Dia de los Muertes

or Day of the Dead... basically a Mexican All Saints Day.

As I understand it, it's a day to remember the ancestors who have gone before us, take a picnic to their graves and tell stories.

I don't have any graves to take a picnic too, although I don't mind if you run and grab something to eat!

I did want to share a story - one of the many I have after 3 decades of working in pediatrics - a story that has helped me become a firm believer in forces we cannot see.

This story is true for those of us who experienced it; whether it becomes true for you is something you can choose.

Do you believe in the dark power of the Bermuda Triangle?

Well, how about believing there's a vortex of goodness and healing running through our Intensive Care Unit? (Come on... why is it easier to believe in evil?)

All I know is that there have been more miraculous sightings and unexplained events in two rooms, diagonally across from each other, than in all other rooms combined.

If either of my sons had ever been sick enough to need the PICU, I would have insisted they be in either Room 20 or Room 27. There's some major magic juju running through there!

And, some days, in order to keep working with critically ill and dying children, you'll go with whatever power's available.

There's a fine line to walk in peds: being honest with a child who's dying - "keeping it real" so they don't lose trust in their caregivers - and being SO honest that you take away hope and leave them more fearful. It's generally a time for deep listening.

I was frequently asked to sit with Andrea when her parents took a break - as they went to eat, to cry, to talk to other adults, to breathe air that wasn't tainted with loss.

Most of the time, she was quiet; her body tired from fighting for so long.
She had The Little Mermaid running on continuous loop and would occasionally open her eyes to watch, but the times of her singing along with Ariel and Sebastian under the sea had long passed.

So I was surprised one afternoon when she opened her eyes and said, in a small voice but with all clarity, "I'm not scared anymore, you know. Peter came to see me last night and he said he's waiting for me on the playground. I'm only worried because I forgot to ask how I get there. That's what I don't know; I can't fly.
Donna, how will I get to heaven?"

Andrea was four.
Peter, two years older, had been her best friend through all their treatments.

He died three weeks before but, in Andrea's weakened state, her parents made the decision not to tell her.

His parents had even come to see her and told her that Peter was doing much better.
He was, in fact, stronger and happier than he'd been in a very long time.
(To my mind, they hadn't lied either).

Peter told her 'the truth' himself.

My response felt feeble and, with eyes full of tears, all I could say was "I don't know. I don't think you know until it happens but I trust there's a way that makes sense and I know you'll be safe with Peter".
It seemed to satisfy her.

I have to admit I was relieved when she went back to sleep without asking more.

Andrea died 12 hours later, surrounded by family and staff who loved her.

Days later, at her funeral, her parents told me that shortly before she died, she opened her eyes, smiled and whispered, "Mommy, do you see him? I know now. He's here with My Little Pony. It's OK. I know how to get there now."

We obviously don't know who "He" was.
Her parents believe it was Jesus.
Staff who worked with both of them believe it was Peter.

I don't think it makes a difference.
'He' was the presence of love and he helped her journey become clear.

On All Saints Day, I love remembering that we don't travel alone.
There are Saints who have gone before who are waiting for us on the playground and they're waiting to  welcome us home when it's our time.