knowledge of their inner workings. I might visit one voluntarily if
I was dying. Maybe. Visit one when I wasn’t even sick? Na-uh, no way, no
how .
Peter clearly saw this on my face. “You asked me
once, what I do with my time.” He gestured toward the main building. “Well,
this is it.”
I gave him a deadpan look. “What? You can’t just
wrangle up your food the old fashioned way?”
He gave me the look . Seeing that expression
on his face, I could see the power and superiority that truly coursed within
him. It was horrifying. “Come on, chicken,” he said firmly. “Suck it up.”
I snorted and unbuckled my seat belt. We made our
way into the hospital and Peter steered us toward a bored-looking older woman
behind a giant desk. Apparently, he was a regular here. The woman- Lisa according,
to her nametag- lit up when she saw him. We obtained a pair of volunteer
badges and headed for the elevator.
I fingered my plastic badge curiously, impressed. It
was a real badge; not just one of those stickers you write your name on. Peter
had obviously put some thought into this. I took a deep breath and told myself
to relax. He seemed to want to share this part of his life. It was a good
gesture. S uck it up .
We got off on the fifth floor. I wheeled off the
elevator, taking in the Disney characters painted on the walls. Oh.
Peter led the way to a small play area in the
middle of the floor. A group of kids were waiting for him. They were all
smiles and crazy energy- even the ones with bandages and I.V. poles. I could
see a nurses’ station on one side of the area. Hallways with patient rooms
stretched out in each direction, with brightly colored figures painted on the
windows.
A pretty blond nurse was rounding up the kids. She
gave me a brief, friendly smile before turning to beam at Peter. “What will it
be today?”
Peter smiled in response, and shot a questioning
glance at the kids “Paint?” At a chorus of agreement, the nurse hurried off to
get us some supplies. Peter introduced me around and greeted some new
patients. Then we painted.
It was the most fun, and the most heartbreaking,
thing I had ever done. The children ranged from toddlers barely able to walk,
and attended by strained parents, to one hesitant teenager with one side of his
head shaved. The sutures stuck out like dark railroad tracks spanning the
entire side of his scalp. The little ones seemed to love the fact that my
wheelchair put me on their level. One adorable little girl of about five or so
asked to sit on my lap. I was scared to let her, afraid I might disrupt the long
IV trailing from her arm. But Peter stooped and picked her up, raising her
high then plopping her in my lap amid a chorus of giggles.
I watched his green eyes sparkle with joy as the
children swarmed him. I was as enraptured as everyone else in the area. The
staff all managed to stop and sneak a peek at our group at some point in the
afternoon- not that I blamed them. Peter came to the children’s wing about
once a week. Sometimes he visited the various adult floors too. “I’ve been
blessed with this life,” he explained on the way home. “You must make the most
of the precious life you’ve been given.”
I mulled this over on the ride home. Sure, my life
wasn’t as far-reaching as Peter’s, but the depth of his sentiment touched me. My
life had been forever altered by my accident, but nonetheless, I had survived.
For what purpose? What would the world be like if everyone sought to make more
of their lives by enriching the lives of others?
*****
When I was a little girl, I used to write stories and
poems in my journal. My best friends and I would act them out, running around
the house and yard like little fiends, driving my parents crazy with our
antics. When I got older, more important things took up my time, things like
school, and homework, and boys.
I was dying. Maybe. Visit one when I wasn’t even sick? Na-uh, no way, no
how .
Peter clearly saw this on my face. “You asked me
once, what I do with my time.” He gestured toward the main building. “Well,
this is it.”
I gave him a deadpan look. “What? You can’t just
wrangle up your food the old fashioned way?”
He gave me the look . Seeing that expression
on his face, I could see the power and superiority that truly coursed within
him. It was horrifying. “Come on, chicken,” he said firmly. “Suck it up.”
I snorted and unbuckled my seat belt. We made our
way into the hospital and Peter steered us toward a bored-looking older woman
behind a giant desk. Apparently, he was a regular here. The woman- Lisa according,
to her nametag- lit up when she saw him. We obtained a pair of volunteer
badges and headed for the elevator.
I fingered my plastic badge curiously, impressed. It
was a real badge; not just one of those stickers you write your name on. Peter
had obviously put some thought into this. I took a deep breath and told myself
to relax. He seemed to want to share this part of his life. It was a good
gesture. S uck it up .
We got off on the fifth floor. I wheeled off the
elevator, taking in the Disney characters painted on the walls. Oh.
Peter led the way to a small play area in the
middle of the floor. A group of kids were waiting for him. They were all
smiles and crazy energy- even the ones with bandages and I.V. poles. I could
see a nurses’ station on one side of the area. Hallways with patient rooms
stretched out in each direction, with brightly colored figures painted on the
windows.
A pretty blond nurse was rounding up the kids. She
gave me a brief, friendly smile before turning to beam at Peter. “What will it
be today?”
Peter smiled in response, and shot a questioning
glance at the kids “Paint?” At a chorus of agreement, the nurse hurried off to
get us some supplies. Peter introduced me around and greeted some new
patients. Then we painted.
It was the most fun, and the most heartbreaking,
thing I had ever done. The children ranged from toddlers barely able to walk,
and attended by strained parents, to one hesitant teenager with one side of his
head shaved. The sutures stuck out like dark railroad tracks spanning the
entire side of his scalp. The little ones seemed to love the fact that my
wheelchair put me on their level. One adorable little girl of about five or so
asked to sit on my lap. I was scared to let her, afraid I might disrupt the long
IV trailing from her arm. But Peter stooped and picked her up, raising her
high then plopping her in my lap amid a chorus of giggles.
I watched his green eyes sparkle with joy as the
children swarmed him. I was as enraptured as everyone else in the area. The
staff all managed to stop and sneak a peek at our group at some point in the
afternoon- not that I blamed them. Peter came to the children’s wing about
once a week. Sometimes he visited the various adult floors too. “I’ve been
blessed with this life,” he explained on the way home. “You must make the most
of the precious life you’ve been given.”
I mulled this over on the ride home. Sure, my life
wasn’t as far-reaching as Peter’s, but the depth of his sentiment touched me. My
life had been forever altered by my accident, but nonetheless, I had survived.
For what purpose? What would the world be like if everyone sought to make more
of their lives by enriching the lives of others?
*****
When I was a little girl, I used to write stories and
poems in my journal. My best friends and I would act them out, running around
the house and yard like little fiends, driving my parents crazy with our
antics. When I got older, more important things took up my time, things like
school, and homework, and boys.
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