COPYRIGHT 2006 The Orlando Sentinel
Byline: Jemele Hill
Aug. 20--Most journalists hope that our writing spurs change. Usually, positive change.
I certainly was hoping that when about a month ago, I wrote a column about Peter Rodriguez Jr., a 6-year-old from Orlando who was diagnosed with leukemia at age 2.
P.J. -- which is what everyone calls him -- is in love with sports, but in a way, that's healthy and encouraging. He swims, plays basketball and golfs because sports make him feel like a normal 6-year-old, and for a few hours, leukemia doesn't exist.
I was hoping my column would make something terrific happen. I imagined a brilliant scientist reading the column and rushing to P.J. with cutting-edge therapy that would make his disease nonexistent. I imagined a rich philanthropist coming along and offering to pay P.J.'s college tuition. I hoped for anything that would ensure P.J. had more good days than bad.
It was wishful thinking.
On Monday, P.J.'s mother, Candace Caldwell-Rodriguez, left a tearful voice mail for me. She sounded the way no mother should -- full of fear and anguish.
"P.J.'s dad died," she told me when I finally reached her.
I let out a long breath because at least P.J. was OK. But he's already gone through 2 1/2 years of chemotherapy, six blood transfusions and steroids.
Outside of sports, P.J.'s self esteem is low. His medical issues have him behind other kids his age, and he has to repeat kindergarten as a result. He shouldn't have to lose his father, who died suddenly at the age of 31 last week.
"I need your help," Candace said. "I wanted to know if you could write something about P.J. and his dad, so when he's older, he'll have an article that says how much his father loved him."
Parents always ask sports journalists to write about their kid. Usually it's because they think little Johnny is going to be the next Peyton Manning. Or because they think their daughter's high school softball coach deserves to be fired, because he or she isn't starting their daughter in center field.
All Candace wanted was to give P.J. something he could hold on to, just in case these early memories of his father faded. He needed to know his dad loved him dearly and did everything to make sure P.J. had the best life he could.
So these next few paragraphs are for P.J. and his dad.
The last time P.J. saw his father was last weekend. His father treated mom and son to a movie. They went to see Ant Bully and Miami Vice, but P.J. fell asleep on his father's shoulder before Miami Vice was over.
Mom and Dad have had their problems with one another, but they always could reach common ground when it came to P.J.
P.J. and his dad were close. Peter Sr. transported prisoners from state to state, which is why P.J. says he wants to be a police officer when he grows up.
Their two favorite activities were miniature golfing and going to the movies. The last time they saw one another, P.J.'s dad promised to take his son to see the movie, Barnyard.
"I just can't believe this has happened," Candace said. "I've known Peter since I was 14."
It took a few days before P.J. realized his father wasn't coming back. He told his mother he thought his father was on a trip, and he'd be back soon. It wasn't until P.J. saw his father's body at the wake this past week that it finally sunk in that he'd never see his father again.
"He is just so devastated," Candace said.
P.J. is going through a rough time. His mother constantly worries about what this could do to her child. Adults barely can handle losing their parents. Just imagine the trauma this could wreak on a 6-year-old.
Already, Candace senses changes in P.J. The other night, P.J. told Candace he was angry.
"Why are you angry?" she asked.
"I'm angry because somebody shot my dad," P.J. told her, "and I want to hurt them."
"P.J., your daddy wasn't shot. Your daddy was sick, and God took Daddy," Candace said.
"Well, can we shoot God?" he asked.
First, cancer and now his father. How much should a kid have to take? It should have been years before P.J. figured out unfairness is synonymous with life.
I could hope that this is the last bad week of P.J.'s life, but I know that's not realistic.
Instead, let's hope that when P.J. looks at this column 10 years from now, he'll know how much his father loved him.
Jemele Hill can be reached at jhill@orlandosentinel.com.
Copyright (c) 2006, The Orlando Sentinel, Fla.
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