Death Explained By A Little Girl
With Terminal Cancer
DR. ROGÉRIO BRANDÃO March 06, 2015
aleteia
As an oncologist with 29 years of professional experience, I can
say that I’ve grown and changed as a result of the tragedies my
patients have endured. We don’t know our real measure until, amid
adversity, we discover that we are capable of going far beyond what
we imagined.“Once
I’m dead, I think my mother will miss me, but I’m not afraid to
die. I wasn’t born for this life.”
I have fond memories of the Oncological Hospital of Pernambuco,
where I took my first steps as a professional. I started going to
the children’s ward, and there I fell in love with pediatric
oncology.
I witnessed the tragedies my patients endured, as innocent little
victims of cancer. With the birth of my first daughter, I started
to feel uncomfortable seeing children suffer. Until the day an
angel passed by!
I saw that angel in the semblance of an 11-year-old girl, exhausted
by two years of different treatments, handling, injections and all
the problems that chemical treatment programs and radiation
involve. But I never saw that little angel give up. I saw her cry
many times. I also saw the fear in her eyes, but that is only
human!
One day I arrived at the hospital, early and I found my little
angel alone in her room. I asked her where her mother was. To this
day I cannot recount her response without becoming very
emotional.
“Sometimes my mother leaves the room to cry in the hallway in
secret. When I’m dead, I think my mother will miss me, but I’m not
afraid to die. I wasn’t born for this life!”
“What does death represent for you, my dear?,” I asked her.
“When we’re little, sometimes we go to sleep in our parents’ bed,
and the day after we wake up in our own bed, isn’t that right? (I
thought about my own daughters, who at the time were 6 and 2, and
this is exactly what happened with them)”.
“That’s what it’s like. One day I will go to sleep and my Father
will come for me. I will wake up in His house, in my true
life!”
I was stunned, and didn’t know what to say. I was shocked by the
maturity which suffering had brought about in the spirit of that
child.
“And my mama will miss me,” she added.
Moved, I held back the tears and asked: “And what does missing
someone mean to you, my dear?”
“Missing someone is the love that remains.”
Today, at 53, I challenge anyone to give a better, more direct and
simpler definition for the word “longing”: it is the love that
remains.
My little angel left many us years ago, but she left me with a
great lesson that helped me to improve my life, to try to be more
human and affectionate with my patients, to rethink my values. When
night falls, if the sky is clear and I see a star, I call it “my
angel”, who sparkles and shines in heaven.
I think that in her new and eternal home, she is a shining
star.
Thank you, little angel, for the life you had, for the lessons you
taught me, for the help you gave me. How beautiful longing
is.
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