Little Heroes

He toddled toward me on somewhat unsteady legs, his daddy walking by his side with the IV pole. He had a little mask with teddy bears on it, and was carrying a book that looked a little above his reading level—it had a picture of Chevy Chase and a dog on it. I could tell, in spite of the mask, that he had Downs Syndrome, but I wasn’t sure what he was in the hospital for. As he approached, I crouched down to greet him, and his little legs carried him quickly to my side. “Hi buddy! What’ve you got there?” His eyes smiled a hello, and he said something in baby talk as he held out the book to me. “Hmm…Chevy Chase! He’s a pretty funny guy. Do you like this book?” He babbled something else, clearly wanting to have a conversation, but not yet able to form words. He couldn’t have been older than two, and my arms ached to sweep him up in a big bear hug. As we ‘talked’, his dad was standing there, smiling and laughing at his son’s attempt at grown-up talk. As per usual for these little explorers, something else quickly caught his attention, and he was off. His dad said to him, “Did you say good-bye?” and the little man turned around and opened and closed his hand a few times in a little-kid wave. I waved good-bye and watched this brave little guy amble around the corner, onto new adventures.
It is the first week of my pediatric rotation, and I am in love. It is SO GREAT to be back with the younguns. After two and a half years of working at Children’s in St.Paul, it felt like coming home to be back with the children. I am continuously in awe of these little heroes. Rach and I cared for a little girl who has acute lymphocytic leukemia, a very common childhood disease. Common but awful. But I have never seen such a brighter ray of sunshine than this eleven-year-old. She was losing hair, and had been in the hospital for months, and now was anemic as well. And when we talked to her, one would think that she was at the mall or on the beach. Such a cheerful disposition and positive attitude. She was explaining acupuncture to me; she got it to help with her appetite. I’ve never had it, and asked her what it felt like, and she put one finger on her forearm and tapped it a few times. “Go like this,” she said. “It feels just like this. It doesn’t hurt at all!” As I tapped my arm in imitation, she smiled her appreciation and approval.
The little boy next to her was in getting radiation and chemotherapy for a medullary tumor. He was eight. And unbelievably adorable. When the NP was speaking to his parents about his current treatment, Rach and I were playing ‘catch’ with him. He would take his super-hero action figure and shoot a little rocket thing from it, and we’d try to catch it. Rachel was much better than me; I was pretty pathetic at it. But he was having a good time and laughing, and actually speaking a bit. With his cancer, post-op mutism is apparently pretty common, so to hear him speak was a pretty big deal. His folks were funny, earlier teasing him, “Gosh, kiddo, don’t talk so much! We can’t hear the doctors!” He hadn’t said anything at all at this point, but appreciated their humor and smiled at them.
There are so many cases like this, and the most amazing thing is the atmosphere here. One would think that this would be the most depressing place in the world, and I’m sure for the families, it probably is. But you wouldn’t know it to look at the kids. They are sick and missing school and a normal childhood. And they are all smiles and hugs and sunshine and kisses. Truly little heroes.
I am so looking forward to going back on Wednesday. I can’t wait to see them all and love on them and, I know, learn so very much from them. How much they have to teach us all about facing the obstacles in life with bravery and strength. And when they don’t feel strong, they reach down deep and discover a strength that maybe they didn’t even know was there. I love their humor, their indomitable spirits, their unbelievable fortitude. I am in awe.
As I walk through the unit, taking in the bright colors and stories written on the walls, looking in the rooms at a dozen different dramas being silently played out in the hearts and souls of the patients and their families, I wonder what the future holds for these tiny warriors. I pray for the families and their dear children, my soul aching for them and their agony over what they must suffer. To be a nurse here is more than just dispensing meds and bandaging physical wounds; it is a ministry, a service. It is an awesome privilege to be here.