whose design seemed primitive compared to the type he’d seen in his nightmare.
“Mr. Morrell, how good of you to come back.” A blond nurse smiled.
David remembered her, and yet it didn’t seem from recent conversations, instead from long ago. “Come back?”
“We were hoping you’d give us a visit. How’s Matt doing?”
“What do you mean? That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“But you know he isn’t here. He left a week ago. He’s up in Bone Marrow.”
Oh, my God, David thought. I reached the wrong floor. I went to where Matt always used to get his treatment: the Pediatrics Ward.
From a child’s room, he heard the distinctive sound of a nurse gently paddling her hands on the chest of a cystic fibrosis patient, clearing fluid, helping constricted lungs to breathe.
“Of course,” David said. “I must have … Bone Marrow. I made a mistake.”
“I know what you mean. Matt’s been on this ward so often, I can see how you’d come back by habit.”
Disoriented, David surveyed the rooms along the corridor. It seemed that Matthew had stayed in every one of them at various times. In the last six months (forty years ago?), this ward had become a second home.
In one room, he recognized (again as if through a haze) a ten-year-old girl bald from chemotherapy. When first diagnosed, she’d been riddled with tumors, but treatment had managed to cure her. Nonetheless, the patient’s mother, unable to control her revulsion, had disowned her daughter, never once visiting, eventually divorcing her husband.
In another room, David saw an eight-year-old boy whose parents had considered his cancer an inconvenience to their routine. Every three weeks, on a Friday, they drove him to the front door of the hospital, let him out, and left while he found his way up to the Pediatrics Ward for chemotherapy. He stayed for the weekend, vomiting, the fear and loneliness in his eyes enough to make David want to strangle the parents, who drove back to the hospital on Monday and waited while a nurse brought the boy in a wheelchair down to the hospital entrance, where she helped him into the car.
But not us, David thought. Not us! Donna, Sarie, and I stayed with Matthew always, never letting him give up hope, never allowing him to feel lonely or succumb to despair. Taking shifts, and sometimes all three staying with him at once, they’d bolstered his spirits and let him know how much he was loved. They were his companions at all hours for his six months of treatment. Donna and David had probably seen Matt more than most parents saw their children, in snatches, an hour in the morning, an hour at night, for a lifetime.
Early in Matthew’s treatment, a doctor had asked about David’s work. “How’s your fiction going? Any new books?”
Restraining his frustration, because the doctor was trying to be friendly, David had answered, “My work? Since Matt got sick, I’ve stopped writing. Right now, as long as it takes, my job is my son.”
3
“Yes,” David said to the nurse. “I made a mistake. I’d better get up to the Bone Marrow Ward.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. How’s Matt doing? Is he okay?”
“The answer’s too complicated. It depends.”
“On …?”
“If you look forward or back.”
“What?”
“Right now, he’s doing well.”
“He’s one of our favorite patients, you know. He’s so brave. We love his sense of humor.”
“So do I. Believe me, so do I. For what it’s worth, I think you and the rest of the staff did a wonderful job.”
“Keep us posted.”
Yeah, David thought, but I hope the message isn’t the disaster of my nightmare.
“I’ll let you know. Right now I’d better get up to where I belong.”
To the Bone Marrow Ward.
Toward what David was becoming more convinced was a desperate chance for salvation.
4
The Bone Marrow Ward. Logical, simple, ingenious, and if your case isn’t in the right statistics, terrifying. You don’t go there to be treated
“Mr. Morrell, how good of you to come back.” A blond nurse smiled.
David remembered her, and yet it didn’t seem from recent conversations, instead from long ago. “Come back?”
“We were hoping you’d give us a visit. How’s Matt doing?”
“What do you mean? That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“But you know he isn’t here. He left a week ago. He’s up in Bone Marrow.”
Oh, my God, David thought. I reached the wrong floor. I went to where Matt always used to get his treatment: the Pediatrics Ward.
From a child’s room, he heard the distinctive sound of a nurse gently paddling her hands on the chest of a cystic fibrosis patient, clearing fluid, helping constricted lungs to breathe.
“Of course,” David said. “I must have … Bone Marrow. I made a mistake.”
“I know what you mean. Matt’s been on this ward so often, I can see how you’d come back by habit.”
Disoriented, David surveyed the rooms along the corridor. It seemed that Matthew had stayed in every one of them at various times. In the last six months (forty years ago?), this ward had become a second home.
In one room, he recognized (again as if through a haze) a ten-year-old girl bald from chemotherapy. When first diagnosed, she’d been riddled with tumors, but treatment had managed to cure her. Nonetheless, the patient’s mother, unable to control her revulsion, had disowned her daughter, never once visiting, eventually divorcing her husband.
In another room, David saw an eight-year-old boy whose parents had considered his cancer an inconvenience to their routine. Every three weeks, on a Friday, they drove him to the front door of the hospital, let him out, and left while he found his way up to the Pediatrics Ward for chemotherapy. He stayed for the weekend, vomiting, the fear and loneliness in his eyes enough to make David want to strangle the parents, who drove back to the hospital on Monday and waited while a nurse brought the boy in a wheelchair down to the hospital entrance, where she helped him into the car.
But not us, David thought. Not us! Donna, Sarie, and I stayed with Matthew always, never letting him give up hope, never allowing him to feel lonely or succumb to despair. Taking shifts, and sometimes all three staying with him at once, they’d bolstered his spirits and let him know how much he was loved. They were his companions at all hours for his six months of treatment. Donna and David had probably seen Matt more than most parents saw their children, in snatches, an hour in the morning, an hour at night, for a lifetime.
Early in Matthew’s treatment, a doctor had asked about David’s work. “How’s your fiction going? Any new books?”
Restraining his frustration, because the doctor was trying to be friendly, David had answered, “My work? Since Matt got sick, I’ve stopped writing. Right now, as long as it takes, my job is my son.”
3
“Yes,” David said to the nurse. “I made a mistake. I’d better get up to the Bone Marrow Ward.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. How’s Matt doing? Is he okay?”
“The answer’s too complicated. It depends.”
“On …?”
“If you look forward or back.”
“What?”
“Right now, he’s doing well.”
“He’s one of our favorite patients, you know. He’s so brave. We love his sense of humor.”
“So do I. Believe me, so do I. For what it’s worth, I think you and the rest of the staff did a wonderful job.”
“Keep us posted.”
Yeah, David thought, but I hope the message isn’t the disaster of my nightmare.
“I’ll let you know. Right now I’d better get up to where I belong.”
To the Bone Marrow Ward.
Toward what David was becoming more convinced was a desperate chance for salvation.
4
The Bone Marrow Ward. Logical, simple, ingenious, and if your case isn’t in the right statistics, terrifying. You don’t go there to be treated
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