In Memory

It is a funny thing working in a children's hospital. There are a lot of ups as you see children get better, develop tender relationships and feel that you are becoming 'their doctor.' There are also a lot of downs as you see children get worse, get cussed out by families and realize how much you still don't know.

And then there are the days that you cry. You cry for the kids and you cry for the families that are left behind. But in the end you get through it because, hey, these are "sick" kids, and "sick" kids are inherently different from healthy kids. They have to be. If you saw your own daughter or nephew in every kid that came in, you wouldn't be able to get through the day.

But then comes a moment when tragedy strikes, and it isn't a "sick" kid. It is one of your own clan. The daughter of a doctor or son of a nurse. Someone that you know. Someone like you.

And suddenly the hospital falls silent. And I cry again, but this time it is not for the family or the child, although I hurt for them deeply. This time it is for myself.

You see, I make my children wear their seatbelts and eat their vegetables. I am neurotic about helmets, make sure they get all their vaccines and only leave them with people that I trust explicitly. But in the end, it may not matter. Because God or life or whatever you want to call that Great Other "happens." And all it leaves you with is a great void. And there is nothing that I can do about it.

So in memory of someone who was loved very much, please give a child, healthy or sick, a special hug tonight. Not out of fear, but out of gratitude simply that you can.