Gabrielle #2
Even as I was rolled down to the pediatric infusion center, I stayed as quiet as a mouse.
Every kid I passed by tried to say hello, but I just kept my arms crossed and stared straight ahead.
I sat in my usual spot that the nurses always had saved for me against the window, giving me the best view that the Mount Medical Children’s Hospital in New York had to offer, and as soon as I was settled in, I heard a kid ask me what my name was. I ignored him like I did everyone else.
Then—
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a Code Silent! I repeat, we have a Code Silent! We’ve lost another one! Get the crash cart!” he yelled out.
I snapped my head towards him in complete disbelief and embarrassment.
He was a boy my age. His hair was a messy mop of dark ringlets, sticking out in every direction like even it refused to be tamed.
His eyes were big, bright, and full of mischief.
He had that restless energy, the kind that made it impossible for him to sit still for too long, and the kind of smile that was infectious.
He was clutching his IV pole like it was a makeshift microphone. Trying so hard to get a reaction out of me.
I couldn’t help it. I busted out laughing at how ridiculous he looked.
He smiled like he was so proud of himself for breaking through the wall I had up that day.
For the next two hours, we went back and forth, writing down on a napkin the rules of our new secret sick kid club he insisted we were now in together.
1. No crying unless absolutely necessary.
(Exceptions: If you get stuck with a really big needle, if your favorite nurse goes on vacation, or if the cafeteria runs out of chocolate pudding and we’re stuck with vanilla.)
2. Complaining about hospital food is mandatory.
(If you eat the mystery meat without complaining, you will be investigated for suspicious behavior.)
3. If one of us gets rich or famous, the other gets half of the money.
(Doesn’t matter how. Could be sports, singing, or a dramatic escape from this place that gets turned into a movie.)
4. IV pole races are a sacred tradition.
(Winner gets bragging rights. Loser has to steal an extra pudding cup for the champion.)
5. Nurses are only allowed if they bring snacks or spill hospital drama.
(Bonus points if they tell us which doctors secretly hate each other.)
6. Any new sick kid must pass a vibe check before joining.
(They have to prove they’re funny, good at keeping secrets, and willing to break minor hospital rules.)
7. Fake diseases must be diagnosed at least once per chemo session.
(Example: “Acute Jell-O Deficiency” or “Advanced Poked-To-Death-itis.”)
8. No being sad alone.
(If you’re feeling miserable, you have to tell the other person so they can cheer you up or be miserable with you. It’s the law.)
9. If one of us gets out of here first, they are required to do something ridiculously cool in honor of the other.
(Like skydiving. Or stealing a hospital wheelchair and riding it into the sunset.)
10. This club lasts forever. No matter what.
(Even if we get old. Even if we live in different places. Even if one of us becomes a boring adult. Secret Sick Kid Club is for life.)
We stuck to those rules like they were the most sacred things on this planet.
Well, most of them, at least.
He was my best friend. My first love.
Even when we were dying, he taught me how to live.
I think in another life we would have been lifelong soulmates, but sadly, our lives went in different directions after he had to finish his treatments here and move to a new hospital across the country.
His parents had to move to a new state, and he had to find new doctors and new friends. All the while, I was stuck alone again. I was completely broken when he left. Even more broken when he went radio silent on me, and I never heard from him again.
It’s been twelve years since I’ve seen him, and he still always finds ways to creep back into my thoughts. Especially on the days when I’m desperately searching for any good memories to latch onto.
Even though today wasn’t one of those bad days, I still found myself thinking about him as I walked the halls of this hospital where we spent so many years in and out of together.
Today, I had my annual oncology appointments to get new scans, a bunch of tests, and some blood work done to make sure the cancer was still gone.
Today was a good day, with good news, and all I wanted on my way out of the hospital was a cup of my favorite hot chocolate from the Hospital’s Cafe. For old times’ sake—to torture myself with the thought that my heart has never completely healed from him.
I walk up and get in line behind a group of young doctors. The doctor standing in front of me shifted to talk to one of his colleagues, and I catch a whiff of his cologne.
Gaahhh, what is it about doctors that makes them so hot? And then to smell like that on top of it all? Unfair.
You would think that, as much time as I spent in a hospital and around doctors, hating this place, that they would all repulse me, but nope.
Maybe it’s a trauma thing?
Before I could finish the fantasy in my head about the young doctor dramatically throwing off his white coat and declaring that he simply couldn’t go another second without having me, the doctor opened his mouth and ordered a large cup of hot chocolate.
Okay, I think he just made the fantasy even hotter by ordering that.
Choosing hot chocolate over coffee is dangerously and oddly attractive.
“Card. Thank you,” he answered the barista.
Why does his voice sound so familiar?
Then, he turns around—
My world tilts, time stops, and I forget how to breathe.
“Cam?” I blurt out.
When he turns towards me, all I can see was the boy I loved for my entire childhood, all grown up.
And then his badge catches my eye.
Dr. Cameron Hayes
Resident Pediatric Oncology