Unsolved Mysteries: Part II

When I recounted the story of the statue and my two-year-old to my mother, her response was not what I expected. “Don’t discount such things as childhood fantasies,” she said. “Many of the stories I have read, of the lives of saints, have had such experiences in their childhood.” Now, don’t get me wrong here, I don’t believe we were thinking my child was destined for sainthood, only that there are far more things in this world than we know that can’t be easily explained away. The “stories of saints” was used as an example. My mother was a great believer in the purity of a child’s soul.

From that day, I made it a point to listen, without comment, and with a nod of the head only, to any strange stories my young daughter had to tell. I began to believe, as she grew, she became aware that others did not have such experiences. In the story of Big Blue, (earlier in this blog) I suspect that at times, she found whispering her secrets under those floppy ears was a far safer thing to do. As she grew into a teenager, I feel she tried to suppress such sensitivities and deny they were a part of her.

Then came the day my daughter fell ill. “I think she has strep throat”, I said to my husband. Before I could bring her to the doctor, I had an urgent call from my family. My mother was dying, I should come right away. My husband was left to bring my daughter to the doctor. From the hospital, I called to check on her. “It’s not strep,” I’m informed. “They don’t know what it is. The doctor says it looks like boils all up and down her throat.” My daughter, now in bed with fever, lay listless, with blisters the size of quarters up and down the esophagus. My husband sat by to monitor our daughter, as my siblings and I sat by mother’s bed.

We sat that first day, watching, praying and listening to the rattle in my mother’s chest as the day wore on. Late that evening, I traveled home for a few hours rest, and to check on my daughter. As I entered her room, my flesh began to creep and crawl along my spine. There in the darkness, came the same rattle I had listened to all that day at my mother’s bedside. I laid my hand upon her forehead, smoothed her hair, and left her in my husband’s care, to return to my mother.

All the next day, we sat with mother, and at nine o’clock that night, she was set free of her earthy misery. For the next hour we sat together as a family to say our final goodbyes to her. I then called home.

“Hello” I said to my husband. “I’m glad you called,” he replied. “I want you to know that she is better.” He continued. “An hour ago, she suddenly rose from her bed, proclaimed she felt better, and had a bowl of soup.” I was silent for a long period. “Are you there?” he questioned. “Yes,” I said. “Did you say an hour ago?” I asked. “Yes, nine o’clock,” he replied. “That is very odd,” I tell him. “It was at nine o’clock, that mother passed away.”

To this day, I am unsure of who was helping whom. Was it mother, lifting the pain from my daughter, or my daughter lifting the pain from her grandmother? Whichever it may be, I feel that the incident is related to my daughter’s “sensitivities” and in honor of my mother, will not dismiss it outright as coincidence.