Angie’s Story
By Jay Goodman
Having been through so much in my life, some days I can’t help but think how blessed I am to even be alive. I thank God all the time that He has shown me mercy and favor. Sometimes, I have wondered why. I have even asked God on many occasions why He has let me live. After all, I have seen other people suffer and die, but always, I am spared, and I wonder why.
I had a son named Eric. He was born on February 21, 1991 with a heart problem. I cannot begin to tell everyone what a sweetheart of a little boy my son was. And, of course, I asked God then, “Why?” We lost little Eric in October of 1996.
I can’t say that I’ve ever received an answer, but I have learned through each of these experiences very important lessons about life, and each of them has caused me to grow immeasurably. Now, sometimes, the lesson comes from the most unexpected place or the most unlikely person. Perhaps, even, that person will change you forever in ways that you can’t even imagine.
Truthfully, I don’t tell this story to too many people. In fact, I’ve been here at the Stevenson Unit in Cuero, Texas for nine years and have only shared it with a few people. It’s hard for me to tell it, because it has affected me so deeply. To this day, over twenty years after the events, I still cry every time I talk about it. And I pray that everyone who reads this that it opens their heart to the lessons I learned from this unlikely person.
Angie was a little, ten-year-old girl I met back in the 1990s while I was visiting a children’s hospital. Angie’s mother suffered from some type of mental disorder; I think maybe it was schizophrenia. After neglecting to take her medication for about a month on one occasion, Angie’s mother became so delusional that she thought her child was a demon. She took the beautiful little girl out to the toolshed and poured a gallon of gasoline over her, then set her on fire. At the time this happened, Angie was only six years old. Screaming, she began running away as the flames ravaged her body. She only survived because a neighbor man just happened to be outside that morning working on his car. He chased Angie down and smothered the flames out. Somehow, the little girl lived, but the damage to her little body was horrific. She had third-degree burns from head to foot. She lost one of her eyes, all the fingers on one of her hands, even her nose, which the doctors had to remake for her during surgery. There really is no way to describe how bad it was. Let’s just say it was way beyond repair.
Four years later, I was asked by a friend of mine to take a small dog that I’d been training to this children’s hospital. I’d learned to train dogs for handicapped people and was even certified to train wheelchair dogs, balance and support dogs, blind dogs, and many other kinds of service animals, including special dogs who would support veterans coming home from the war and suffering from PTSD. Part of this training is called “socializing”, where the dog is taken to different places in the public they might typically encounter in their lives as service animals while they are still puppies to get them used to being around people. It’s really a lot of fun for me, and in my experience, it was a lot of fun for others, too. When I’d go to retirement homes to visit the elderly or to children’s hospitals where the kids liked to play with or pet the puppies, it seemed to make all of our lives a little bit better. When we’d go to the hospital, some of the children were so sick from cancer or heart problems that they couldn’t even get out of bed. With these kids, I would just put my dog gently into their bed and they would lay there and pet and hold the dog.
On one particular day, I was in the room with a little boy who suffered from a heart problem. The boy was sitting up in bed, rubbing the dog while I sat in a chair in the corner. The door opened up, and a ten-year-old girl came in. I tell you I went from relaxing and smiling to absolute and complete shock. The little girl came right up to me and said, “Are you the dog guy?” I said, “Yes, I am.” She introduced herself as Angie and thanked me for coming to the hospital. She then stuck out her right hand in a jester for me to shake it. When I reached out to take her hand, I saw she did not have any fingers. But, to my surprise, her hand was still able to open and close, and she could squeeze my hand. It looked like she was smiling, but really, the only way I could tell for sure was by the look in her eye.
She turned around and went to the little boy’s bed and climbed up in it with him. Together, they started laughing and playing with my dog. Within a short time of Angie’s appearance, word had spread that a dog was in the boy’s room, and in came several more children along with one of the nuns who nursed the children. All of the kids were now up in the bed with the little dog.
I admit that the whole time all of this laughing and playing was going on, I couldn’t help but stare at Angie. The nun must have seen the continued shock on my face, because she came over and started telling me about the girl’s story. That’s when I learned that her own mom had set her on fire and that she’d had almost thirty operations to fix what had been done to her body. The nun stated emphatically how special Angie was, and that I shouldn’t look at what the fire did to her, but to look at the beautiful little girl God was allowing me to meet. I was embarrassed, because I knew the nun must have seen by the look in my face and read my mind.
The nun observed that the little boy was getting tired, so she took the other two children back to their rooms, leaving me in there with the little boy and Angie. He laid on the bed, holding the dog. Angie, meanwhile, had stopped petting the dog and was now rubbing the little boy’s head. The room was suddenly very quiet. Everything had become still. Over the boy’s head, Angie stared at me with her one good eye. Several minutes went by. Talk about feeling uncomfortable! It was like this little kid was reading my DNA.
When she finally spoke, she started telling me all about this little boy and his heart trouble. Angie didn’t have any lips, anymore, and it was like listening to the girl’s voice coming from a malformed puppet. But as she spoke to me, her eye never left mine, going back and forth from one eye to the other. Over the next ten to fifteen minutes, she told me all about the boy’s heart problems and what the doctors would do to fix them. The whole time, she kept rubbing his head until he drifted off to sleep. I saw that Angie and I had something in common. Even though she was only ten years old, she had lived a lifetime in those short years because of the things she’d been through. I, too, was aged beyond my years when I’d been her age, not by my own will, but forced to grow old before my time. I’d become an adult trapped in a kid’s body because of certain things that happened to me, things that happened just because of the kind of family I’d been born into. I realized that’s what had happened to Angie. She’d been made to grow up before her time.
Instantly, I felt more at ease, and she must have sensed this as she continued to stare into my eyes, because it looked like she smiled for the second time. I heard the door open and the nun stood there looking at us for a moment, then she smiled as she understood that everything had gone well.
Angie climbed off the bed and the nun said, “Come with me, Mr. Goodman. There are some more children who would love to see your dog.” Angie went from room to room with me, telling me, in detail, about each child’s medical problems. It amazed me how she even knew the medical terms of each one’s condition. What was supposed to be an hour’s visit lasted from seven in the morning to nine o’clock at night. I met a whole floor’s worth of kids that day, watching the magic in their eyes as my little dog kept them laughing. And all the while, I was intrigued by the little ten-year-old girl who never left my side. I cannot tell you how much I learned about myself that day – how much I learned about humanity – because of Angie’s burns. When the kids would come to play with the dog, not one of them ever asked what had happened to her. None of them were uncomfortable or cared of her appearance. All of them saw Angie just as the nun had seen her, exactly as a beautiful ten-year-old girl. It’s crazy. As grown-ups, you’d think we would understand that better than the children. I wonder why we lose that as we get older.
I also learned that the hospital had been Angie’s home for the last four years, and would probably remain so for many years to come. When I left the hospital that night, Angie asked me when I could come back. I promised her it would be very soon.
Over the next few months, I visited the hospital many times, and I never left without feeling like it was a learning experience, but little did I know that the little ten-year-old was about to teach me one of the most important lessons of my life.
I showed up one morning around seven, and a nun took my dog into a very sick boy’s room and placed the dog in his bed. While I was waiting, Angie came down the hall. She said, “Guess what, Jay! I have some good news.” When I asked what it was, she told me her mom would be there any minute, because the doctor had gotten it okayed by the judge for her to receive a special visit. I admit that I was very surprised, even wondering if they were telling her the truth. Just then, one of the nuns walked by, and I said, “Hey, Angie told me her mom is coming to visit.” But before she could even answer, the elevator doors at the end of the hallway opened up, and here was this lady escorted by two men. Angie started screaming, “Mom! Mom!” and took off running. She didn’t slow down until she was in her mother’s arms. Angie’s mom had dropped to her knees at the realization of what she had done to her own daughter, and she was crying, “Please forgive me, Angie.” Over and over, Angie told her, “Don’t worry, Mom. It’s okay. I love you.” Never in my 50 plus years of life have I ever seen such forgiveness.
In my time, I’ve seen so many people in life who hate their friends or their family members because of something they did or said – maybe even decades ago, loved ones turning against each other over the stupidest things. But on this special day, one of the most memorable of my life, I saw a ten-year-old girl whose mother had poured a gallon of gasoline on her and set her on fire tell that mother that it was going to be okay, and tell her that she loved her.
