Watermelon in the Bathtub

Our family was—and still is—enthusiastic about fireworks. There was a time David even slipped in some illegal in North Carolina, the kind purchased across the border in his state of South Carolina. Every Fourth of July, we sat on our lawn in anticipation. David stood yards in front of us on the street and lit the torpedo buzz, the rockets, all the funny-sounding popping crackers. We cheered and clapped and buried our faces in ripe slices of watermelon.

July 4, 1996, Daniel was in the hospital having his monthly chemo injections. Our celebration of our nation’s birthday would have to be held inside Daniel’s hospital room. Daniel looked forward to watching the fireworks, hoping his hospital room window would provide a good view. But a nurse informed us there wouldn't be fireworks from Kenan Stadium that night; the reason was unclear.

Daniel bounced back from his disappointment when friends Sue, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, entered the room with a watermelon and a knife. "We came to celebrate July Fourth with you!" said Sue in her vibrant Rochester, New York, accent.

Sue cut slices for each of us and served them on paper plates. Becca placed a plate on Daniel's tray table.

Daniel dipped his mouth into the fruit. With juice running down his cheeks and chin, he took another bite. He found a black seed and, facing Becca, spat the seed toward her and then, grinning, waited for her reaction.

She laughed; he filled his lungs and cheeks with air and let out another. It landed on his sheet. Our family comes from a long line of watermelon-seed-spitters. Mom had won contests, but it looked like Daniel needed some tips from her.

After the two left, Daniel said, "I think I've had enough watermelon." He lay on the bed, comically rubbing his tummy and grinning.

I looked at the half-consumed treat. It was too big to store in the fridge in the communal kitchen down the corridor. "Where can we put it?" Where did other patients keep their watermelons?

I'd read the thick binder about Daniel's medications and various procedures, but nowhere in any of the literature was there a section about proper protocol for taking care of leftover fruit.

"How about in the bathtub?" Daniel said.

What a great idea! "Why not?"

And so, we did just that.

[The above is an excerpt from the memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, by Alice J. Wisler. Get the book here.]

September Reminds Us

When September rolls around, I look like any other haggled parent standing in the checkout with three kids. The shopping cart is filled with packs of pencils, note paper, crayons, markers, and tissues.

"Why do we need to buy tissues for school?" my kindergartener asked last year.

I pictured a whole class of five-year-olds with runny noses and was tempted to reply, "So kids won't use their sleeves." But I chose the logical, "For when your nose is runny."

My neighbor claimed it would be a busy year when she found out I'd have one in kindergarten, one in first grade and one in middle school. But not busy enough, I thought, and again resisted the urge to let her know that I was wondering what my fifth-grader would be needing for school this year.

My fifth-grader, Daniel, never passed fourth grade. Or third, or even first. He didn't get a school supply list. Instead he got a kit from the hospital with syringes and bandages, all highly sterile.

On Memorial Day Weekend, 1996, Daniel was three and diagnosed with neuroblastoma. After eight months of treatments, surgeries, prayers and hope, this bald-headed kid, who acknowledged he was a “Brave Cookie,” was ready to be a cancer survivor. But a staph infection entered his weakened body and we had to kiss him good-bye.

September—now meaning for me, not only back to school, but Childhood Cancer Awareness Month— has rolled around again and as I stand in line with my kids, I know why the supply lists include tissues.

Just the other day while joining other parents and children in the “shopping for school supplies frenzy,” a woman noticed the gold ribbon pinned to my T-shirt. “What’s gold for?” she asked. “I know that pink is for breast cancer.”

“Children,” I said.

Her puzzled look caused me to further explain. “Gold because our children are golden to us.”

I half expected her to show shock or horror, being one of the thousands who refuses to believe that cancer is the number one illness among children. Another person who has no idea that each year one in every 330 kids will be diagnosed with cancer before age 19.

I was ready for her to walk away from me down the aisle. Why should today be any different? Instead, she mouthed the words, “Did a child of yours . . . ?”

“Yes,” I said, avoiding her look as I grabbed a Curious George notebook. “A son who would be ten now. He died.” He loved Curious George; we'd read it ofen in the hospital.

When I did manage to catch her gaze, her eyes showed tears. They were blue, like my son's.

Then this woman—a stranger—touched my arm. “I am so sorry.” She smiled at my other three children. “They are beautiful. I’m sure your son was, too.”

I nodded, wiped my nose, and thanked her.

If you happen to see a mother wearing a gold ribbon on her shirt—the symbol of childhood cancer awareness—don't be afraid. Ask about the ribbon. The opportunity to talk will help with her healing, and might even give you new wisdom. Most likely, the mother will cry. Feel free to hand her a tissue. Although she has done it before, she probably shouldn't be using her sleeve.

(Borrowed from a piece written by Alice J. Wisler in 2002 and dedicated to all mothers who have to kiss their bald-headed kids "good-bye.")