Our Daughter, Betsy

Betsy squealed as she tried to slip past my husband, Ben.  "I've got you now," he laughed, grabbing her leg as she collapsed into a heap of giggles.  But then the wrestling stopped.

"Diane," he called to me from our family room to the adjoining kitchen. "What is this lump on Betsy's calf?"  The bike ride from the previous day crossed my mind.  At five years old, Betsy had been so proud that she made it around a two-mile trail on her bike.

"Did you fall off your bike and hurt your leg yesterday?" Ben questioned her.

"No," she answered.

"Call her pediatrician and see if you can get her in today," he said.

"Yeah, right," I laughed, assuming Ben was still clowning around. As an emergency room physician, not even a serious gash in one of the kids could ruffle his feathers.  As long as they were conscious and breathing, Ben did not worry.

"I'm serious, Diane," he said with an edge that made me nervous.  "Kids don't have lumps."

I made an appointment for that afternoon.  Betsy had been given a clean bill of health for her annual physical earlier that summer.  I told myself that it was probably nothing, but either way, we would soon find out. Since Ben had worked the night shift at the emergency room, he could stay home with one-year-old John and seven-year-old Luke.

The doctor examined Betsy. "I'm going to have an ultrasound done so we can have a better look," he explained. By then, it was getting harder to convince myself that it was nothing.  I called Ben.  He took the boys to a neighbor's and joined me at the doctor's office.

The ultrasound revealed only that it was a mass of some kind. Cancer was suspected, so the next step was to biopsy it. Betsy needed to have a chest x-ray first as part of the standard pre-op procedure.

I tried to calm myself.  Well, in a worse-case scenario, if it was cancer, it was below her knee joint.  Even if she had it amputated, she could still run and play sports with a prosthesis.

With Betsy in another room, the doctor flipped the x-rays up on the wall. A big shadow of white behind Betsy's heart and along her lymphatic system in her neck was visible.  I looked at the doctor for an interpretation.   He looked stricken.  I looked over at Ben.  His face had gone white.

"Oh, this changes everything," the doctor said in a whispered tone.

"What does this mean?" I demanded, frantic to understand what I was looking at.

Ben choked back tears. "Betsy has tumors in her chest and neck." Ben paused as his voice caught.  "That means she probably has a tumor in her leg too."

Ben and I sat down. My legs were too weak to hold me up.  We cried and held each other.  Only hours earlier, our house had been filled with Betsy's laughter. She had always been a healthy, happy little girl.  It seemed impossible that she could have cancer.

"Will we still do a biopsy?"  I asked.

"No, we need a new plan now," the doctor explained.  The cancer had spread throughout Betsy's small body. Removing a lump was no longer a possible treatment plan.

Ben and I had to go back into the room where Betsy sat waiting for us.   "The doctors are not sure what's wrong with your leg yet," I explained.  "We need to see another doctor first."  Before we told her everything, we wanted to know exactly what we were dealing with. An appointment was made to see an oncologist the next day.

"Dear God," I prayed, "Please get us through this.  Don't let Betsy suffer.  Please, God," I begged, "let her survive."

The oncologist diagnosed Betsy with a muscle-cell tumor, rhabdomyosarcoma.  We gently explained to Betsy that cells divide, but with cancer, they divide too much. She was going to have medicine to kill those cells.

Betsy began chemotherapy right away. The drugs were given during the night, and on the first night, she vomited seventeen times as her fragile little body shook and heaved.  Ben and I stayed at her side.  My mom and sisters helped with our boys.  By the third day the doctor explained that Betsy needed to feel like she was safe.  If we were afraid to leave the room, that was giving her the wrong message.

Ben and I left and sat together in church for an hour.  We cried and prayed, sometimes separately and sometimes together.  It was the longest hour of my life until I could return to Betsy's side.

In between chemo treatments, Betsy began kindergarten.  She attended on days she felt well enough.  When her hair began falling out, she was not surprised, since the doctor had told her to expect it. "Hey Luke," she called to her big brother.  "As long as it's coming out, we might as well have fun with it."  She had her brother help her brush and pull it out in clumps and put it into a plastic bag.  Betsy accepted it, but that night, I lay in bed and sobbed, the plastic bag on my dresser.

Betsy had picked out a wig to wear for when she went bald.  She wore it to school the next day after being absent for a couple weeks.

"Hey," one of the kids shouted.  "Teacher said you were going to lose your hair, but you didn't."

Betsy smiled impishly. "You think this is my hair, but it isn't. See?"  she said and pulled off the wig.  "This is the way my head really looks.  If you want to come up and touch it, it's OK;  it won't hurt me."  The kids all crowded around and felt her head.

"I wore this wig because I thought I would be embarrassed, but I don't really feel embarrassed," Betsy announced.  "And it's kind of itchy, so I'm not going to wear it anymore."

And she never did.

Betsy went into remission halfway through kindergarten.  Then, in October of 1991, as a first grader at Cathedral of the Holy Spirit, her tumors returned.  Treatment started up again full force.  In January, our pastor, Fr. Thomas Kramer, suggested that Betsy make her First Holy Communion at Mass.  She wore a beautiful white dress and white headband with a veil on the back upon her bald head, so she would look beautiful for Jesus.  After Mass, it seemed everyone came up to touch and congratulate her.  Ben and I were touched by the outpouring of love.

The week before Easter of 1993, our family went to Disney World as a gift from the Make-a-Wish Foundation.  Betsy was weak but still able to enjoy it.  One evening in the hotel, while I tucked her into her bed, she felt a lump on her back.  "That's a tumor, isn't it?" she asked.  "I'm going to die, aren't I?"   I was not ready to answer yes.  I told her we were still fighting it.

We took her to the hospital on Good Friday to see her doctor.   "Betsy, we can't stop this cancer anymore.  You are going to die from cancer," he gently explained.  When Ben and Betsy and I stepped out into the hallway, Betsy saw a favorite nurse.  "Carol," she announced matter-of-factly, "it looks like I am going to die.  But that's OK because then I' ll be in heaven with Jesus and our baby (I'd had a miscarriage years before).  Or else I'll get to stay here with my mom and dad and brothers, so either way I'll be OK." Ben and I looked at each other and recognized the shared pain in our eyes.  We said nothing, though.

On Monday, we brought Betsy back to the hospital for comfort care.  The doctor wanted to try to shrink the tumors so they would not cause so much discomfort.  Instead, by Wednesday, Betsy began her final stage of dying.  We knew it would be soon, so we had a few close relatives and friends come to say their good-byes.  Fr. Kramer came to confirm her and administer the Anointing of the Sick.  He said, "Betsy, you're going to see Jesus soon."

Betsy, who had been laying quietly, sat bolt upright and anxiously asked, "When?"

Father Kramer answered, "I don't know exactly, but it will be soon."  She seemed satisfied with that answer and lay back down.

Then, wanting to comfort her, I said, "Betsy, are you afraid?"  She looked at me in surprise, and quickly replied, "No! Are you?"  I felt God's grace come over me as I realized how much Betsy trusted Jesus and what we had taught her about His love and how wonderful being in heaven with Him would be. Thanks to her courage and faith, I could answer truthfully: "No."

Our boys came to be with their sister one last time.  "I love you, Betsy," they each said and held her hand.  "I love you, too," she responded weakly.  After a couple hours, the boys were taken home.  Ben and I lay alone with Betsy and stroked her hands and head.  It seemed we could not tell her enough times how much we loved her.  Betsy remained responsive.  Then, her breathing became labored.

We held her in our arms and spoke softly, "Betsy, we love you so much, but we are ready for you to go, if it is your time.  If you can see Jesus or a bright light, it's OK to go.  We'll be all right." Immediately her body relaxed, her face looked peaceful, and she went on to be with her Jesus.

In the grace of the final moments, I had felt strong and peaceful, but now, I was heart-broken.  After her twenty-two-month battle with cancer, Betsy was gone from us.  Ben and I held each other and sobbed.

Our grief was intense, but we still had two other children who needed us.  It was the reason we could still get out of bed in the morning and get through the day without Betsy.

During Betsy's treatment, Ben and I had been a team, but we found that we grieved very differently.  I learned that talking to a counselor was very helpful to me during my grieving, whereas Ben preferred to grieve more privately.  It was a very painful time, one that could have ended in divorce.  Instead, through the grace of God, we slowly began to heal. We feel our marriage became stronger because of what we had survived together.

Three years after Betsy died, we welcomed another baby into our family-our daughter, Mary.  Mary looks a lot like her big sister and has her spunky spirit.  She is a heavenly blessing and often a sweet reminder of Betsy.

It has been fourteen years now since I've been able to hold Betsy or hear her little voice. Yet I know that if God said to me, "Here, you can have her back," I would not ask that of her.  I know that she is with Jesus and that we cannot even imagine the ecstasy that brings. I accept the pain that comes from our temporary separation.  Because of my faith in God, I know that Betsy is happier with God than she could ever be on earth.  She will never hurt again.  And as a parent, my most important job was to get her to heaven. I believe that mission was accomplished.

- Diane Roller

Diane Roller is the mother of four children.  She chose to stay home the last twenty-four years to raise her family and has just recently returned to her part-time career as a physical therapist.  She is an active volunteer in her church, school, and community and loves to play tennis.