Ziggy Jones

We live on the 14th floor of Texas Children’s Hospital.

It’s the Pediatric Oncology and Hematology floor.  You can’t come on this floor if you’re sick, kinda sick, or thinking about getting sick.  There are hand sanitizers, masks, gloves, bubble rooms, and any and everything you could think of to protect the kids.  This is the floor where you get to know every doctor, nurse, nurse’s aid, receptionist, volunteer, etc on a very intimate level.  Because, for God’s sake, you live there.

This is the floor where God’s little children are fighting for their lives.

Unless you’ve been on this floor, or one like it, you could not possibly understand the raw emotion that you  practically taste.  I would suggest (only if you’re physically, emotionally, spiritually, and mentally well enough) that everyone visit this floor in your lifetime.  Just for a little perspective.

We’ve all seen the television marathon fundraisers, and our hearts bleed for the children and their families.  We even call the station and make a donation, right?   Oh, but how simple it is to then change the channel and mercifully get distracted by inane programming.  And this is not judgement or admonition.

What if you couldn’t change the channel?  What if you couldn’t escape the haunted looks in these kids’ eyes?  What if the smell of this floor  clings to your clothes, your hair?  What if you’ve sanitized your hands so much, they’re raw and peeling?  What if you’re willing to give your life so that some of these kids could live an extra year because you know some of them wont?

And you break down because you know that no matter how strong you thought you were, you ain’t got nothin’ on these little warriors.

There is a wisdom I see in their eyes.  There is a quiet acceptance, a weary submission, a willingness to let these silly adults with their silly remedies try to help them.  And every where you look, there are smiles, and there is strength.

I used to believe these kids were so strong because they didn’t know any better.  How could they understand anything about the life and death struggle they were in?  What did these little babies know about anything at all?  How arrogant and presumptuous of  me.

I’ve learned my greatest lessons on this floor with these wonderful little teachers.

Iffy lay sleeping in one of the rooms.  My mother dozed next to him in a chair.  After making sure they were okay, I slipped out of the room and headed down the hall.  By this time, I’d lost a little weight, one of my breast, and all of my hair.  I looked the part of a woman diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer.

I came across a little girl, obviously in her own struggle, as she sat coloring.  Her dad was asleep in a chair next to where she sat.  I quietly asked her if I could join her.

She made room for me and passed me a few crayons, a sheet of paper.  I began coloring.  After a while, she spoke.

“Are you taking the bad medicine, too.”  She had to be all of 6.

14th Floor

“Yes, I am.  I really don’t like it though.  It makes me very sick.” I said, looking at her.

“Well, yeah, it makes me sick, too, but if it helps the cancer go away, its not that bad is it?”  She continued to color, only glancing up periodically.

Now, at this point, I’m stumped because I realized that although she LOOKED 6, her soul was infinitely older.  I pressed on.

“I also hate needles.  They scare me.”  I looked at her, and she looked at me.  She put her crayon down at that point.

“Well, that’s silly. You’ve just gotta get over that. I don’t like when they stick me, but what else can you do?”  With that, she skipped off into the family cafeteria.  I sat stunned, eyes watering, feeling a little foolish.

“Don’t worry.  If you’re on this floor long enough, you get used to the kids being the adults.”

Her father had spoken, and I got it.  Dear God, I got it.

Tags: cancer, Chemo, Iffy, Texas Children's Hospital

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 8th, 2010 at 4:13 pm and is filed under My Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.