I will never forget Valentine’s Day 1963. Not because it was the year that John F. Kennedy was assassinated, or the average cost of a gallon of gas was 29 cents, or because the Beatles ruled pop culture with their song “Love Me Do.”

I will remember it because that was the year my mother was diagnosed with a rare cancer.

I was 10 years old when we began the journey from Bozrah to Yale New Haven Hospital for my mother’s treatments and surgeries. Knowing I would be staying in the hospital all day, I took an arsenal of supplies with me: boxes of paper dolls, jacks, jump rope, Silly Putty and more. But my toys did not ease the restless hours of boredom in the waiting rooms and cafeterias.

One day, I asked to use the bathroom, but instead, went on an adventure.

Growing friendship

I wandered into the children’s ward and noticed a girl about my age in a wheelchair. She had a bald head and a tube attached to her arm.

Curious, I asked her why she had a bald head. The girl, pale and thin with eyes the color of warm, hot chocolate replied with a laughing voice, “I have cancer. Don’t you know anything?”

I explained that my mother had cancer too. Then I asked if she knew how to play with paper dolls, which she did.

Every time I went back to the hospital, I would visit Cecilia. Even though she was confined to a wheelchair, we would play tag behind unsupervised corners.

Other times I would push her wheelchair and see how fast we could go before someone noticed. She would save the peanut butter and crackers for me that she couldn’t eat. We’d play with paper dolls for hours. When Cecilia was too sick to get out of bed, we’d watch our favorite television shows for hours.

The week before Valentine’s Day, Cecilia’s nurse gave us coloring paper to make valentines. Cecilia shared with me things I did not understand.

Going to Heaven

“My mommy told me that Jesus might take me to Heaven,” she said.

I laid the robin egg blue crayon on the table.

“Aren’t you too young to go to Heaven? I asked. Cecilia didn’t look at me, but explained with a child’s wisdom that no one is too young to die. She saw my tears, and told me not to worry because when she got to Heaven, she’d ask Jesus to help my mother.

On Valentine’s Day, I went to see Cecilia, but the nurse stopped me. Cecilia had passed away.

She then asked if my name was Connie, and told me that Cecilia had left something for me. It was a card, colored in red and white, which read: Happy Valentine’s Day Connie! P.S. I won’t forget about your mommy.

Decades later

As a young woman, now married with a family of my own, my mother and I would often reminisce about Cecilia, her messy coloring and scribbled words, while giving thanks for the faith, hope and love of the wishful heart of a child. Let this be a lesson to you: Heaven is filled with many kinds of love and miracles that happen on Valentine’s Day.

Concetta Falcone-Codding is a 1971 graduate of the Norwich Free Academy and is the author of The Lonely Nest. You can contact Concetta at sarah_falcone@yahoo.com.