Good Morning

This kid is HIV positive. He is in a wheelchair. He has muscle problems and speech problems and vision problems. He was adopted by a foster mother who brought him back after a month because she couldn't do it. And every morning- EVERY morning- he wakes up with a smile. "I have a house and food and school and people that love me...my life is good," he says, and he means it, as he starts to sing along with the radio.

4am

It's 4am, we are literally in the middle of this guy's chemo. I'm checking orders, vital signs, and blood return on his central line. I'm changing fluids and medicating for nausea. The girl in the room next door is crying. My patient sighs. "Are you ok?" I ask, checking his monitor and his lines. "She sounds like she's in pain," he nods his head toward their shared wall. "I hope she's ok." He looks worried. He certainly has no shortage of things to worry about, yet he's worried about her. When you've lost a little faith in humanity, you can sometimes find it in the middle of the night, in the corner of the hospital.

Blink

"I wish you knew me before," she said to me one night, while she could still speak. I do too. I've seen pictures. She was stunning. She taught preschool. She just got married. She had headaches. She came to us, a brain tumor took over, and her regression began: her ability to walk, get out of bed, go to the bathroom left one at a time. In the end she lay in bed, eyes wide and scared, voice gone. Her mom never leaves her side. Her baby has become her baby once again. Her mom writes each letter of the alphabet on a plain piece of paper, clearly, in rows. She holds the paper in front of her daughter and points slowly to each letter, one at a time. My patient blinks when she wants her mom to stop and her mom records the letter. The letters blend together. We insert spaces where they're needed. It is in this manner she spells out what she needs, what she's thinking. HELPME. DONTLETMEDIE. ICANTDOTHISANYMORE. IWISHYOUDIDNTHAVETOSEEMETHISWAY. IMSORRY. It's tedious and time consuming and heart breaking. One letter at a time.

Soon

"Are you sad?" I ask. Her lip quivers, her head nods. "Why?" I ask. Her hands splay out, her shoulders shrug. She crawls into my lap. She nestles her head into my shoulder, and before i can do it she pats my back to comfort me. It's such an adult gesture made with such small hands. "Don't go," she says, her warm words pour into my neck. "I'll be back soon," I say as I gently pry her out of my lap. My 12 hour shift has sneaked nearer to 13. "When is soon?" she asks as I plop her down onto the floor. "Soon," I say again because I don't know the answer. The elevator doors close between us. My day is ending and hers has just begun.

A World Away

She came back down to our floor from the Intensive Care Unit a mess. Her toes are dead and black, circulation conserving itself to vital organs. The wounds on her legs and back are so deep you can nearly see through them; her immune system non-existent. Tubes in her nose, in her arms, in her chest. It's a lot to take in. As I'm processing it, I find a poster on her wall. A collage of pictures: prom, sleepovers, football games, life. Her hair is long, her smile innocent and genuine, her laugh captured at just the right moment. It wasn't that long ago, or that far away, but it's another world from where we are now.

Chocolate!

She is small. Her dark curly hair is matted to her head along a healing post op suture. She wakes early. She is pushed in her stroller around the big square of the unit over and over and over. Lap after lap after lap. She looks toward me when I wish her good morning, her eyes milky, blurry, unfocused and uncooperative. Her vision removed along with a tumor nestled on her brain stem. "Chocolate!" she screams in an aggressive, surprisingly commanding way. "Chocolate chocolate chocolate!!!" The girl knows what she wants.

Super Kid

His parents made up bright orange t-shirts with their son's name superimposed over the Superman logo. They hand them out to the nurses and doctors, and now the hallway is awash with orange. We have become a team- all of us. Team Super Kid. He's circling the unit, taking us in. His team. He is glowing. "Pretty thoon people are gonna be athking me for my autograph!" he lisps in delight. Pale arms and legs jut out of his too small Sponge Bob pjs as he marches down the hall. "Meet me in my room," he commands with a tiny pointed index finger, like he owns the place. And right now, he kind of does.