My dad is a doctor. An anesthesiologist, to be exact. Naturally, he spends lots of his time in a hospital. I remember when I was younger, on those nights when he’d come home just in time to tuck me into bed, he’d always have this very distinct smell. It wasn’t how he smelled when he left for work in the morning, but I somehow managed to attach that smell to my father—that smell being the smell of a hospital. Sterile. Metallic. Dad. Even now, as I walk through these halls, passing by rooms I’ve grown quite familiar with over the last year and a half, I still can’t help but breathe deeply and think of him.
My brother is a doctor, too. Or, at least, he will be soon. For as long as I can remember, Beckham has wanted to bear the title of M.D. I’ve always thought him quite noble. It’s not just his career aspirations that make me think that, but also the very fabric of his being and why he’s worked so hard to get to where he is—which happens to be the second half of his third year of medical school. He’s brilliant. Though I’m biased, and I know that he hasn’t gotten this far without effort. But his heart, his heart and his desire to help people, that’s why I admire him. Being a doctor has never been about the money or the status or anything like that. Not to him. Never to him. It’s like I said—he’s noble; a trait inherited from our mother, I’m sure.
My mother is not a doctor; at least, not in the traditional meaning of the word. She didn’t spend countless years in school and then endure residency. Yet, even still, she’s amazing in her own right. While she might not hold any sort of medical license, she’s what I’d like to call a doctor of the heart. She’s the most caring and giving person I know. Ironically enough, she’s the one who made me realize that I want to be a doctor. She’s the one who brought me to various hospitals in my free time, encouraging me to volunteer and to give back as often and as generously as possible. Both of my parents have always taught me that I’ve been blessed to be a blessing, and I cling to that truth.
Though, on days like today, I don’t feel like a blessing. I feel useless. Helpless. Angry.
I’ve been volunteering in the cancer ward at children’s hospitals since I was fifteen. It sort of happened by chance. It all started around Christmas time. Mom and I were delivering gifts to sick kids, and there was this little girl that I will always remember very distinctly. Abigale. She was seven, and I remember seeing the light in her eyes when she unwrapped the book she’d been given. Her excitement lasted only for a moment, and then as soon as she opened it, finding more than pictures, I saw her shoulders drop. Turns out, Abigale couldn’t read. She’d been so sick for so long, she’d never learned how; and her parents were so busy working to cover her medical bills, she didn’t have anyone to read to her. I asked if she’d like me to read the book. When she agreed, I did. I came back the next week and read it again. And the week after that, I brought another book. Soon, I was reading to her all the time. Not just her, either, but lots of kids.
When Abigale died—her life stolen by cancer—it broke my heart. I remember crying my eyes out in mom’s arms. She comforted me, like only a mother can, and then she challenged me. I had been so upset, furious that a child so young and full of spirit could be taken just like that. When mom told me to channel that anger and use it for good instead of wallowing in grief, that’s when I decided that I wanted to be a doctor.
I want to help cure cancer. I want to be on the front lines.
Though, on days like today, I’m not so sure my anger can propel me that far.
Abigale’s isn’t the only death that I’ve seen; she’s not the only loss that I’ve known; her parents are not the only parents that I’ve cried with. I know in my heart that there is a God, that He loves us all—especially the little children of the world—and that disease and death are not His intentions for any of us. That’s just life. It’s just the brokenness of our world. But I also believe, that to some, He has gifted us with the mind and the heart to do something about the injustice of sickness.
But on days like today…
I’m nineteen years old and a sophomore at Colorado State—where my brother graduated with his undergrad. I’m pre-med and supposedly on my way to following in his footsteps. Yet, today, I don’t feel like a nineteen-year-old, bursting with energy and drive. I don’t feel as though my anger is strong enough to battle my sorrow. Today, death has won, and I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready at all.
It’s so freaking cold outside, even the snow doesn’t want to fall from the sky, leaving the dark clouds to glower over me as if it’s my fault the temperatures are just downright rude. I hurry out of the children’s hospital, puffing out a sigh of frustration as the automatic doors hiss closed behind me. I shiver, the cold biting through my coat, and then readjust my purse on my shoulder, trying not to think of what’s inside.
My car is freezing, despite the fact that it’s only been left unattended for fifteen minutes. I turn over the engine, letting it idle for a moment before I can wait no longer. I blink away my tears as I back out of the parking spot and then will myself not to burst into a sob until I’ve gotten home. I’m halfway there when I see a semi-truck in my rearview mirror. That’s when I lose it.
When I left for winter break, Timothy was alive. He was sick, they’re all sick, but he was alive. His parents were hopeful. He had color in his face. And the last time that I was with him, he made me read the same story three times in a row. When I was home with my parents, I was out shopping for Christmas gifts, and I found a book about trucks. Timothy loved trucks. The bigger, the better. I bought it, knowing how much he would love it. Then, an hour ago, I was so excited to show it to him. But I had no idea…
He was four. He was full of so much life. He was an adventurer trapped in a sick body. Now—now he’s gone. He’s gone, and I’m here and blessed to be alive. I’m blessed to be a blessing, and yet, I don’t feel grateful. I feel sad. I feel tired. I feel defeated. It’s as if I was walking blindly, no idea where the edge was, and now I’m here—Timothy’s death pushing me over.
Now, my anger doesn’t seek justice. My sorrow makes me weep for peace.