When I entered 8-year-old Seanne Smith’s hospital room, I could see immediately she was in pain. The cancer she had been fighting so valiantly had taken a turn for the worse. Skin was falling from the roof of her mouth, the treatment that had been working, now wasn’t.
I was serving as the Resident Storyteller for Seattle Children’s Hospital, a program I founded for the express purpose of providing comfort through the healing power of story for children who were critically, chronically and terminally ill. A program designed for just this kind of situation.
When I first met Seanne several months prior, she had specifically asked me to read to her from her favorite collection of Irish fairy tales that she had brought to the hospital from her home in Douglas, Alaska. I was a bit surprised because most of my young patients wanted to me to tell them stories not read to them. But the patient is always in charge and so I did. As we got to know each other, I began to tell her stories to continue to ignite her imagination and bring comfort. I also invited her to act them out with me which she did with great enthusiasm.
When Seanne’s Alaska cousins came to visit for the first time since her cancer diagnosis, she placed them in a semi-circle along with her mother and aunt in the hospital playroom. She then reenacted every story that I’d taught her. Seanne’s mother told me later that when the children were in the car driving away from the hospital, they did not talk about Seanne’s bloated face, her bald head, the unfamiliar and daunting hospital environment, but could only talk about the stories she told and how much they loved them.
However, on this day, things were different, very different. Seanne tried opening her eyes but it was clear to me that it hurt her to do so. “Would you like me to tell you a story?” I asked. She nodded her head yes. “I tell you what, rather than looking at me, just close your eyes, and listen to the sound of my voice. Like you’re listening to a CD.” Seanne lowered her lids with a sigh.
I asked for internal guidance as to what story might be of the greatest comfort. Then it came to me….that first visit months before and how important it was to Seanne that I read stories from her favorite book of Irish fairy tales.
I didn’t have the book, nor was it by her bedside but just as that thought came to me, I opened my mouth, and out came something of an Irish brogue and a story that I made up on the spot. “Aye, Seanne, It’s yer friend Paddy and I can see ye hurtin’ dear child. So I’m gonna take you away to the land of the wee fairies, the 4 leaf clovers, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, where we dance the jig all through the night and where there’s no pain. No pain at t’all. Ye friends are waitin for ye, so take my hand little one so we can get the journey started!” And on and on the story went, flowing from my heart to hers.
With each sentence I watched the lines in her forehead soften, her mouth loose its grimace, her breathing slowing down, and in time, Seanne fell asleep. I sat in quiet reverence and then spontaneously opened my notebook and started to write about what I’d witnessed. When I’d etched the last word on the page, I left her room and quietly closed the door. I saw a nurse I knew and fell into her arms crying. Not out of sadness but out of gratitude. I had been there for a child in need, bringing what I had to work with. My heart, my voice, my imagination, my desire to heal and that had been enough to give her a much-needed respite.
It was for me a sacred encounter. A realization that my decision to quit my job, and step out as a professional storyteller 10 years earlier for the purpose of bringing “Peace through Story” throughout the world had brought me here to this place, to this child, to this moment in her healing process.
Seanne got better. My 10-month residency ended and what I was left with was a blessed memory.
That is, until 2016, twenty-two years later when I received an email from Seanne.
She was now all grown up with an 8-year-old daughter of her own. She had tracked me down via my web site and here is what she wrote:
“Michale, I picked up my copy of “Catkin” that I read to my own daughter the other day and reread the inscription that you wrote to me. And I decided that I needed to try to find you online. I really hope this is your webpage—because I wanted to tell you, thank you. I was dying of cancer in Children’s Hospital in Seattle in 1994—and you showed me that stories can help you escape real life and experience something better. This book you gave me is still held in high regard in my house and my mother and I both have a special place in our hearts for you after you helped me so much when I was hospitalized. I’m trying to pass on my love of books and stories to my own daughter so she too, understands how important it is to read and imagine and immerse herself in the story itself. I think I’m doing okay at it. She’s 8 and read a 500-page book in one night. I figure that’s a good sign! Lots of fantasy and fairy tales for my little one—just like her momma. Thank you again for everything you did for me when I was in the hospital. You were integral in convincing me that it was worth it to keep fighting. I had to live to read more! And I have.”
When I read Seanne’s email, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. And then I went looking for the prose I had written so many years before, sitting at her bedside that day when she was at her lowest point in treatment. I wasn’t even sure I’d kept it. Then, there it was, safely archived in a collection of plastic boxes I had organized for the memoir I thought I might write one day. I typed it up, and sent it to Seanne.
A prayer and a love letter to a child, now grown, who would always remain a part of my heart. A confirmation that the path I’d carved for my life was the right one for me.
Prayer for Seanne
My precious Seanne
Have you done everything you came here to do?
I look at you with your eyes closed,
Lashes spread like delicate threads
Across your gentle face.
Skin translucent—as if your Spirit is already preparing to go—
With only your delicate porcelain shell holding it back.
Waiting just waiting until that moment of release.
Your hand moves up to brush away, what?
Our trying to keep you here?
Keeping you from the force that could take you away
Across the veil to the other side?
I speak to you in hushed tones
Sending you my love
Through the vibration of sound.
Hoping, praying that within my voice
You will experience the healing you seek,
Even if it’s just a fleeting moment of wellbeing.
When I look at your face struggling so,
I see the child of Sherie and Chad
And I feel your parents’ grief
As they see the child of their future
Taking her future into her own hands.
I feel a mother’s anguish
A father’s loss
A sister’s betrayal
A brother’s pain.
I feel my own unending sorrow knowing that you
Whom I have known for such a short time,
Might be one of those little ones
Who could not stare down Death
And say, “Not me. Not now. Not today.”
As I say this, I know miracles are possible.
I know in my heart that this road
Could suddenly veer in another direction.
Divine Will making a different choice.
I beg Spirit for that reprieve
Let this child be allowed to stay.
To live out her life,
In joy and possibility.
Yet, as I say that, I know
I must accept, if indeed Seanne, it is your purpose
Your destiny, to make your way Home,
That I must acquiesce and let go.
Yet, I feel the pain of your family
I feel my own.
Seanne, no, please, please don’t go
Keep fighting!
Is this a metaphor for life?
To give your all and then
When it’s your time,
You say, “I’m ready?”
And just release?
How much do you fight to stay alive?
At what point do you know
You’re being invited to let go?
This is what I’m longing to know.
Then I hear a voice
Not my voice.
A higher voice.
I lean in, listening.
Michale you will know.
Keep your heart open,
It’s part of your training.
The Truth you seek
Will enter the room,
You’ll feel its warmth.
It takes up no space,
But changes everything.
And indeed, it did.