by M.A. Leslie
Life and Death Through the Eyes of a Child
The walls were blood-red brick, the building seeming treacherous despite its goal of healing. The young man held his wife’s hand tight, the removable baby seat carrier in his other hand. Together they strode forward to face the battle for their two-month-old daughter’s recovery, a daughter that they had only known for days but loved their whole lives.
An internal battle of red against white as the blood cells tried to fight it out. And there they were, inside of the hematology and oncology ward, looking for reinforcements.
Yet the young man was beginning to feel guilty about his daughter’s ailments. She had a disorder a problem, and while she would suffer a transfusion and treatment, she would get better. However, there were other young soldiers around. Little ones with wide eyes, sad faces, and no hair were battling a worse enemy. How could he pity himself?
Their names were called and they went to the back room, escaping the stares of the children.
He took a seat next to his wife and they waited in the room with the door open and he eavesdropped as a young girl spoke in the room across the hall. “Good afternoon, doctor.”
“Well how are you today, Ms. Sarah Morley?” a seasoned doctor said in a joking voice.
The young man got up from his seat and walked to the doorway to see the little girl. Her hair was just stubble on top of her head and a light glowed from her blue eyes. She seemed happy and despite a thousand reasons to frown, she smiled.
The doctor pulled out her four inch medical chart and opened it to the recent pages. Sarah gave it a quick study and asked, “Do I have the thickest chart in the files yet?”
The doctor shook her head at the girl’s persistent competitiveness and said, “No, not yet. There are a few more with thicker.”
She replied, with a cunning and beautifully wise smile, “At least I still have a chart.”
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