Recently, I had to take my 14-month-old son to the hospital because he keeps getting ear infections. Long story short, he had a double ear infection that hadn’t responded to three different types of antibiotics, so he now had to be treated with an IV.
To get to the pediatric outpatient clinic, you have to walk across the entire pediatric floor. With its murals of fairies and dragons, magical forests, underwater worlds, and farm animals, I’d describe this floor as nothing short of stunning. Along the way, I took pleasure in pointing out these giant murals to my son, who was gazing in wonder from his stroller.
Then I ran into some parents. It hit me like a ton of bricks: this place may be the brightest and most colorful, but it’s far from being the happiest. Behind those beautifully decorated walls are rooms. Inside them are children. Who are truly sick. I saw a man talking to another man, and both of them had red, teary eyes.
To both of you, gentlemen, and to the other moms, dads, brothers, and sisters I caught a glimpse of out of the corner of my eye: I owe you an apology. I couldn’t bring myself to look you in the eye. I would have completely lost my composure. I even dared to thank my lucky stars that I was only there for an ear infection. I’m not sure if it was out of selfishness or because of an overload of empathy… I know that if I’d dared to meet your gaze, I would have imagined myself in your place, and I still don’t have the strength for that, even today. I chose to look straight ahead and quickened my pace.
I know I would have felt your pain. I would have been enraged by this injustice—the greatest there is. I would have seen my son, so vulnerable, surrounded by machines. I would have seen myself breaking down the moment I walked through the door of his room.
I know it’s pointless to tell you that I admire you. Nor will I tell you that life puts obstacles in our path that we have the ability to overcome, because that would be ridiculous. I won’t tell you that I don’t know how you do it or just how brave I think you are. Because I know it’s not a choice. That it’s a matter of survival—that you simply can’t do anything else. That you’re holding it together because it’s the only thing to do and because your child needs you—period.
So I’m telling you this: hang in there. I’m sending you strength, even if you already have it. Keep reassuring your children. Keep hope alive. Keep telling them stories, telling them that everything will be okay, stroking their hair or their cheek, holding their hand, and singing them nursery rhymes. You’re there for them. You’re extraordinary parents, and you’re doing everything in your power. Even if it never feels like enough, that’s exactly what’s needed.
PHOTO: “ANIMATED WALLS, FLEURIMONT HOSPITAL”