She was five years old when I met her. Honestly, I don’t remember what her real name was. Some of the staff called her “Peaches”, but everyone at the House knew her as “RaRa.”

Anyone staying at the Nashville Ronald McDonald House during that period of time last year knew RaRa. She was usually up around the volunteer desk, the playroom, or dinning room chatting away. When I manned the volunteer desk, RaRa was usually there to entertain me. She’d sit on my lap and see what she could get into around the desk. Sometimes we’d read books.  I remember her questioning me the first weekend I met her. “You got a baby? Where’s your baby?” in that southern accent of hers.

I assured her I didn’t have a baby although I don’t think she really ever believed me, because someone my age should certainly have a baby of her own.

RaRa came from Clarksdale, Mississippi to Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital for a heart transplant last year. As active and energetic as she was, you’d never have guessed she’d had a major organ transplant so recently. RaRa was on the go. Playing outside, inside, begging me to find her a baby doll, then a bottle for her baby, then a car seat to carry her baby doll. She’d get her favorite buddy, Miss Amy, our House Ops Coordinator, to bring in her favorite food- corn dogs-on Amy’s day off. She was a handful, but you couldn’t quite help getting wrapped around her little finger just a wee bit.

I found out last night that RaRa died last week. Seven years old, full of life, a new heart beating in her chest. And now she’s gone.

Part of me can rationalize that her body is now whole. No more medications or checkups or hospital stays. She’s safe in God’s arms. Then there’s that other part of me that says it’s not fair. Someone else’s loss had been her chance at life. Another heart, another chance.

She was seven years old. She should be getting ready for kindergarten and making new friends and playing with her baby dolls. Maybe someday we’ll understand. But today is not that day.

It’s hard to believe that we won’t see that big smile around the House again. That she won’t be back for a checkup and a short stay.  That we won’t read stories or go on an excursion through the storage room for a new baby doll.  This is one of those days I wish I had a different job…