A Note to the Chick-Fil-A Team Member Who Asked Me, “Is She Going to Get Better?”

To the Chick-Fil-A Team Member who asked me, “Is she going to get better?”  

I am sure you don’t remember me, as it has been almost a full year since I pulled up to your drive through line at Chick-Fil-A, but I was the woman in the minivan, with a green hospital band on my wrist, who started to cry shortly after I told you my daughter was in the hospital, and in response to your question (a question I had come to dread), “Is she going to get better?”

I am writing to you, today, from my daughter’s hospital bedside, at the infusion center at Children’s Hospital, for two reasons, 1) I never actually answered your question, 2) what you eventually said, in response to my tears and circumstance, deserves mentioning (and an expression of gratitude) and 3) I never formally thanked you for the “no charge” meal, and the extra chocolate chip cookies you included with my order.

To answer your question, I don’t know if my daughter, now 6-year- old Nora, will “get better,” as she lives with several chronic and complex health issues. Nora’s day-to-day life with epilepsy (and the side effects of epilepsy treatments) is not easy, or what any child should have to endure. But, I want you to know, since we spoke that day in the drive through, things for Nora and for our family, have indeed gotten better. Throughout 2019, Nora was admitted to the hospital almost monthly due to reoccurring respiratory infections or illness. As I write to you, today and in this moment, she is receiving IVIG, a therapy for individuals with under-developed or weakened immune systems and function. Since she started IVIG (August 2019) she has had zero hospitalizations. This means, Nora was able to start Kindergarten, continue to dance, and participate in family, and community events and trips — all beautiful things she loves.

When we spoke, that day in the drive through, Nora was admitted to the hospital with coronavirus (different from COVID-19), and pneumonia. I remember how your face fell when I told you my daughter was sick, and you nodded empathetically as I went on to explain that my husband and son were also sick at home with fevers. I don’t know if you could tell, but I was sick too — exhausted from coughing all night and sleeping on a pullout chair-bed at the hospital. That day was actually only the start of what would continue on as a very, long, and emotional week. A week in which, complete strangers, such as yourself, provided me with the space, emotional support, and kindness that I, somewhat unknowingly, needed. The word I would use to describe that week is “low.” I felt so discouraged, a little forgotten, physically sick, tired, and quite honestly, in some ways, a little desperate.

But that day, in the Chick-Fil-A drive through, when I eventually stopped tearfully rambling, you provided a quiet refuge from “low.” You put aside your electronic ordering system, and said one of the kindest responses to heartache I think I’ve ever received, you said: “I can’t fix it. But, I can listen.” Receiving your words that day lifted my spirits, made me feel less alone, and somehow, even hopeful. That day, you reminded me that kindness, a listening ear, and chocolate chip cookies can go a long way, and help a hurting, and tired mama keep moving forward.

I hope this note finds you; this is a beautiful time for your kind words, “I can’t fix it. But, I can listen,” to re-enter the world. Because, Lord knows, right now, the world does not have many answers or “fixes” to our current circumstance — the global COVID-19 pandemic. But, as you clearly demonstrate, when circumstance is beyond our control, our world still has kindness, listening ears, chocolate chip cookies, and even the simple words, “I can’t fix it. But, I can listen” to offer our family, community, and tearful mothers in the Chick-Fil-A drive through. Now, more than ever, I think the world could benefit from hearing how you so graciously embodied empathy and compassion that day. Thank you again.

With gratitude,

Jesse Van Leeuwen

(The tearful woman in the minivan with the horribly unattractive green hospital wristband)