little patients

This past Tuesday, I was at Legacy Emanuel Hospital for a media event put on by the Children’s Cancer Association, Nike, and the Portland Trailblazers. The unveiling of the Music Rx media cart was held in the Infant and Toddler’s playroom, and in addition to the planners, designers, basketball players and reporters, there were cancer patients present.

And they were all children.

One of the Nike designers, who is a friend of mine, said he had no doubt that these children were chosen for the morning’s presentation because they looked pretty good at this point in their treatment and were able to be cheerful and smile for the press. My friend had been in and out of the hospital for several months working on this project, and he admitted that the process had been tough.

“Even though you’re there to work on the project, you’re surrounded by these sick children,” my friend said. He watched healthy-looking children deteriorate rapidly from one week to the next. “These kids look okay today, but if you saw them again in a week, you wouldn’t recognize them. The treatment takes such an incredible toll.”

Some of the kids looked perfectly healthy. Then there was Faith, all of perhaps five or six years old and the spitting image of her father. She enjoyed playing with the toys and giving and receiving hugs. She had a huge smile on her face during the entire event. But her skin was a sickly grayish-tan color, and she weighed only a fraction of what she should — and she had a feeding tube taped to the side of her face and running up through one nostril.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. She was so obviously happy, and yet so obviously unwell. I had to physically turn away from her so I couldn’t watch her. I concentrated instead on what the fabricator was telling me about the materials design process, and fought back the tears I could feel welling up.

These children didn’t ask to be sick. It’s hard enough coming into a world that is increasingly complicated and frightening, particularly when you’re little and are totally dependent on the big people around you to take care of you, but to get smacked with a life-threatening illness right out of the gate is just plain cruel. Of course, the parents didn’t sign up for this, either. Who adopts or conceives a child with the fervent hope, “Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if my child develops cancer!”?

I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d talked to everyone I needed to talk to and just couldn’t do anymore glad-handing. I stepped out into the hallway, out of the crush of people — cancer-riddled children, healthy adults, and freakishly tall basketball players alike — and checked my voice mail. I sent out a few superfluous text messages. I sat down on the couch and busied myself with taking notes.

That’s when a young mother rolled over my way with her son. He was all of perhaps 18 or 24 months old — it’s difficult to tell a child’s age when s/he is sick — and he was riding in a big red wagon, complete with pillows, comfy blankets, an IV stand and other monitoring equipment. The scant hair on his head was scraggly and growing in patches. No doubt the rest had fallen out. He had scabs on his arms and chest from where tubes had formerly been inserted, and surgical tape holding down the current lines and tubes. He was fussing, crying, uncomfortable and in pain.

His mother sat down in the chair beside me and called her husband on her cell phone while one of the hospital volunteers brought her a piece of cake from the event still going on in the playroom.

Her son was in too much discomfort to even listen to his father’s voice on the phone. The young woman placed the piece of cake inside the wagon with her son and stood up to continue rolling him down the hall. Then this little boy did something that nearly made me burst into tears.

He reached for the plastic fork, carved a big chunk out of the piece of cake, and held it up to offer to his mother.

In the midst of his own dis-ease, this little child’s simple act of generosity and love toward his mother just floored me. Like Faith’s unwavering smile, the spirit of these children remains steady and undaunted.