A long time ago, when I was very young, I visited with a child relative in a hospital in Newcastle, Australia. There were plenty of visitors, so I went and sat with a four year old child who never seemed to have anyone come to see him. He suffered chronic pneumonia. His chest rattled constantly, and he could fall into unconsciousness at any given moment. Yet, there he lay, constantly happy...
Nurses told me his parents had abandoned him there. He had no one. No one to love him or care that his tiny life was shrinking by the day. No one to hold his hand when he was afraid. No one to mourn him when he passed. He was alone in a giant world filled with probes, and tubes, nurses and strangers who deigned to stop by once in great while. His parents could not take the chronic nature of his illness, and they simply walked away.
When I came by, if he was awake and conscious, he would perk up and smile, but he would cry so when it was time for me to leave. It became such a burden to hear his wails that - in the end - I could leave him no longer. I had to stay. I had to wait.
Back then I didn't have an exciting job, and I had no ties, so being there made little difference to the compact lifestyle I led. It was just as easy to sit in a chair in a hospital as it was to sit in a chair at home, staring at a black and white TV.
The little boy was frail and lightweight. His translucent skin seemed too thin. At four he should have been robust and hyperactive, but he was just a little shell. His hair was coarse, and it had never been properly cut. It was mousy brown, thick, and unkempt, but it could have been better.
Every day I sat there, I wondered when time would end for him. I wondered why he should have to face the prospect of heaven or oblivion when he had never really led any kind of life at all. And I wondered what lesson was in his little existence for me. Every day I sat there and stared at him as he lay there asleep or unconscious, and I saw his life drain away too quickly.
I met him in the hottest part of the summer that year. He died as the leaves began to fall, in the windiest part of autumn. His last days were strange. He would lay there quietly, a tube omnipresent down his throat, and IV needles in his tired arms, and he would stare at me. I could feel the love in him transmitted through his round, brown eyes. I remembered, when I met him, that his eyes were dull, but that they had brightened to magnificent liquid pools at other times. Now they were dull all the time. Nurses would come by every hour at first, but near the end, a nurse sat opposite me twenty-four hours a day. Different nurses... Different ages... Different attitudes...
The child started to slide very slowly at just after 4 am one Saturday morning. The wind outside was howling, and golden leaves flew by in a storm of color backed by the rising of the sun as the day began to age. His breathing was hard, and he now had an oxygen mask affixed to his little face around the clock. He could no longer take food except through tubes. He would drift in and out of consciousness over and over again, and at times he would cry a little bit. He knew it nearly time to leave, and I knew he had found someone to love and a reason to stay.
The morning was ponderous, achingly slow. Nurses drifted back and forth and, twice, a resident wandered in to look in on him. I was young, and never knew to question why he was not in the ICU, or why it was no one seemed to really care. I only knew he was alone, and he needed someone to care and to love him. At just after nine am he was awake. He was coughing a lot. The life in his eyes was dim. He looked sad to me. Breathing was so hard for him. The nurse lifted his mask to clear away fluids that were leaking constantly from his mouth. The little boy held up his hand for me to hold, and I heard him say very quietly "my daddy..." I held his hand and never let it go. A doctor came in and looked at him, adjusted his fluids and left. They never asked me to leave. His little hand had always felt cool and dry, but it grew clammy, and it grew colder. His breathing grew heavier, more labored, and his life finally ebbed away at 1:17 pm that afternoon. His hand was still in mine.
His funeral was strange. The state paid for it, and the Society of Saint Vincent de Paul paid for a very beautiful little stone to mark his last crib. The people who should have been there for him in life found the spirit to be there in death. His daddy was there... His mummy was there... There, at the front, there was a grandmother who wept for him. I wondered why she could not have wept for him when he needed her most. I wondered why it was left to a stranger who simply could not leave.
Loneliness is a vast world unto itself. A four year old boy died without his family one day a long time ago. I know he wondered secretly, where were his parents? Where was his family? Why is this stranger hovering over me? Why can't I stay? It must have been the loneliest place on earth for him...
Nurses told me his parents had abandoned him there. He had no one. No one to love him or care that his tiny life was shrinking by the day. No one to hold his hand when he was afraid. No one to mourn him when he passed. He was alone in a giant world filled with probes, and tubes, nurses and strangers who deigned to stop by once in great while. His parents could not take the chronic nature of his illness, and they simply walked away.
When I came by, if he was awake and conscious, he would perk up and smile, but he would cry so when it was time for me to leave. It became such a burden to hear his wails that - in the end - I could leave him no longer. I had to stay. I had to wait.
Back then I didn't have an exciting job, and I had no ties, so being there made little difference to the compact lifestyle I led. It was just as easy to sit in a chair in a hospital as it was to sit in a chair at home, staring at a black and white TV.
The little boy was frail and lightweight. His translucent skin seemed too thin. At four he should have been robust and hyperactive, but he was just a little shell. His hair was coarse, and it had never been properly cut. It was mousy brown, thick, and unkempt, but it could have been better.
Every day I sat there, I wondered when time would end for him. I wondered why he should have to face the prospect of heaven or oblivion when he had never really led any kind of life at all. And I wondered what lesson was in his little existence for me. Every day I sat there and stared at him as he lay there asleep or unconscious, and I saw his life drain away too quickly.
I met him in the hottest part of the summer that year. He died as the leaves began to fall, in the windiest part of autumn. His last days were strange. He would lay there quietly, a tube omnipresent down his throat, and IV needles in his tired arms, and he would stare at me. I could feel the love in him transmitted through his round, brown eyes. I remembered, when I met him, that his eyes were dull, but that they had brightened to magnificent liquid pools at other times. Now they were dull all the time. Nurses would come by every hour at first, but near the end, a nurse sat opposite me twenty-four hours a day. Different nurses... Different ages... Different attitudes...
The child started to slide very slowly at just after 4 am one Saturday morning. The wind outside was howling, and golden leaves flew by in a storm of color backed by the rising of the sun as the day began to age. His breathing was hard, and he now had an oxygen mask affixed to his little face around the clock. He could no longer take food except through tubes. He would drift in and out of consciousness over and over again, and at times he would cry a little bit. He knew it nearly time to leave, and I knew he had found someone to love and a reason to stay.
The morning was ponderous, achingly slow. Nurses drifted back and forth and, twice, a resident wandered in to look in on him. I was young, and never knew to question why he was not in the ICU, or why it was no one seemed to really care. I only knew he was alone, and he needed someone to care and to love him. At just after nine am he was awake. He was coughing a lot. The life in his eyes was dim. He looked sad to me. Breathing was so hard for him. The nurse lifted his mask to clear away fluids that were leaking constantly from his mouth. The little boy held up his hand for me to hold, and I heard him say very quietly "my daddy..." I held his hand and never let it go. A doctor came in and looked at him, adjusted his fluids and left. They never asked me to leave. His little hand had always felt cool and dry, but it grew clammy, and it grew colder. His breathing grew heavier, more labored, and his life finally ebbed away at 1:17 pm that afternoon. His hand was still in mine.
His funeral was strange. The state paid for it, and the Society of Saint Vincent de Paul paid for a very beautiful little stone to mark his last crib. The people who should have been there for him in life found the spirit to be there in death. His daddy was there... His mummy was there... There, at the front, there was a grandmother who wept for him. I wondered why she could not have wept for him when he needed her most. I wondered why it was left to a stranger who simply could not leave.
Loneliness is a vast world unto itself. A four year old boy died without his family one day a long time ago. I know he wondered secretly, where were his parents? Where was his family? Why is this stranger hovering over me? Why can't I stay? It must have been the loneliest place on earth for him...
