A Parent’s Worst Nightmare

Fifteen years ago this coming fall my beautiful daughter Lindsay, my precious little girl, died from a rare type of bone cancer called Ewing’s Sarcoma.  She celebrated her 16^th birthday that fall of 1995 not with a “Sweet Sixteen” party surrounded by friends and overflowing with excitement about starting her junior year of high school, but instead strapped to a lonely hospital bed in Seattle’s Children’s Hospital with five toxic chemicals pumping through her body, chemicals that made her so sick she could barely raise her head.  

September 27, the day she died, plays over and over in my brain, an awful nightmare that will not go away even after all these years.  I remember like it was yesterday the horrible conversation with the doctor who told us at 6:00 a.m. that our little girl would die today, the hysterical bargains I tried to make with God to take me instead of her, and the frantic attempts to get her brother to her bedside before she died. I also remember watching her vital signs weaken on the monitor as her life slipped away, and I remember watching in horror as Lindsay took her last breath surrounded by all those who loved her so very much. 

There was so much left unfinished about her short life, yet she showed us every day before she got sick the remarkable woman she surely would have become.  Sadly, though, I only showed her glimpses of the kind of father I wanted to be.  You see, I thought I had all the time in the world to be an involved, engaged father.  I was in those days busy trying to build my career as an educator, convincing myself along the way that I would make up to her (and to the rest of my family) my absences night after night, weekend after weekend, month after month.  I told myself a thousand times it was okay that I was at work instead of with my kids because in a few years, I reasoned, I would definitely have the time to be the kind of father I should be.  She was taken from us long before I could even begin to fulfill my promise.

While telling this story of Lindsay’s death is admittedly cathartic for me, I do have another reason for making public this most private of tragedies.  You see, I promised my daughter on the day we buried her that I would spend my life reminding parents to seize every opportunity to spend time with their children, to be better than I was at parenting.  Too late I realized being with your child doesn’t have to include an expensive trip, or a shopping spree, or even a whole weekend of fun activities.  It can mean just going for a walk, eating a meal together, taking in a movie, or simply spending time just talking.  Trust me, the most precious gift you can give your child can’t be purchased by writing a check.

 More than you can ever know I wish I had known that 15 years ago.

 We’ll talk again…

Larry

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