Hanna's Pretties

My youngest, Hanna, and I are a close-knit pair. Maybe it's because she was born on my birthday, or maybe it's because she nearly died so young. She was a healthy newborn, but soon grew sickly and was finally diagnosed with a severe respiratory condition.

At 12 months she had to be hospitalized. The diagnosis was grim. Hanna slipped into a coma. It was a difficult time for us all. My husband, Russell, was a rock of strength. So were my parents, especially my dad, to whom I was also especially close.

After five days Hanna miraculously woke up. The day she was discharged, her big green eyes took a final look around her room. "Bye-bye, pretties," she said, waving her tiny hands. At least I thought that's what she said.

I was so overjoyed to have Hanna home, to hear her sweet voice while she played. I had missed her chatter. Sitting on the floor in her room, her doll baby propped up next to her, Hanna formed a few words into what sounded like a question. I heard the word pretties. She waited in silence for several seconds, then responded as if she were having a conversation.

Her older sisters, Rebecca and Sara, had had imaginary friends too, but they didn't have conversations with them. Hanna's pretties were different. She seemed to think they talked back. What an imagination! I marveled.

As Hanna got older she couldn't understand why the rest of the world didn't see their pretties too. Sometimes she offered to lend us hers. In early December 1997 I received a catalog filled with Christmas decorations and gifts. On the back cover was a picture of an angel figurine, her sweeping wings spanning the width of the page.

Hanna pointed to the picture and squealed. "My pretties! My pretties!"

"We call those angels," I explained.

"An-gel," Hanna repeated slowly. I could see her processing the connection in her head. But did I believe Hanna's imaginary friends were really angels?

Soon after, my life was thrown into turmoil when both my mother and father contracted pneumonia. They were admitted to Habersham County Medical Center near their home in Clarkesville. All day I bounced from Mom's room to Dad's in the ICU. But I stayed longer with Dad. His emphysema hampered his ability to fight off illness.

In the evenings I made the 100-mile trip from the hospital back home to Acworth. After a week my father's condition worsened, and one night I decided to stay over at the hospital. I dreaded telling the children I wasn't coming home—especially Hanna. She was only three and had never spent a night without her mama.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I dialed the number. Hanna answered. "I love you, Mommy," she bubbled. "I want to tell you something! Know what?"