Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (25 page)

The literature confirmed that the average life expectancy for Hodgkin’s disease following diagnosis was three years. But the doctor failed to mention that no one, but no one, survived the disease. It was a virtual death sentence.

The reality of what he and Magda faced hit Frank like a blow from a heavyweight boxer. For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He leaned back in his chair and tried to recall the name of the saint of lost causes. He thought he was an apostle. Saint Peter? Saint John? Saint Jude? He couldn’t bring his name to mind. He said a quick prayer to him anyway.

As Frank recalled the side effects Dr. Hoffman had told them about, it felt like blue shadows blurring his mind. He looked out the window. The leaves on the trees looked like daggers, and the air smelled of a thunderstorm. He closed the periodical he was reading and folded his arms behind his head.

He was used to thinking his way out of a problem. Fighting his way out. Working it through. Was that possible in this situation? Or did he have to resign himself to losing Magda to this dreadful disease? The thought was almost too much to bear.

This can’t be happening. Not now. Not to my beautiful Magda. Not after we’ve made such a nice life together. Not after all I’ve been through to get to her.

And what about Darlene? She’s only five. She’s so close to her mother. How will I comfort her? How will she cope? How will I?

Fear invaded every cell of Frank’s body. Never had he experienced such a feeling. Even when Pino stalked him in Cuba. Even when he battled the open sea.

At least then he had a chance. He could use his strength and his wits to survive. But this? With this he was helpless. He tried to analyze his fear, but it was primal, beyond rational thought. It was fear of loss, fear of facing a life without Magda, fear of raising his daughter alone.

A headache gathered above his eyebrows and he rubbed his forehead, wondering how he and Magda could turn the odds in their favor. It seemed undoable, overwhelming.

Frank’s throat clogged with sorrow, but he couldn’t cry in the library. Eyes moist with tears, he stumbled to the men’s room and entered a stall. He had just latched the door when the sobs erupted like a warm geyser, and his whole body shook with grief.

That night Frank and Magda had a long talk. Seeking hope, they comforted each other with the idea that if conquering Hodgkin’s disease were somehow doable, they were the ones to do it. They decided they could beat the cancer the same way they had beaten the communists—with extraordinary effort and determination.

They reasoned that new therapies were entering the pipeline every day. That radiation and chemotherapy would soon be a thing of the past, that medical technology would quickly advance to the point where a pill alone could cure cancer. They just needed to buy time. In the meantime, Magda would endure the treatments and fight the cancer with every fiber of her being. They would shield Darlene as well as they could from the emotional trauma of the situation. And Frank would do everything possible to help.

A couple of days later, while Frank was taking Magda to the hospital, he rolled down the car windows to get some air. They were
driving about fifty miles per hour and the breeze caressed his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something black fly by and hit the back windshield. At first Frank thought it was a bird. But it made no noise. And how could a bird get into the car? Frank looked at Magda. A bald spot the size of a half dollar had appeared on her head.

Frank was horrified but Magda only laughed. “My hair is not only blowing,” she said, “it’s blowing
off.
I want you to shave my head tonight, and tomorrow I’ll get a wig.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

After dinner, Magda sat on a kitchen chair. Wrapped in a white sheet, she handed Frank a pair of scissors and a razor. “Take it off,” she said. “I’d rather be in charge of losing my hair than have it fall off by itself. There is no point in drawing out this process.”

Frank made a small noise in his throat, took her hair in his hands and drew it to his lips. He wanted to feel its texture, to run his fingers through it, to smell its fragrance one last time. He sheared off her hair at the base of her head. It fell in strands of curls that decorated the linoleum floor.

Magda sat stiffly, resisting the urge to cry. Darlene entered the room.

When she saw her mother, she began to sob. Magda comforted her daughter in her arms, casting aside her own emotions. “It’s okay,” she said bravely. “Mommy just got a new haircut.”

Darlene looked up at her mother and said, “I don’t like your haircut—you look like a daddy instead of a mommy.”

“I know,” said Magda. “It’s funny looking, isn’t it? But tomorrow I’m going to get some brand-new hair, and you will like it very much!”

“Promise?”

Tears formed in Magda’s eyes. “Promise,” she said.

The real suffering began shortly thereafter. Life soon devolved into a series of physical assaults visited upon Magda’s body, from
projectile vomiting to fevers and night sweats. Sores sprouted in her mouth and she found it difficult to eat all but the softest and smoothest of foods. Frank made her fruit shakes in the blender using bananas, blueberries, and milk. It seemed like Jell-O and ice cream kept her alive.

Magda gave up her job at Merrill Lynch, finding it impossible to continue. She missed her coworkers and talked about going back to being a computer analyst someday. She dreamt about her work almost every night and told Frank her dreams in the morning. They were always about a new project she was working on, one where she was just on the cusp of a breakthrough.

Magda’s illness took its toll on Darlene, who argued with her doll and woke up several times a night pounding her little fists against the mattress. Clinging to her “blankie,” she would join Frank and Magda in bed to banish her nightmares.

Sick and exhausted, Magda mothered Darlene the best she could. But there were days when the energy level of a five-year-old became too much for her. Frank tried to distract his daughter by taking her to the park or out for an ice cream cone. Sometimes it worked. And sometimes Darlene could not be comforted.

Fighting this disease was going to be a very long battle, a battle the whole family needed to win.

True to her word, Magda did all she could to fight the disease. Despite considerable side effects, she suffered through her treatment with occasional crankiness but few complaints.

Magda went into remission after she completed chemotherapy and life took on a semblance of normalcy. The lumps in her neck disappeared, her hair grew back, and Dr. Hoffman declared her blood work “clean.” Magda’s energy level returned enough that she could care for Darlene and do a few chores around the house. Frank felt like he had his old Magda back, and he savored every moment of it.

Around Christmastime of the following year, Magda had difficulty breathing and complained of fatigue. Frank and Magda had been invited to a holiday party given by a friend. Frank urged his wife to stay home and rest, but she insisted on going.

Shortly after greeting their hosts, Magda began to feel worse. Frank took her to the hospital where she was told another round of radiation was necessary. The doctors also requested permission to remove Magda’s spleen so they could study it for medical research. They told her the research might help people suffering from similar conditions some day. Bravely, Magda agreed, and surgery was scheduled. When the time came, Frank squeezed his wife’s hand and kissed her good-bye.

When he got home from the hospital, Frank paid the babysitter and sent her on her way. From his window he watched the young woman’s red Chevy successfully navigate the icy street. Darlene was still up, playing with a collection of Legos on the floor. Frank grabbed a cup of coffee and plopped down on the sofa. Darlene
stood and smiled. She regarded her father for a moment and then climbed next to him on the couch.

She snuggled against Frank’s chest, and he cradled her in his arms. “Tell me the story about the good grandpa,” said Darlene. She was already in her flannel pajamas and smelled of Johnson’s baby lotion. She clung to the remains of her “blankie,” which was now little more than a ribbon of satin. She had given it up once, but was using it again, perhaps due to her mother’s illness.

“I thought you didn’t like that story anymore,” said Frank. “I thought you liked
Black Beauty
now.”

Darlene wrinkled her nose. “I never said that!” she said defiantly. Despite his concerns about Magda, Frank threw back his head and laughed.

“Okay,” he said, “but just once, because it’s way past your bedtime and your mommy will get mad if she finds out.”

Darlene brought her thumb to her mouth and snuggled closer to Frank. Her hair was still damp from her bath and hung in tangles against the front of his shirt.

“Once upon a time there was a very good grandpa who lived on a beautiful island where palm trees swayed in the breeze—”

“And the birds sang a hundred different songs,” added Darlene. “Yes, and the birds sang a hundred different songs.” Frank rubbed a lock of Darlene’s hair between his thumb and finger and brushed it away from her face. “He lived with the lovely grandma who made chocolate cookies for her grandchildren who lived down the street. The grandpa loved the grandma very much, and every day he brought her home fish to cook.”

“Because he was a good fisherman,” said Darlene.

“Because he was a
great
fisherman,” Frank corrected.

Darlene looked up at her father and nodded. “What was the grandpa’s name again?”

“The grandchildren called him Abuelo, which is Spanish for grandpa.”

“Then what happened?”

“Abuelo had a favorite grandson whose name was Frankie.”

“Same as yours.”

Frank nodded. “Same as mine. The grandpa took the boy fishing with him whenever he could, and taught him to read the stars so he could get to places he needed to go.”

“What did the grandpa say?”

“He said, ‘Pay attention, Frankie, because what I’m telling you may come in handy someday.’”

Darlene nodded. “Tell me about the mean man.”

“Then one day a man with a dark beard came to rule the land. He did not let the people go where they wanted to go, or to say what they wanted to say. If they spoke against him, he sent them to prison. Many people were killed and many people went to jail. On the first day it happened, the palm trees stopped swaying and the birds stopped singing.”

“But the birds didn’t
really
stop singing,” said Darlene.

Frank laughed. “No, the birds kept singing, but the people could no longer hear them.”

“Because they were afraid,” prompted Darlene.

Frank sighed. “Yes, because they were afraid.”

Darlene removed her thumb from her mouth and fingered a button on her pajama top as Frank continued. “One day, the grandson decided to come to America to be with his beautiful girlfriend.”

“Because she got here first,” said Darlene proudly. She smiled up at Frank.

“Yes. So the grandson used the lessons Abuelo had taught him and made his way across the mighty ocean so he could be with his love.”

“This is my favorite part,” said Darlene. “The part where they get married.”

Frank smiled at his daughter. “Yes, Frankie and the beautiful girl got married and had a very special daughter.” He poked Darlene in the stomach with his forefinger. “And that little girl is
you.”

Darlene laughed, her brown eyes bright with delight. Then her face darkened with a frightening thought.

“What about the boy’s father?”

“His father died of a heart attack,” said Frank. His eyes misted over as he said the words. Darlene looked at him, eyes wide, thinking.

“What happened to Abuelo?” she asked. “Did he ever see his grandson again?”

Frank pressed his lips together. “No, he didn’t,” he said. He tried to keep his voice even.

“Why not?”

“Because Abuelo died before it could happen,” he said softly.

“The father and the grandfather both died?” asked Darlene.

“Yes,” said Frank. “They both died.”

Darlene lowered her chin and her bottom lip quivered. “What did the grandpop die of?”

“I don’t know for sure. But the grandma says he died of a broken heart.”

Darlene’s eyes assumed a faraway look. She thought for a moment and said in a soft, sweet voice, “Will you die of a broken heart when Mommy goes away?”

Frank did not answer. Instead, he lifted his daughter in his arms and carried her up to bed. He tucked her in and kissed her on the forehead. She gave him an enigmatic smile before he turned out the light.

When Frank returned to the couch, he thought about Darlene’s question. She knew more about the severity of Magda’s condition than he and Magda thought.
That’s often the way with kids. They are far more aware of the reality of situations than adults give them credit for. And they usually know their parents better than we know ourselves.

Frank didn’t know whether it would be best to talk to Darlene openly about her mother’s cancer, or to let things ride until the situation worsened.

He decided it would be best to discuss the matter with Magda.

When Frank told Magda about Darlene’s question, she began to cry. She had been stoic up to that point, but the thought of Darlene spending the rest of her life without her mother was almost more than she could bear. Frank could hardly keep a stiff upper lip himself. Magda thought it best to prepare Darlene for the worst, and he agreed.

That night Frank and Magda sat Darlene between them on the couch. Magda started. “You know your Mommy is very sick, don’t you?”

Darlene nodded.

“Well, sometimes when people are sick, they don’t get better.”

“But you are going to get better,” said Darlene. A look of desperation filled her eyes.

“I hope so,” said Magda. “But sometimes God wants people to come and be with Him.”

Darlene’s lower lip quivered, but she didn’t respond. A moment elapsed, pregnant with emotion.