After Life

I’m in Egypt. It’s August. It’s hot. Hot. Hot. It’s the end of my trip and I’m tired. But I drag myself to the Luxor Museum. After the sticky, stinky, amazing mess of wonders at the Cairo Museum, I’m pleasantly surprised at the cool, quiet, organized collection. I walk through slowly, letting the artifacts and their stories suck me in as the fans on the walls whisper quietly.

It seems, for these ancient Egyptians, life itself meant next to nothing. The years spent struggling on earth- just a blip in the forever after, just a preparation for the after life. Tombs were elaborate storage units for the stuff that might be needed in the after life. And that stuff is what I’m looking at now. It’s boxes and bins, chairs, beds, sandals, jewelry, games. It’s mostly mundane, everyday life stuff (golden thrones aside). It’s nothing I would consider needing for an after life. The after-life they were readying for seems to be very much like life-life. It seems they planned to be organized, comfortable, bejeweled, and entertained long after their bodies quit being anything.

The museum is small. I’ve walked the perimeter, and have made my way to a small room in the middle. It is dark and empty, except for an open sarcophagus encased in glass. As I move closer to look at this wrapped up ancient person, this mummy, my mind flashes to the hospital. To the first girl I watched die. How I removed my hand from hers. How I held her mother. How I picked her sister up off the floor. How I bathed her body. How I tied her hands together at her wrists and her feet together at her ankles with fine white string, knots followed unnecessarily by bows. How I closed her mouth with a cloth chinstrap that was made specifically for this purpose—all to get her body just right before it hardens in some awkward, inhuman way. How I wrapped her in a white plastic drape, so the outline of her body was all that was left. And when I look at this wrapped body in Egypt, all I can think of is the body I wrapped in the Bronx. And how small the world is. And how little has changed. And how I hope there is an after life. And how I hope my girl is organized and comfortable and bejeweled and entertained.

Cheerio

This little one has been in the hospital almost 100 days. She's mid bone marrow transplant. Through a gown and mask and gloves I try to make her happy. She grunts and points until I understand that Cheerios is the answer. Cheerios I can do. Focused, tongue pressed out the corner of her mouth, she expertly uses her tiny thumb and pointer finger to select a single O. Success. She smiles. She eats exactly half and pulls down my mask to feed me the other soggy piece. I don't know if Cheerios have ever come so close to making me cry.

Pulling Teeth

This kid has been through it all, so I am shocked when he comes to me in tears. I scan him quickly, looking for any visible injury- swelling, bleeding- and find none. He opens his mouth and points to his front tooth as he rotates it with his tongue. His eyes widen. I tell him it's ok, the tooth will fall out. He shakes his head fervently and points to me. He wants me to do it. He's crying now, mouth still open. Oh boy. I check his platelet levels and his bleeding times and take a deep breath. I twist slowly with gloved fingers; his tooth, hanging on by a thread, gives up. We sigh in relief, he and I together. He smiles that classic toothless grin. "Do you think the tooth fairy will find me here? You know, cause I changed rooms today?" he asks, panic rising. And I am floored. He knows he can't have soda because of his kidneys. He know he can go home when his counts come up. He knows what it's like to sit alone in a bone marrow transplant room for weeks. He knows central lines and nephrostomy tubes. He knows what it's like to be so sick he can't eat for weeks. Or go to school. He knows fever, neutropenia, relapse. He knows all this and he believes in the tooth fairy. Which means tonight I get to be the tooth fairy. Because if he believes, then so do I.

Lost in Translation

In Spanish I can tell him I'm his nurse. I can ask if he has pain. I can ask if he needs medication. I can't tell him he's amazing and handsome and strong and I'm sorry and I would take it all away if I could. I can put my arm around his mom, but I can't communicate what I feel. Lo siento is not enough.