A Day at the Hospital

I believe that everything has a purpose. Chris, my 17-year-old son, has been experiencing a full-blown flare-up of ulcerative colitis. He has been in acute pain, has been passing blood, and is constantly fatigued. His body has either become immune to the medication, which rendered it ineffective, or else his system has become overloaded with chemicals and they are making his condition worse. I had to contact his doctor this past Monday and yesterday, he was having another Remicade infusion. In the past, the infusions have pushed the UC into remission and given Chris some much needed relief from his symptoms.

He gets through these infusions with his Walkman and his headphones. The nurses have grown fond of my son and often ask him to sing for them. Once, he entertained the staff with his rendition of "White and Nerdy," complete with movements that helped to make the song more enjoyable. It is typical of Chris to do whatever he can to make those around him smile, and yesterday, when he heard a child crying in the cubicle next to his, he asked the nurse about the child.

The child was a five-year-old boy with leukemia. The little guy has a terrible fear of needles, and his mother is normally the only one who can talk him through his life-sustaining infusions. This time, however, his mother could not be there, for she was hospitalized herself. The boy's father was in the room with him, but it was apparent that he did not have the mother's magic touch. The little boy's grandmother was also in the room, but was making matters worse, because she could not stand to see the little boy so upset, and was begging the nurses to find some way to treat him that didn't use needles. Chris asked, "So what is his name?"

"His name is Lance," the nurse replied.

"How long will this machine run once I unplug it?" Chris asked.

"You have about 20 minutes, Chris. After that, you'll start to hear a beep every 30 seconds for about five minutes." A look passed between the three of us, Chris, the nurse and I, because we all knew where he was headed.

Chris unplugged his drip machine, rolled it along with him and went to see Lance. The little boy was so scared that at first, he held onto his father as if an evil force was trying to take him away. I could not hold back the tears as I saw his little round head with only a few tufts of black fuzz here and there where his hair should be. His face was unnaturally bloated, but it could not distract from the beautiful dark eyes that glistened from the moisture of his tears. I stood there in total amazement as my son knelt down and held out his Walkman to Lance. "Do you like music, Lance? I listen to my music and I don't feel the needles so much. Here, let me show you."

He put the set of headphones over Lance's ears and adjusted them to a perfect fit. He turned on the music, "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen, and then Lance said, "No, you sing it." The look of fear was leaving the child's face and a look of intense interest was beginning to show in his eyes.

So there was my son, an IV pole at his side, a drip line in his hand, kneeling to be eye level with a five-year-old boy as he sang along with the music until Lance was smiling and content. Lance's father was teary-eyed, I was teary-eyed, the nurses were smiling, and Chris didn't think it was any big deal. At that moment, I knew exactly what the purpose was for Chris to be there at that particular time. God bless his heart, he was so miserable, but he made that child feel better.

Before he returned to his own cubicle, the IV pump started to beep. "Lance, look at me, I have a port here in my hand just like you have there in your arm. I grew up, and I have to get special help, and you will grow up, too. The nurses and doctors want to help you so you can be a teenager someday." OK, that did it, no holding back this mother's tears at that point.

Lance looked at Chris and without missing a beat asked, "When I grow up, can I have one of those music things too, and learn to sing like you?"

"Sure, buddy, and if you like, I'll sing right along with you." Now there wasn't a dry eye in the place. Nurses scampered to get busy and each of them stopped at the desk to pick up a Kleenex. I had to use the restroom in the worst way and had to stay long enough to dab a cool paper towel to my eyes. Yes, we were meant to be there in that hospital yesterday. Chris was meant to help that child and I was meant to see that my child is a man in every real sense of the word.

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