Compassion

Monday, April 15, 2013

Today's blog entry has been written by guest blogger Beth Paulino.

I was trolling on Facebook recently and came across a page that caught my eye.  A friend of mine had commented on it and with one click, I was pulled into the world of a very sick little boy whose parents are desperately doing everything they can to save their child.

It surprised me how quickly and how deeply I became both involved and invested in his fight to survive the many obstacles in front of this poor child.  Not wanting to add to her burdens but anxious to help if I could, I tentatively reached out to his mother through the FB page. Given the very long hospital stay her son is facing, I asked if she would be comfortable with us sending one of our electronic gaming devices for him to play with.  She wrote back later that night and said that would be so kind, that his had broken his first night in the hospital, and offered her thanks.  I was overjoyed—there was something for me to do.  I got my kids involved. They made cards, took a picture of themselves and recorded a message for the sick boy, and we sent it all off—overnight delivery.  We all felt elated. It felt so good to be able to do something for him.

I found myself checking on the child’s FB page often, as we were now not just concerned strangers but an entire family that felt a personal connection to him. His mother had written that they’d received it, he’d played it all day the day it had arrived, and he’d had a rare giggle at my childrens’ message. It was the most wonderful feeling to know we’d had a hand in bringing the smallest joy to a little one who was suffering in so many ways.

And then, a day or so after our gift arrived, he began to get worse.  The messages posted on his page were increasingly worrisome, as this already very ill child fought infections upon fevers upon complications.  I would read the heartbreaking status messages and weep, send my prayers along and fervently hope for an improvement when the next status was posted…but the news continued to grow more and more grim. 

People around me told me to stop looking for updates—it was obviously too painful. I knew they only said these things out of concern for me but I honestly couldn’t imagine turning away.  Painful as it was, as much as I ached for that baby and his mother, tuning out and acting as if this wasn’t happening simply wasn’t an option. What if this were my child?  Wouldn’t I want everyone—family, friends, people I casually knew, complete strangers for that matter—to send up their prayers, to buoy me with heartfelt wishes when I felt like I couldn’t take another moment, to shower me and my son with their love from near and far, letting us know we weren’t alone as we suffered through the greatest challenge of our lives?

It’s certainly easier to live this way—not getting involved, not emotionally investing in others.  They can let you down.  They might disappoint you.  And they might die.  And then where does that leave you? Where is the logic to opening yourself up to the possibility of an unnecessary wound?  And yet the complete and utter joy I felt at the notion that we brought a smile to the face of a sick child…the elation on my own childrens’ faces when they knew he’d received and enjoyed their present…this was actually his gift to us.  I will never meet him (he lives across the country), so he will never understand how, for a couple of days, we were walking on air, so happy to have made a difference—even for that one day. To have been able to distract a little boy from his illness, to make him laugh—and all it took was a small gesture on our part?  What a privilege!  And no matter what happens with his illness, we will always have that knowledge and those very special memories.

The boy is still fighting and I will continue to check on him, offer my prayers, celebrate his triumphs, and weep for his suffering.  Because this is what I would hope his family would do for me if, God forbid, our roles were reversed.  This is the world I want to live in and the model I would like to be for my own children.