One. Abbadon.
A tiny eighteen-month old form, helpless and naked but for a diaper and an IV, is lying in my arms.
We are nestled in the vastness of the hospital. Outside the sliding glass doors, overhead pages squawk from the ceiling, nurses and doctors and techs bustle past. Inside, the lights are dimmed as I attempt to rock him to sleep, his large brown eyes half-lidded.
Bruises and cuts, all of them inflicted deliberately, mar his skin. His parents, in an outburst of uncontrolled rage, fractured this little boy’s skull.
One of the nurses asked me to hold him. She needed to get work done, and handed him off to me. He looked confused for a moment as a new person took him, locking eyes with me. He is beautiful – large brown eyes and a light dusting of blond-colors hairs frame his face. My badge caught his attention, bright colors offering a momentary distraction. He was restless, the needle embedded under the skin of his wrist irritating him. We took a walk to the toy room, him casting glances around at the new sights and people. We picked out some small baby toys, and returned to his room, away from the bright glare of the fluorescent lights.
As I hold him, I wonder how any parent can do this to a child. The people that were to love and protect him turned tormentors with protean dispositions; hands that were to be instruments of love twisted to those of anguish. They probably never thought of themselves as the sorts of people who would do such horrific things. Deep inside, for the briefest instant, I feel a tiny prick of pity for them.
He refuses to sleep despite his obvious fatigue, preferring to look at me, or the nurses who come into his room to flush his line and hook his IV up to a nourishment bag, which makes him cry. I get him settled down, nestled up and nearly asleep in my arms when the designated sitter comes to take over. He cries to stay with me, but it’s not my choice; I need to go check on other patients. The last I see of him is him sleeping in his crib, the nurses rolling him over on his side so keep him from putting pressure on the crack in his head.
Two. Chrysalis.
“Hey…do you have any more toys?”
The ones that talk to you are treasures, drops of dew in the desert. So many are too young, or injured, or in too much pain and distress.
Far from being distressed, she was wide-eyed, curious. And bored.
She wanted toys, like many kids her age – which a consultation of the patient whiteboard revealed was eight. She even knew specifically what she wanted – dolls. A thorough scouring of the toy room showed we had none, much to my surprise. I picked out some consolation items – coloring books, crayons, stickers, crafts, Connect Four, and a flat wooden doll with various magnetic dresses.
The last two items were accepted with excitement, the box opened and being played with almost before I had set it on her bed. She was playing Connect Four by herself, looking terribly bored when I checked in on her a little later. Her grandmother sat quietly, cross-stitching, ignoring the child.
She was alone a few minutes later as she left her room, padding in her socks around the halls of the ER, dodging gurneys and doctors. I felt a tug on my sleeve.
“Hey! Do you have any more toys?”
I sunk down to her level, balancing on the balls of my feet. Grown-ups can be imposingly tall, even to me.
“I sure do, lots. What’s your favorite toys at home?”
“Baby dolls! And Barbies!”
“I’m really sorry, I don’t have any. But we have some kitchen toys, and doctor’s sets, and books, and cars and trucks. What do you think?”
“Can I come see what you have?”
“We’ll have to check with your grandma first. I’ll stop back in after I check on a few more patients.”
“Okay!”
I asked if she could come with me to the toy room to pick out some toys, and grandma was only too happy to oblige. We trekked down the hall together, her pointing out various things she saw along the way, hopping from one thought to the next with the reckless abandon of a typical eight-year-old girl.
“Look, a crib! I’ll bet I could fit in that. Can I have one in my room?”
“Probably n…”
“Woah, what’s that?”
“An IV pole. They use those t…”
“Is this is? Is this the room?!”
I let her punch in the code to open the toy room. She was amazed by the veritable treasure trove within, in her excitement wanting to take more than we could carry. We finally settled on a select few, and I listened attentively to her chattering away as we walked back to her room – only to find a sitter, and a nurse telling us a room opened up, and they’d be moving upstairs in a few minutes.
She was crestfallen as I began to gather up the toys to return to the toy room. She followed me back, insistent on helping. Her small hands found mine on the way back, bouncing up and down, challenging me to a skipping contest. We skipped hand-in-hand down the halls of the ER, getting a few raised eyebrows from the sitter when we got back, giggling.
The sitter did not look like a fun person. She was the sort of person you can tell was hoping she’d get to hold a baby, and doesn’t want to have to deal with a hyper eight-year-old. Instead of introducing herself to her charge, she found the nurse to complain about not being allowed to take the room’s comfortable chair upstairs.
The girl tried to follow me again as I left the room to go check on other patients, wanting to stay with me and help. I was sorry that I had to tell her no, she couldn’t come with me, but that I’d try to come back to say goodbye before she went upstairs.
She had already left when I got back a few minutes later.
This is what I hate most about the hospital. An emergency room is almost by definition a place for short-term care. 99% of the patients I see can’t, or don’t display signs of life. It’s an emergency department, this is expected and normal. But every once in a while you get one of those rare patients who make it all worth it. But this one was only around for a mere fifteen minutes. And for the first time ever, at the suggestion of the social worker I told the story to, I did what I’m not supposed to and used my ability to move about the hospital after hours to check back on her and grandma in their new room. She was in bed at this time, and grandma was still cross-stitching; the sitter reclining in the darkness at the other end of the room, presumably brooding about her chair.
She brightened when I walked in, her head poking out from under the covers.
“Hi!”
“I just wanted to check back up on you guys. It was nice to meet you, little miss.” I said, giving her hand a little shake.
The girl looked up at me with big eyes.
“Will I get to see you tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.
I hate this question, because the answer is always the same.
“No, sweetheart. I’m only here on Mondays.”
She blinked. “Okay.”
And with that, I said goodbye and clocked out.
The 1% give me strength to continue.
I am a volunteer.
Exit, stage left.
Sparks