I stood there over her isolet in the NICU as silent tears slipped down my cheeks. I reached out a single finger and touched her tiny foot, whispering, "I'm sorry, baby." Immediately, energy zinged through my finger all over my body and I felt her say, "Don't be sorry for me; I am fine!" I knew in that moment, and have known ever since, that Katie was here on this Earth for a unique adventure and her soul embraced the opportunity for it.

Her life was anything but easy. She had surgery in her first days, more than a dozen before she was two years old, and several more over the years. She had seizures and apneas, often many times a day. She was confined to a wheelchair and never learned to walk. But she had a mother who was absolutely dedicated to her care, to giving her the best life possible. She was not expected to live past three years old. Her mother researched and fought for the best medical care available. She struggled with schools and agencies to make sure Katie got what she needed. At home she cared for her tirelessly, meeting her every need. I think it is significant that the only word Katie learned to speak clearly was "Mother." She had the most amazing mother ever.

Katie could not speak to express herself, and some may have doubted how much she knew, but she was definitely "in there" even if she couldn't get her thoughts out. She loved to laugh and found humor all around her--especially in injury. Some of her favorite sources of entertainment were a stubbed toe or a bumped head. She found the sight of her mother mopping the kitchen floor hilarious. When I tended her on Sunday mornings so her parents could go to church together, she got a real kick out of seeing me in hair rollers. 

But one thing Katie had no trouble expressing to those around her was her precious spirit. She emanated....something. I really don't have a word for it, but I know how it feels. Love, truth, wholeness, purpose, joy, and more, all mashed together into...a Something....and she emanated it. You could snuggle up next to her, or just lean a shoulder on hers, and absorb it. I am privileged to have felt it. I am changed by it even if I can't name it.

This year contained a lot of pain for Katie, and we were dismayed by the toll it was taking. These past few months, her joy has been all but gone and we could see that she was no longer loving life. While her mother researched and struggled and fought as hard as ever, there seemed to be no relief available for Katie. She was in the hospital more often than not, and we knew she was on her way out.

When she was hospitalized a few days before I was to leave with my family on vacation, I feared in my soul that she would not be here when I got back. I visited her the day before I left, and she wakened for a few minutes as I said goodbye. I told her, "I'm going away for a week, so I won't be seeing you for awhile. You'll be home when I get back." And when I put my hand on her face and bent down to kiss her forehead, I felt her say, "Yes. Home." And I believed she meant her real home.

I did not have the privilege of being with Katie when she died. I was where I needed to be, and I certainly did not want her to endure the days of pain until I returned. But I had the privilege of being with Katie while she lived. I had the privilege of knowing her, of absorbing her Something, of entertaining her with rollers in my hair, and with many a stubbed toe on the dang wheel of her stupidly designed hospital bed.

She is gone, and I am feeling her absence. I am also feeling her presence in the bits of Something she left in my soul. I am grateful her pain is over but, mostly, I am just plain sad that she is gone.

Very Old Poem

The kids are writing poems in their 8th grade language arts class. Evidently their teacher is a sadist. She assigned them a sestina, and gave them four days to accomplish it. This sent me digging for my old sestina. Written in 1989, it turned out to be amazingly prophetic.

When Lovers Come to Court

Like a sham that covers pillow ticking,

makeup hides the pain. My face is tender

but no one will know. These dull eyes trace

the outline of a shape that isn’t mine.

I’m not that old. Defiantly the mind slips

back…. I should have known when we were courting.

Love is blind! Your mother said you would court

Death if you thought she would have you. Ticking

lovers off a list like groceries. My slip

is missing! Devotion was your tender

for my hand, my life! For all that was mine.

Now this cruel betrayal. My fingers trace

in the dust on the dresser. There’s no trace

of ownership--what’s yours, what’s mine. The court

will decide. It’s not as though there’s a gold mine.

But! There is the old mantel clock ticking

over  the fireplace. The judge will tender

me that. You’ll fight it. Maybe you’ll slip

into that arrogant---  Ah! Here’s my slip!

And I must stop it now; there is a trace

of hatred in this heart once so tender.

Oh! I remember dancing in the court

yard. Do you? The strident tell-tale ticking

of my heels on the marble. You were mine

then. Weren’t you? Or were you ever mine?

Check my face--whited sepulchre--then slip

into the taxi. The meter ticking

off the miles, it shies and balks at the traces.

The building seems more a church than a court

house. The flower beds are full of tender

tulips. I applaud the gardens’ tender

silently. The dim hall presents a mine

field. I cannot make it to the court

room. I know I can’t. From nowhere you slip

into step beside me. Is there a trace

of grief at my heels’ familiar ticking?

Suddenly you wax tender, gently slip

your hand in mine. Your regret--just a trace--

tempers the court clock’s incessant ticking.

C 1989    Ellen Rae Mabry Hafen

Sestina