Elevator Music
We saw Regan’s paediatrician today. Technically, she doesn’t have a paediatrician anymore, but back when she was in the hospital, Dr. Yang was in charge of the non-cancer, non-surgical aspects of her care. We haven’t seen her in years, not since the day I happily skipped out of the hospital, my miracle baby held safe in my arms. Today, we ran into her in an elevator while making one of our semi-annual follow up visits to the hospital.
I recognized her instantly, but it took her a few minutes to place us. Not surprising, given the changes we’ve undergone in the last couple of years. The gaunt, silent, critically ill baby who was her patient bears little resemblance to the round cheeked, vibrant preschooler standing before her. Gone were the iv pole, the multiple tubes, the look of absolute terror in her eyes, replaced by a child filled with humour and curiosity. And me? Well, sure I’ve cut my hair, but more than that, I’m no longer shell shocked, clearly keeping it together by sheer force of will. Today I’m confident, relaxed, smiling, and I’ve got great hair.
A few key words refreshed her memory–”baby,” “giant tumour,” “nearly coded,” “miracle”–and her face lit up, then clouded with concern. After I assured her that we were fine, and that our presence in the hospital was merely routine, Dr. Yang relaxed and smiled at Regan, complimenting her glowing picture of health. As the elevator doors opened onto the paediatric floor, she thanked me for introducing ourselves, for reminding her that sometimes miracles happen and that even here, under the worst of circumstances, there can still be happy endings.
This part of our story isn’t quite over yet. There will be another year or so of tests and visits, but I can live with that. Because I know I’m not looking at a happy ending so much as a very bright beginning.