Tuesday, May 12, 2009

In the room in front of me I can see...


The following is the result of a writing prompt from the tool I use to keep my novel writing together. I'm finding that I need to work myself back into writing my novel, so I decided to do a writing exercise to warm up. I was given the prompt: Write about the following, "In the room in front of me I can see...". So I did. This is basically a first-draft quality bit, written in about a half hour with some minor editing. It's probably more of an essay than a bit of creative writing. Nevertheless, I'm throwing it out into the wild in the hopes of getting some constructive criticism. Some of you are going to hate it. Some will like it. Most will likely be indifferent. All I ask is that whatever comments you leave, you tell me what you liked or didn't like about it. What pissed you off? What struck a chord? What fell hard on your ears? What left you cold and indifferent? Thanks for taking the time to read.

In the room in front of me I can see the cafeteria at Sick Kids hospital. A place where people can take a short break from the dreary sameness of their hospital room, their desk, their lab. A room full of tables and chairs, where people have lunch or dinner, drink coffee, study, read, and even sleep. Where parents can take their children to look out the windows and see the cars passing by, some impatient and damn close to getting into an accident. To see the old sandstone brick building across the street that is going to be demolished and replaced with a YMCA center. To see the thin trees lining the sidewalk, where people are walking hand in hand, without a care in the world. To see the buses lined up down the street, just around the corner from the bus station. To see the homeless person tagger by, drunk, maybe with fatigue or fear, clutching their mismatched clothes tight to themselves.

It's now time for visitors to go home. But not all parents will leave. They will stay by their children for as long as they can. They will be asked to leave, and most will simply go, promising to return as soon as they can the next day. The child is sad, but if they are old enough, they understand that Mom and Dad can't always be there. If they can, the parents will be back at their child's bedside first thing in the morning. Not everyone can. Some have jobs they have to go back to; they have to make money, just like everyone else. So they work their day, constantly worried about what is happening when they aren't there. Is she OK? What about his tests today? Will they call me with the results?

I can only just imagine what it would be like to have a child in Sick Kids. The fear, the uncertainty. I think its the not knowing that would get to me the most. Until we really know what is wrong, you feel so helpless. You are there to protect your child. It is your job to keep them safe, to light the way home. When they are sick, all you can do is stand by them, try to keep them happy and not afraid. To understand what the doctor is trying to say, and to make the best choices you can for your child.

What do you do when you hear that it's something you can do very little about? Cancer. Leukemia. Some blood disease that has no cure. I don't really want to know. I'm sure that we'd do our best, keep a bright face in front of our child. We'd be strong. But we'd be weak too. When we are alone. When it's OK to cry. When it's OK to rage at God for what has been done to your child. When it's OK to feel despair, because we all do. It's only human.

Thank God for Sick Kids. For any hospital for that matter. Because they try to make the world OK again. They try to help. And we need help, because we aren't all heros. Most parents are just people, trying to do right by their children and by themselves. They want their children to be happy. And with some help they will be; you'd be surprised at how much joy a child can find in the world, even when their parents can't.

In the room in front of me I can see boundless love. I can see struggle, and resignation, and despair. Most of all, I can see hope. The hope that gets people through the day, minute by minute, second by endless second as they wait. Wait for good news, and bad.