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.

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.