Making a connection

One day in early November Tim posted something about an astronomical bill from Emory Hospital for Abigail’s care. I was mired in my own money woes at the time, calculating the cost of being unemployed, uninsured and trying to have another baby.

I posted a comment: “How is your baby doing now?”

The radiation had shrunk the tumor, he said. Abigail had regained full movement of her eye and her double vision was gone. An upcoming MRI in December would tell them more, but things were going “really, really well,” he said.

After that, their lives appeared to return to normal, according to Facebook. Abigail tried out to play the saxophone in the marching band at Etowah High School. Suzanne was engaged in a 30-day art challenge. Tim posted photographs from hikes in the North Georgia mountains. They appeared to be living in the moment and enjoying their lives.

Occasionally I would see Suzanne’s “all clear” posts following Abigail’s “MRI days” as they monitored her tumor, making sure it hadn’t started growing again.

I didn’t interact much. I assumed all was well.

I was reminded of Abigail’s fight in March 2013 when Suzanne posted that her daughter’s Make-A-Wish Foundation request was approved. She explained in the comment section that the wish approval process had nothing to do with her daughter’s prognosis.

“Abigail isn’t getting a wish from the Make-A-Wish people because she’s dying,” Suzanne said. “Every child who faces a ‘life threatening’ illness is eligible for a wish.”

I clicked “like.”

Suzanne never mentioned on Facebook that Abigail’s modest wish was for violin lessons, which she started that year.

Suzanne started another 30-day art challenge that April and one of the first pieces she posted grabbed me. Titled “Walling Himself In,” it was a graphite and watercolor wash rendering on chipboard of a stone wall with four fingers reaching over the top. I connected to the emotion the piece evoked, as well as the blue and gray tones. I emailed Suzanne and told her I wanted to buy it.

I was starting to realize how unique digital friendships are. They’re less about face-to-face interactions and more about the images we post, the articles we share, the comments we exchange about life. We feel each other out from a distance and, without fully realizing it, relationships develop between people who never actually speak to one another or even shake hands.

I left my daughter, now 2, and my newborn son at home with my husband and met Suzanne and Tim at a Woodstock coffeehouse.

The three of us we hugged and caught up over a cup of coffee. We commiserated about how time is not your own when raising young children. We exchanged money for art, hugged and I left.

By the time my son turned 1, Abigail only needed an MRI every six months. When my son turned 2, Tim tagged Suzanne and Abigail in a picture on Facebook that had been snapped from the back seat of an automobile. Abigail’s hair had grown past her shoulders. She was driving the family car.

We rang in 2015 and another MRI day went by in February. All my attention was focused on my graduation in May.

Then everything changed.

Getting involved

“Ellen, if you ever can do an educational story on childhood cancer, Abigail has a DIPG. The most deadly form. If what Abigail is going through could help anybody else, that’d be a good thing.”

Suzanne wrote me because she knew I’d started working as a reporter for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

I felt both profoundly saddened and flattered by Suzanne’s private message. It wasn’t until that night that I fully comprehended the severity of Abigail’s situation. It was as though I had suddenly surfaced from underwater. Every previous post and update felt like a movie that in an instant became reality.

After having watched their family tragedy play out online, Suzanne’s message invited me into the middle of their story, with an added responsibility to write about it.

I planned to tag along to Abigail’s physical therapy session so Suzanne and I could steal a few minutes together over lunch. She had taken leave from work and was caring for Abigail 24 hours a day since the biopsy had robbed her of her independence.

I arrived at the Morris home that morning last May with a pack of banana nut muffins from Kroger, but no one had time to eat. Tim had left for work and Abigail’s sister, Sophie, was waiting for the bus. Suzanne buzzed around the house while Abigail and I sat in the warmly lit living room.

Abigail wore a black T-shirt that said, “Cats are great” and a pair of shorts that exposed bumps and bruises on her legs. She sat in an armchair, leaning to one side. She didn’t look like the picture posted on Facebook two years ago of a girl driving her parents’ car. Her once shoulder-length hair was cropped short. A half-inch scar from the biopsy extended past her hairline onto her neck.

She was no longer just the daughter of my Facebook friends; Abigail was sitting in front of me, struggling to speak and fighting to live. She had come a long way through physical therapy and could walk with help, but used a wheelchair most of the time.

We talked about music. She reminded me of her love of marching band and listed the instruments she played. Saxophone was her favorite. She said her grandparents had bought her a new tenor sax “right before all this started.”

Our conversation lasted the 15 minutes it took for her sister’s bus to arrive. We waved goodbye and I climbed in my car as Suzanne helped Abigail down the wheelchair ramp and into their white Nissan Versa.

We stopped at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta in Kennesaw first, where Abigail had her blood drawn. I watched as the nurse searching for a vein on Abigail’s arm tried nervously to make conversation. She said something about a bruise.

“Her bruises don’t heal,” said Suzanne.

At Scottish Rite, Abigail went to physical therapy and we moms went to a nearby café. I’d never been more scared of a cup of coffee in my life. I stared down at my plate, feeling more like a reporter than a friend.

Suzanne’s soft face always carried a wide smile in her pictures online, but in person she looked tired from holding back tears. Her shoulders slumped against the red bench seat across the table from me.

“I don’t even know who to be mad at,” Suzanne said. “I don’t know who to point at or picket.”

I had never clicked on Suzanne’s link about DIPG. I wanted to hear from Suzanne that the movie had a happy ending, but I realized she was preparing to lose her daughter, barring a clinical trial miracle.

Looking her in the eye, I asked if she believed there was no hope. The corners of her mouth turned down. I looked away.

She said the only hope was for a donor who could fund research.

“Why do we have to wait for the memorial to get donations for DIPG funding?” she asked.