When Addie was born, she had a congenital heart disease that caused her
heart to age much faster than the rest of her body. By the time she was five, it
was time for a heart transplant. Addie didn’t really think much of this. She
would run around, though quickly winded, and run again, her long, dark curls a
tangled mass around her head. She would laugh and laugh and say,
don’t worry mommy, I will be fine. Just watch.
Addie got a new heart when she was ten and then, a new lease in life. But still her mother worried. Don’t worry mommy, I will be fine. Just watch. I will graduate from high school and then you won’t worry.
Soon enough Addie was in high school. Her bubbly personality drew friends, and the smile she flashed everyone was always warm and friendly. She always wore a bright colored sweatshirt and her dark curls were now tamed in a single thick braid down her back. Everyone liked Addie and no one remembered that Addie was ever sick. When track season started she wanted to run in our school’s track team. There were no tryouts; everyone was welcome. But Addie’s mommy worried. “Running is good for me,” said Addie. “And it's sooo much fun!” So her mom relented and when March rolled in she joined her track team. By sophomore year, Addie had big plans. She wanted to run for student government, she wanted to try out for their soccer team, and she wanted to keep running with her track team. But Addie’s mommy worried. Addie’s heart is too weak. She can’t keep pushing it like this.
Junior year Addie wanted to go to Prom. But her mom was worried. She can’t go to Prom because dancing will be too hard and her heart might not like the exertion. “But Mom!” Addie argued. “Just let me be a normal teen! I’m going to Prom. It’s not that bad.”
Addie went to Prom with her friends. That was the first year I ever chaperoned for Prom and I saw Addie and her friends there. She wore a body hugging vibrant red dress that flared in the bottom like fish fins. She and her friends wore every color of the rainbow. They decided they would all be each other’s dates. No pairing off allowed. Addie and her friends danced until midnight when the last slow dance marked the end of the evening. She and her friends went on the dancefloor, holding on to each other, they swayed to the slow rhythm of “I’ve Had the time of my life” and then, they went home, tired, happy.
Addie was in my English class her senior year. She wrote the cheesiest poems and she laughed a lot. She would sit wherever there was an empty spot, usually next to the quietest kid whom she’d coax into a conversation. She looked like a regular teenager to me. Sometimes she would be gone for a few days, then by second semester they became weeks. But she would always come back with a smile. During our many conversations her senior year Addie would tell me that she wished her mom would stop worrying about her. She never told me anything about her health. I only knew because she had an IEP on file that explained why I needed to give her extensions on assignments. I was a young teacher then, and not yet a parent myself, but I remember telling her that moms always worry.
One day I asked: “What do you want to do with your life?” A heavy question to ask but it was a writing prompt for their college essay. “Write down your goals, your dreams...it doesn’t have to be big, it just has to be something. This is just our warm up. Don’t get bogged down in details,” I told them.
Addie wrote: “I want to graduate from high school. I already got more years than they said I would. I want mom to stop worrying.” Tell me more, I said. Help me understand.
Then she wrote about her mom whose heart was bigger than anyone’s she knew.
A week after graduation, Addie suffered a sudden cardiac arrest. Her mom emailed to give me details about the memorial.
This was twenty years ago now and every year since, when I chaperone Prom, I remember the red-dressed Addie with her rainbow of friends. I think of her mom and wonder if her loss and the years have tempered her worries. And I think about Addie whose heart, like her mom’s, was bigger than anyone I knew. And now that I am a parent, I know that the worry never truly goes away. And maybe when it does, it is just replaced by something like a lingering sadness. But Addie taught me that I should still laugh, even while my heart breaks.
Addie got a new heart when she was ten and then, a new lease in life. But still her mother worried. Don’t worry mommy, I will be fine. Just watch. I will graduate from high school and then you won’t worry.
Soon enough Addie was in high school. Her bubbly personality drew friends, and the smile she flashed everyone was always warm and friendly. She always wore a bright colored sweatshirt and her dark curls were now tamed in a single thick braid down her back. Everyone liked Addie and no one remembered that Addie was ever sick. When track season started she wanted to run in our school’s track team. There were no tryouts; everyone was welcome. But Addie’s mommy worried. “Running is good for me,” said Addie. “And it's sooo much fun!” So her mom relented and when March rolled in she joined her track team. By sophomore year, Addie had big plans. She wanted to run for student government, she wanted to try out for their soccer team, and she wanted to keep running with her track team. But Addie’s mommy worried. Addie’s heart is too weak. She can’t keep pushing it like this.
Junior year Addie wanted to go to Prom. But her mom was worried. She can’t go to Prom because dancing will be too hard and her heart might not like the exertion. “But Mom!” Addie argued. “Just let me be a normal teen! I’m going to Prom. It’s not that bad.”
Addie went to Prom with her friends. That was the first year I ever chaperoned for Prom and I saw Addie and her friends there. She wore a body hugging vibrant red dress that flared in the bottom like fish fins. She and her friends wore every color of the rainbow. They decided they would all be each other’s dates. No pairing off allowed. Addie and her friends danced until midnight when the last slow dance marked the end of the evening. She and her friends went on the dancefloor, holding on to each other, they swayed to the slow rhythm of “I’ve Had the time of my life” and then, they went home, tired, happy.
Addie was in my English class her senior year. She wrote the cheesiest poems and she laughed a lot. She would sit wherever there was an empty spot, usually next to the quietest kid whom she’d coax into a conversation. She looked like a regular teenager to me. Sometimes she would be gone for a few days, then by second semester they became weeks. But she would always come back with a smile. During our many conversations her senior year Addie would tell me that she wished her mom would stop worrying about her. She never told me anything about her health. I only knew because she had an IEP on file that explained why I needed to give her extensions on assignments. I was a young teacher then, and not yet a parent myself, but I remember telling her that moms always worry.
One day I asked: “What do you want to do with your life?” A heavy question to ask but it was a writing prompt for their college essay. “Write down your goals, your dreams...it doesn’t have to be big, it just has to be something. This is just our warm up. Don’t get bogged down in details,” I told them.
Addie wrote: “I want to graduate from high school. I already got more years than they said I would. I want mom to stop worrying.” Tell me more, I said. Help me understand.
Then she wrote about her mom whose heart was bigger than anyone’s she knew.
A week after graduation, Addie suffered a sudden cardiac arrest. Her mom emailed to give me details about the memorial.
This was twenty years ago now and every year since, when I chaperone Prom, I remember the red-dressed Addie with her rainbow of friends. I think of her mom and wonder if her loss and the years have tempered her worries. And I think about Addie whose heart, like her mom’s, was bigger than anyone I knew. And now that I am a parent, I know that the worry never truly goes away. And maybe when it does, it is just replaced by something like a lingering sadness. But Addie taught me that I should still laugh, even while my heart breaks.
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