Paper

The other day, I taught a 13-year-old some basic origami. She was thrilled. Beyond thrilled, actually--borderline ecstatic. She told me "I didn't have a childhood growing up--I'm getting one now!"

This was a 15-minute lesson on folding paper, but apparently, to her, it represented a lot of what she missed out on while she was growing up. She danced around the room, showing off her creations. It was very sweet. And sad.

We all have goals and dreams, things we wish we had or could achieve one day. Some are grand; I would love to travel. Others simple, such as paying the bills. But I can't think of anything that would make me as happy as that piece of paper made that girl. To realize a dream forgotten by a difficult childhood--that's amazing. I wish I had known sooner; I would have started off the shift with it. But as it was, we made every single thing I could think to make. And was so happy and so excited.

When people hear about my job, their response is almost always the same: "Wow! You must see some crazy stuff!"

And I think about that girl, and the children like her, little things so easily delighted by parts of my life I just take for granted, and I smile.

"Sometimes," I answer. "But for the most part, it's the most amazing job in the world."

And that's my truth.

Her (cont'd)

The world I enter when I clock in is dark. Not because of the staff, not because of the mental illnesses, nor the location, the families or even the patients themselves, but their stories. When I work, I set aside a large part of myself at the door, or I would become so bitter during the hours I live in that world that I would forget the beauty beyond the hospital walls. I love my job; it brings me joy. But when you have a child so little she can't even tie her own shoes (not that she has laces to tie them with here) telling you in a matter-of-fact tone about how Mommy gets mad sometimes and ties her up and locks her in the closet with tape over her mouth, well, you begin to wonder what the point of trying to help is, if they're going home to that. Almost every child that I have worked with has been abused in some way. They are the forgotten ones, and they know it. They know no one cares; they don't even look up in hope during visiting to see if anyone has come for them. They lash out at anyone and everyone, become oppositional, they become cruel. But inside, they're terrified.

"I'm scared to go home, and I'm scared to stay."

That is their reality.

And yet....

And yet they smile, and yet they laugh. And yet they hope, they grow, they learn.

And if they can do these things, then it is only right that I, blessed as I am, do the same.

Her

When a six year old sits on a chair that's far too big for her, swinging her tiny feet back and forth, tucked into herself, her blue eyes huge with fright, your stomach twists. Those eyes stare at you in hopeless confusion as you keep up a chain of bright, cheery chatter, trying to chase away the gloom of a hospital, trying to cover the silence of the night. It is late, and you wonder what she must have happened to cause the parents of such a little thing to admit her at this hour. Her small hands are wrapped around her stomach, her fine hair falling in her eyes. She watches, silent, tears brimming, as you pull clothing out of her bag, searching them for contraband, and you wish you lived in a world where you could trust a six year old not to hide needles in hemlines. You stare in some dismay at the stuffed animal; technically, toys aren't allowed on the unit, but it is clear this is her safety blanket. You sigh, hunt down the charge nurse, and bend the rules just a little.

She smiles when you give it to her, a soft, tentative smile full of nervousness and fear. She buries her little face into the animal's fur, and you long to wrap her in your arms. But you can't, of course you can't. But you still want to. Another staff shows her to her room as you take up the rounds; by the time you reach her room, she is fast asleep, her brow pinched with worry even then. You wonder if she is having a nightmare. You wonder if she'll think she's still dreaming when she wakes up surrounded by strangers. You wonder if she'll still be there by the time your next shift rolls around, of if she'll be home again.

Based on past experience, you're not sure which is better.