A Little Luck

This girl is lovely. She is kind and beautiful and sick. She is from Egypt and hasn't been home in over a year. The first time I met her I spoke slowly and loudly, knowing that doesn't make my English any more Arabic, but at a loss of what else to do. She let me finish, patiently, and responded in plain, quiet English, her cheeks briefly blushing soft pink where a nauseated pale green would soon take over. I spent months with this girl and her mother, both so far away from home. I happened to vacation to Egypt, where I couldn't help but think of my patient. I brought her a small purple bracelet I found in a bazaar in Cairo. A beetle bracelet. It's meant to bring luck. I knock softly on her door, and head to her bed. Her eyes are shut tight, blocking out the world as best they can. I whisper her name and she opens her eyes to let me in. She smiles and winces. I tell her where I've been and place the bracelet in her hand. She doesn't move for a minute. And then she does. She pulls herself up to sit. Her face lights up and her eyes fill with tears. She hugs me with all the strength she has. The sores on her tongue make it hard for her to speak, but she mouths Thank You to me and she doesn't need to say another word. She holds out her wrist, and I slip the bracelet on. She runs her fingers over the little beetle stone. Luck, she says, and looks to me.

The Show Must Go On

My patient is just about my age. We look at each other carefully, unsure why our positions are not reversed- why I'm not the one in a hospital gown, held to the bed by nausea; why she's not the one trying to comfort me. She found out about the cancer when she was pregnant with her now (almost!) 4 month old son. The baby is on his belly on the bed, striving to push-up, while her seven year old daughter dances around the room, practicing for the school talent show tomorrow. She twirls and skips and shimmies, somehow avoiding the bed, the IV pole, and the general somber atmosphere of the hospital. My patient asks about her counts and I tell her. Her hemoglobin is 7.5. Her platelets are 4. Her white blood cell count is less than 0.2. Our tiny dancer doesn't pause as her mom closes her eyes and sighs. She will need blood and platelets. She is neutropenic. She's not going anywhere. She will miss the talent show. The baby continues his quest to pull himself up. Her daughter finishes the routine with a grand curtsey and bow. Her mother and I applaud. The show must go on.

Good Girl

She repeats everything you say. "Nemo," I say as I point to a sticker in her crib. "Nemo!" she squeals. "Dora?" I ask as I pick up her doll. "Dora!" She laughs. "You're a good girl," I coo. Later that night as I'm drawing her labs she holds perfectly still, but tears wet her face. "I'm good girl," she cries, "I'm a good girl." "Yes," I hum quietly as I smooth her damp hair from her forehead, "you are." "Bye-bye, love" I say to her as I leave her room. "Bye-bye, angel," she replies, which might be the loveliest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Going Out With a Bang

I’m sitting at the bedside of a patient I’ve only just met and I’m wondering what weird twist of fate has made it so mine will be the last face she sees. As her heart slows, mine quickens. As she takes her last breath, I find I’m holding mine. There are fireworks in the distance. I’m sure, in the history of things, lots of people have died on July 4th at 11:20pm. This is just the first time anyone has done so while holding my hand.

Where the Heart Is

She peers around the corner. She sees me and her face lights up. She squeals my name as she runs toward me. She crawls into my lap without hesitation. She opens her clasped hands to reveal an old broken keychain—a small purple heart with the words Las Vegas written in faded cursive across the front. She pushes the purple heart into the palm of my hand. She is so serious I nearly forget she’s only a child. She leans in, lips to my ear, “be careful,” she whispers, “don’t lose it.” “I won’t,” I shake my head and wrap my hand around it tightly, “ I won’t.” She smiles, satisfied at my two word response. She takes my free hand with hers and pulls my arm around her little body. She settles into me. She sighs. And she falls asleep: heart safe in my hand, head heavy on my chest, rocked by the beat of my breath. How could anything else matter?