The Christmas I Lost My Little Angel
Written by Mildred Sandvik (1973)
Edited by Darcy Sandvik
How do I begin to write about the last Christmas of our four and a half year old little cowboy? We walk along the hall to the X-ray department, his spurs jingle and his new cowboy boots click on the shiny floor. Ronnie’s gun and holster hang low on his boney hips, as he climbs faithfully up on the X-ray table with a confident smile for Dr. Mitchell who is giving him cobalt therapy.
The sarcoma behind his ear has almost doubled in size since the original biopsy. The left side of his face has turned brown from the gamma rays and his pretty black hair is almost gone. Dr. Mitchell arranges him on the table, then signals for me to go to the booth with him. He tells me that he will be sterile, and never have children; but, upstairs they have already told me that he cannot live. I look in agony at the folder, the heading glares back at me: SANDVIK, RONALD JAY — EMBRYONICAL SARCOMA, INOPERABLE.
From outside the window, I can see the snow flakes are falling soft and fluffy. It is almost Christmas and the X-ray department is filled with gay decorations. The students are going about their work and in the air is both a feeling of excitement and urgency. In the center of the lobby is a beautiful, lighted tree. After therapy, Ronnie slowly walks around the tree with wonder and light reflecting in his dark eyes.
Four and a half — almost five — and it’s his last Christmas. How can this be happening? He is full of love and faith, trusting his caregivers to take the cancer away. The nurse comes to give him a shot for pain in his little body that is almost full of needle marks. I explain why this must be and that she doesn’t want to hurt him. With tears in his eyes he concedes, “I don’t want a shot” he says with the tender flood of emotion in his little voice; yet, he holds his arm out to her and she administers the shot. “All I ever want is to go home,” he whispers into the crook of my neck as the nurse pulls the needle from his arm.
Home, to a last Christmas. The tree is up and his sick bed is drawn close to the fireplace to keep warm. He has a little night lantern and in the night when the pain comes, he tells me “Mama, use my light!” I cuddle him close and rock him all through the night in front of the fireplace. His little body now beginning to show what a little skeleton he looks like. Against the glow of the fire, I can almost see through his paper skin. The doctors say, “Put him in the hospital on death watch”. We cannot part with him, it is so close to Christmas.
Santa comes bringing a brand new train that sits in a little village. His eyes light up at the sight of his new toy — until the pain comes. The chill creeps in around us as he moans in his fitful half-sleep. The train goes steadily around its track, unmindful of its little owner.
The third day of Christmas was just like every other morning during the holiday season. At sunrise, I give him his last drink of water with an eye-dropper to get by the horrendous tumour in his throat. He looks up at me and sighs — a long sigh — and, just like that, my little angel is gone. I call to him, “Ronnie! Ronnie!” but he is beyond my hearing.
Sixteen years have gone by, he would be almost 21. I go and assemble the little train under our lighted tree. It’s like new. I look in amazement as it hoots and hollers around the tree, and time stops — and goes back to the Christmas where I sat rocking in that chair, cradling my little cowboy.
We buried him high on the hill in the little white suit he loved so much, with his little face turned to the East. From my window, as I go about my chores, I can see the tree beneath which he sleeps, from where I too, will sleep someday.
