Rock On

I hear crying from her room. It carries around the corner, down the hall, and directly to me. I go to her, crawl into her bed, and scoop her into my lap. Her fever is breaking; she is hot and sticky. Blood pumps into her from a bag through a tube tunneled into her heart. Tears pour out from her squinted eyes, drip down her face, and puddle into my shirt, just above my heart. I rock back and forth, a metronome, and hum something quietly into her ear until her moaning subsides. And even then, I rock on.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

This poor girl's head is a mess. Squares of thick braids hold on by a strand or two, surrounded by bald patches. She has been holding on to those braids like they're her last link to normal. I tell her the braids look like they're ready to go. She agrees to let me help. I find myself pulling out the remaining wisps of hair, which come out in clumps in my hand. I don't know what I'm doing. I am better at drawing blood cultures or giving chemo or infusing platelets than I am at doing this. But she doesn't need cultures or chemo or platelets right now. Right now she needs someone to transition her from balding to bald. So I do.