It’s a noisy evening in the hospital. A baby cries like a forgotten lion cub in the distance. A cleaning man is seen travelling the hallways, washing and drying the floors in what looks like a miniature Zamboni. In Sam’s room, the sweat begins to bead on his forehead as the nurses come in.
Sam is only two and a half years old. He has come here, as if having been kidnapped by his parents, for reasons he doesn’t understand. He has not seen home in over five days. To him, home must seem like a dream, and he has finally awaken to the reality that is life.
He lays in the bed, wincing in small stabs of pain, his lower lip overtaking his upper, as his eyes gloss over with tears, eventually spilling a drop to slowly crawl down his check. The nurses must install a new IV, the last having collapsed and sealed any route for the magic juices to help him feel better. It has now been almost two hours, and we can see the pain returning to his face, glowing as if lit from inside, his skin wrinkling into complex oragami folds. The nurses have to try again.
As the nurses examine his body for sites to try again, they look past the small red dots that remain from previous attempts. There too, are the signs of previously collapsed insertions, like the surface of a pin-cushion, mottled with small craters. Like surveyers searching for oil, they stake out sites instead with a white cream designed to numb the surface, allowing the drill to enter the earth without complaint. But instead, the ground begins to cry. His eyes look to his father, in a silent plea for help; isn’t there something he can do?
From far away, a train whistle blew, but as it came closer, it was instead coming from Sam. A soldier who could take no more, and had succumbed to the torture of his captors, he cried out in pain. The nurses stood fast, beginning their probe. They slid in a needle as if starting to sew, but then stopped, wiggling the tiny metal intrusion around to find the mother lode. As if hollowing out a clogged smokers pipe, they continue to twist the needle to and fro, pushing and pulling. Daddy can take no more, and as if by mental telepathy seen only in science fiction films, the nurses draw back, stopping their assault.
Like angels from above, the nurses then tend to the fresh wound, grieving for the small man who has been so very brave. With sorrow, they clean his flesh and utter words of comfort. They know the terror will have to return, like a shadow reappearing after the clouds pass by. For now though, they will wait, and let the trooper recover.
Later, the nurses try again, with Daddy out of the room. Like God not wishing to see his son crusified, Dad leaves for a short while, saying prayers that the angels will be swift and true. In just a few minutes, he returns, the angels having been successful.
There, in his bed, lies Sam, his brow wet from the panic, and his face flushed in hearts. He has overcome the torture and the calm will return. The magic happy juice again flows to his soul. He winks both eyes as if he knows, lies back and becomes calm. Within minutes, he is like any normal two year old, talking to mom and dad, wishing to go home and have fun.
He’s going to be okay.
Asa Jay
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