She was just 17. Her birthday was Christmas Day, and not a December 25 goes by with a silent nod to Jana and a prayer for her family. I was in my 20s, working in a pretty fun job in my city’s tallest skyscraper, earning great money, having lots of fun, all in all living the high life. Yet about 10 hours a week I went to the children’s hospital to just hang out with Jana. She made me laugh. I admired her zeal. She laughed at me. She adored that I never acted like I knew how sick she was. When Jana was too sick to chat, I sat with her mom. I listened mostly, as she shared tales about Jana’s magnetic nature and mischievous antics. Sometimes I just sat and held Jana’s hand while her mom gulped in fresh air and took a much needed break.
And there was 13 year old April. She had battled leukemia for almost half of her life. She had just finished treatment and was awaiting news of her prognosis. April grew up in a double wide in a town that was smaller than my high school. She spoke with a thick Texas drawl and swooned over George Strait. She and her mother mocked me for not knowing who George Strait was. Then they tortured me with endless runs of All My Exes Live in Texas on replay. April was an old soul and wiser than I am still at age 45. On the eve of her grandmother’s visit April furiously opened a package shipped to her, hopeful it was a care package of sorts. It was a wig. From her grandmother. With it was a note stating she felt uncomfortable seeing April bald so she asked her to sport this ridiculously insulting wig during their visit. April was aghast. Her mother was livid. I was quietly fuming. April’s grandmother did arrive on time the next morning. April emerged from the bathroom, arms outstretched to give Grandma a big hug. Grandma squealed in horror and shock. She sat down on the end of April’s bed and jumped up when she looked up and saw her granddaughter kneeling in front of her. April’s mother and I doubled over in laughter, wiping tears from each other’s eyes. April had peppered her entire bald head with Harley Davidson temporary tattoos. Hers was a spirit that couldn’t be squashed. Grandma needed a breather. I stayed with April, high fiving her and marveling at her gumption.
And where did they go to capture a slice of peace? The Ronald McDonald House. Jana’s mom had a comfortable room to call home for those six months she spent 1200 miles away from her home, her husband, her two sons. April’s mom had a small suite to call home where there was a hot shower, a bright sun drenched living area, and a private recluse to write April’s story. The Ronald McDonald House was a place where these mothers could connect with other parents of (often terminally) sick kids. A place where they could openly weep, pray, hope, laugh, and vent. It sure beat an impersonal, cold hotel room and take out in a paper sack every night. And when Jana and April were well enough to leave the hospital from time to time, they had a warm place to visit. A place whose walls were filled with more laughter than tears.
After Jana’s death, a mere days before her 18th birthday, I continued to volunteer with pediatric bone marrow transplant patients. The Ronald McDonald House brought a taste of comfort to the 10 families I worked with after Jana’s. Little Rochelle’s baby brother even spent his first few weeks of life at the Ronald McDonald House while she was undergoing treatment. I ran fundraising races there. I babysat. I brought home cooked meals. I played endless games of Sorry and Go Fish. I made messy craft projects and littered the playroom with glitter. What I did for those families pales in comparison to what they did for me. I can attest that each family I had the honor to serve and to know owed their sanity to the Ronald McDonald House, the place they called home during the most gut wrenching, inescapably tough times of their lives.
I would love for you to meet some of the families who have been helped by the Ronald McDonald House.
Other than being a mother, being a volunteer with families who were supported by the Ronald McDonald House has been the single most rewarding, humbling, and life changing thing I have ever done.
There’s a terrific amount of knlgdeowe in this article!