A nurse comes in and checks on his the amount of medicine left in the breathing aparatus. It makes a gurgling sound as it turns the liquid solution into air. He bits on the mouthpiece so to give his hand a rest. The nurse looks at him impatiently. "If you let that drop again, we have to do this all over." The boy rolls his eyes and returns his hand.
He knows the drill. For the past few years he felt the poke of the needle and the throb of his hand holding that damn machine. He was ten years old now and they kept telling him that it would get better; soon he would be able to run with the other kids while playing football, not need a note for p.e. while sitting on the bleachers while the other kids made faces as they rapidly ran laps. Yet that night, just as with many other nights, he awoke with nothing in his lungs but a grasp for breath. At first, hoping to just go back to sleep. At least in his dreams he could run. Yet sleep he could not, he felt like he would vomit and had to get up. And in those situations, as he slowly opened his bedroom door, feeling the guilt of having to bother his mother again, she was already there. "Another one," she would ask, but not of impatience for herself, but of impatience for what she knew he felt; the pain that fullfilled her childs lungs.
The hospital was a drill, almost like something you see practiced when a women is near giving birth; suitcase in hand, action plan in place. They had their plan and without words carried it out until the young boy was in that hospital bed, with that hard mattress, trying not to lose feeling in his hand so the nurse wouldn't scould him.
Usually his mother would never leave his side, reading her book in the uncomfortable chair, barking orders at the new doctors who always wanted to try something new. "That doesn't work, we know what works, just do what I tell you." The doctor would roll their eyes as though her suggestion was wrong. Later they would fill out the prescription nonetheless, knowing the whole time she knew what was better for that child then they.
This time the boys mother was away getting him a treat from the cafeteria. He knew this weighed on her, he could see sometimes in her eyes the drain from dealing with him, but also knew that the love she felt was deeper then the drainage could reach. Much like a leaf blocked gutter on a stormy day not allowing the emotions to override the need to be strong. But he knew and hated waking her everytime, but it just wouldn't subside.
He was not an unhealthy looking boy, not sickly at all. Besides the whezzing noise that ecsaped his breath, one would think he would have been on the third base man for the local little league. However he wasn't, he was just trying to keep his hand from falling asleep. His blue eyes looked curiously around his room. Although all of the rooms looked the same; the cross on the wall, everything flitering thru white.
Why was there so much white in the hospitals? Is that why everyone thinks they see a bright light when dying, really just the translucent glow of the roof as they stare off losing grasp on reality? Or is it to make one feel pure, as though whatever has gone on before they entered that bed is forgotten. Who knows, he was just a kid, he just knew the room was way to bright for his likings.
The TV hoisted in the corner played a cartoon, however the antenna was bent causing the screen to flicker every 30 seconds or so, just enough to make you not want to stare. He already complained, and they told him that was the best that channel could work. It reminded him of himself. It looked like a normal tv, just couldn't work quite right.
The boy heard voices coming from the other side of the room, vision blocked by the blue curtain....only thing not really white, but of course it was a light blue. It sounded as though a Mother spoke to her son with a polite sincerity you only hear in a mothers voice when her child is sick. Soft, subtle, not wanting to arose any emotion in herself. "I'm just gonna go check for the doctor again, I'll be right back," she assured her son. Of course she would be right back, where else would a mother go, the young boy wondered.
"Alright, you're all done with your breathing treatment for now," the boy already knew this because the gurgling had come to an end. However if he told the nurse that she would tap sharply on the side, hurting his teeth and tell him there was a bit more. Better just let her do it when she feels it's done.
"Now try to get some rest and we'll give you another one in about an hour, then you should be alright to go home.:" The nurse said, dressed in white, and walked away.
The boy sat there for a moment only to realize as any young child would, he was bored. So he reached out with his right hand, causing the needle in the left to send bolts up his arm, and pulled back the curtain to see who needed to be re-assured their mother would return. A young black child lay on the best next to his. Looked to be about 10, like himself, yet skinner, weaker. The young boy stared over for a minute, trying to think of something to say, until the sicky black child turned his head and looked at him. His body might be weak, thought the boy, but his eyes were definitly not. "Hey there, what's your name," the black child asked.
"Shawn, what's yours?"
"Billy, what's wrong with you?" These are the formalites of hospital room guests.
"I had an asthma attack, what about you?" Shawn asked.
"I have leaukimia." Billy informed the inquirer. When he announced this his eyes returned to the roof.
"What's that?" Shawn had heard of many types of illnesses being in the hospital on so many occassions. Especially going thru the emergency rooms, people being carted in with blood soaked shirts, pale white and ghastly looking or clenching for their heart as loved ones scream behind them for someone to do something. But this word was a first.
"It just means I'm very sick." Billy said this without a softening of his voice, without so much of a winch in his nerves. The silence was erie, even for that in a hospital.
"Yeah, so am I," Shawn came back matter of factly. "I can't even play football without using my stupid asthma inhaler."
Billy kind of lauged at this notion, "I've never played football." The boy answered.
"You've never played football, man that sucks. Well, I can't play much anymore, anyways, none of the kids want to play with me. What sports can you play."
"I've never really played any, but I love watching baseball. Sometimes I dream I'm the pitcher, striking the guy out."
"Well, you can play catch can't you. I mean, I can even do that."
"Not for a long time, I've just been too weak, but I love watching."
"Well, when you get out of here and feel better, you need to play some catch."
This Billy looked over at Shawn, "Sure, yeah, I will." He lied.
Shawn's Mom walked back in the room with an orange juice box in hand. "Here ya go, how about we get out of here soon?" She asked me, as though it were up to me.
"The nurse said I had to rest."
"Well, rest away, just let me know when you're ready. Oh yeah, got you some baseball cards."
The boy laid there for a moment, then looked over to his side. Realizing for the first time just how sick this boy was, not from what he said, but just the way he said things. Shawn knew then this boy wouldn't play catch, or football. Yet at this age, what does one do to offer solace to another.
After a few minutes, the nurse returned, "Ready to get out of here?" again asking the boy.
"Yeah, please." Shawn responded. The nurse took the iv from his hand. Shawn went into the restroom and dressed. As he walked out, Shawn thought for just a moment on what lay before him in life. Complications, yes, but complications to be overcame.
He started to walk out the door with his mother, then stopped and walked back to the sickly child that laid quietly staring at the roof. "Here you go," Shawn said, handing the boy his baseball cards.
"Thanks," was returned with true sincerity. Besides, what more can be done, when you're only ten.
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