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.

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.

Diva

In the middle of the night I take the elevator up one floor to the intensive care unit, holding a little chemo cooler and a folder marked last name, first. Her room is sleeping, quiet and dark. Tubes breathe for her, taped heavily to the corner of her mouth. Tubes feed her, curved into her nose. I smile as I notice the two puffs of hair on her head that make her look just like Minnie Mouse. I adjust what needs adjusting, give her chemo, and retrace my steps back to the elevator, empty chemo cooler and a folder in hand. Several weeks later I was confused when I saw a bald child sauntering down the hall in a pink robe- DIVA scrawled in rhinestones across the back- enter my little Minnie's room. Then I realized she was my little Minne, just without her hair. Minnie without her ears, but with all her diva.