RUH Story — March 13, 2019
While on one of my regular visits to the Royal University Hospital’s Paediatric Ward, I was asked by the recreational therapist, Kelsey, if I would do a storytime for a child named “H.” Of course I would. That’s the entire purpose of being there, after all.
All smiles and sitting up in bed, H is a bright child of six. Her hand (which has recently been shattered) is wrapped in gauze and held in a splint reaching to her elbow. I’ve been doing visits like this for quite a while now and I quickly go into my usual routine. I’m silly and disarming. We wear finger puppets (H can only wear them on one hand), sing songs and read some pop-up books. I make a lot of “mistakes” while reading and H quickly corrects me. I fall over constantly. I’m afraid of all the beeping noises in her room and all of the scary things in the books. H laughs at me for being afraid—especially of the lion finger puppet. She is interested and engaged—one of the easiest story times I’ve had in weeks.
Then the nurse comes in. “Let’s have a look at that hand,” she says, giving a nod to H’s mother across the room and smiling. “I think we are going to have to change that splint today.”
H scowls and hides her hand under her other arm. “No, don’t touch it,” she whispers, her chin tucked into her chest.
“I’m sorry, but we have to change it if we want it to get better.”
At this point I can see that story time is over and it’s time for us to move on to another room. I collect my things and head for the door. I take a couple of quick pumps from the ever-available hand sanitizer. Kelsey heads out with me as we try to say good-bye to H.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, don’t touch it. I don’t want that. Don’t touch it, NO!” The last word is a scream as piecing as only a six-year-old's can be. It’s only been 15 or 20 seconds, but her face is already blotchy red and splashed with tears.
My face crunches up. This is part of the job, I tell myself. She will be alright. She is here to get better. My daughters are healthy. I have to project strength. There are other children to see, today.
“You know,” Kelsey says, “if you want to, we could go with her. She has been like this every time she has a procedure. Maybe we can turn her mood around when they are done changing the splint.”
Behind us, the nurse and H’s mother are wrestling her into a wheelchair. Fearful pleading continues unabated.
I don’t want to stay. This whole situation sucks. Why does it have to be like this?
But, then I think about Jim and the time he tells a story to a child. Inches from his face, she bored into his soul with her eyes as a nurse cleaned and re-stapled a large and painful wound on her head—both Jim and the girl clung to the words of a story, not willing to think about what was happening up above.
“I am here for you,” I say, “If you think we can make a difference, let’s give it a shot. I don’t think I can make it any worse than it's already going.”
I bounce over to H’s wheelchair. She glares up at me—no, not at me, at anyone and everyone. “Guess what?" I say with deeply false enthusiasm. I’ve never been to the room where they change splints before.” And it’s true, I haven’t. “If you let me and Kelsey come, you can pick an animal and I will pretend to be that animal all the way there.”
“Oh, but Mike,” Kelsey is immediately aware of my plan, somehow before I am, “what if H makes you pretend to be a lion?”
“She wouldn’t do—“
“You’re a lion!” H grins, comforted in the knowledge that if she has to suffer, at least she will enjoy my suffering first.
Kelsey is made to be a mouse (her greatest fear from earlier) and we begin our game of cross hospital cat and mouse... or rather lion and mouse. Slowly, I form a strategy that I hope will work. Unconscious, at first—it’s just part of “what I do,” but then with a growing awareness. H needs to be distracted and needs more than anything to feel some control. Some strength.
“I’m gonna get there first,” I roar as I burst from the room, claws out and hunched over, I race off down the hallway.
Giggles from behind me, I turn around. “You’re going the wrong way, silly lion.” Darn. Behind already.
And that’s how it goes. Every time it seems like the lion might get out in front of H’s wheelchair, H roars, or my lion runs into an empty bed or mop pail in the hall. We pass by startled and concerned doctors and nurses in small groups. Kelsey uses her relationships, authority and charm to ease concerns of the staff over our strange behaviour—especially once we have left the paediatric wing. I am also gratefully aware of the latitude that the nurses and H’s mom allow me. Right now, I am huge. My personality takes up all of the oxygen around me and turns it into a playful fire roaring through my imaginary jungle. Every little bit of that energy goes straight into the frightened and hurting girl in the wheelchair who is right now threatening to run me off the road with glee as her bewildered nurse pushes like mad to try and keep up.
We take the elevator down several floors and along some more corridors, arriving at the specified room and, of course, the crazed race comes to an end. Immediately, things get dark again. Not only does H need to have her splint changed, she has to learn to do her own physiotherapy. It is clear that even something brushing against her fingers is painful, but worse for her is the fear of the pain.
H is soon crying and begging for the nurse not to change the splint. The nurse calmly removes the plastic sheath from H’s arm. Under the gauze, I can see H’s tiny and badly bruised hand shaking. I realize that this is the part that she has been dreading all along. She has to start to teach her fingers to move again and to stay limber as they heal. H must take each of her fingers and try to make them “kiss her palm.”
“No. I can’t. It hurts. Don’t touch me. No, no, no...”
Her mother steps forward. “I’m not going to touch your hand, I’m just going to show you with my hand. There, see? Each finger down and count to... she looks up at the nurse.
“Eight.”
“... and count to Eight. Can you try that for me?”
“No, please, don’t. Don’t make me.”
“This is the only way your hand can ever get stronger again,” I interrupt, hoping that I’m not overstepping my non-existent authority in the room. I don’t know healing or anatomy. I’m a stranger. I have a relationship of less than an hour with this child. I’m nobody, here. Right now, that doesn’t matter. “Sometimes when we are learning to do something, it can be painful. Like... skating, or riding your bike,” I throw out a couple of guesses.
“I just took off my training wheels,” she says.
“Right, but I bet you fell a few times. This is the same. How is your hand ever going to get strong enough to wear these finger puppets, if you don’t do your exercises? Now, these puppets on my hand,” I continue, “they hate finger stretches. Every time I try, they want to quit. But if you do your stretches, they will do them with you. We will call them your puppet exercises.” My hand wriggles and I throw out of chorus of voices as the animals whine, “No! Don’t make us do it. We can't. I hate them."
H takes hold of her pinky, so delicately—like trying to hold a soap bubble without popping it. She grimaces as she stares at the puppets on my right hand. “One... two... three...”
She continues, her voice quavering, as my puppets complain. With each progressive finger they say they are tired—that it’s time to go home—that “eight comes after four, honest!” They cry and cajole, but H knows what’s good for them as she works her way through her entire hand, laughing, crying, and counting at the same time.
All smiles and sitting up in bed, H is a bright child of six. Her hand (which has recently been shattered) is wrapped in gauze and held in a splint reaching to her elbow. I’ve been doing visits like this for quite a while now and I quickly go into my usual routine. I’m silly and disarming. We wear finger puppets (H can only wear them on one hand), sing songs and read some pop-up books. I make a lot of “mistakes” while reading and H quickly corrects me. I fall over constantly. I’m afraid of all the beeping noises in her room and all of the scary things in the books. H laughs at me for being afraid—especially of the lion finger puppet. She is interested and engaged—one of the easiest story times I’ve had in weeks.
Then the nurse comes in. “Let’s have a look at that hand,” she says, giving a nod to H’s mother across the room and smiling. “I think we are going to have to change that splint today.”
H scowls and hides her hand under her other arm. “No, don’t touch it,” she whispers, her chin tucked into her chest.
“I’m sorry, but we have to change it if we want it to get better.”
At this point I can see that story time is over and it’s time for us to move on to another room. I collect my things and head for the door. I take a couple of quick pumps from the ever-available hand sanitizer. Kelsey heads out with me as we try to say good-bye to H.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, don’t touch it. I don’t want that. Don’t touch it, NO!” The last word is a scream as piecing as only a six-year-old's can be. It’s only been 15 or 20 seconds, but her face is already blotchy red and splashed with tears.
My face crunches up. This is part of the job, I tell myself. She will be alright. She is here to get better. My daughters are healthy. I have to project strength. There are other children to see, today.
“You know,” Kelsey says, “if you want to, we could go with her. She has been like this every time she has a procedure. Maybe we can turn her mood around when they are done changing the splint.”
Behind us, the nurse and H’s mother are wrestling her into a wheelchair. Fearful pleading continues unabated.
I don’t want to stay. This whole situation sucks. Why does it have to be like this?
But, then I think about Jim and the time he tells a story to a child. Inches from his face, she bored into his soul with her eyes as a nurse cleaned and re-stapled a large and painful wound on her head—both Jim and the girl clung to the words of a story, not willing to think about what was happening up above.
“I am here for you,” I say, “If you think we can make a difference, let’s give it a shot. I don’t think I can make it any worse than it's already going.”
I bounce over to H’s wheelchair. She glares up at me—no, not at me, at anyone and everyone. “Guess what?" I say with deeply false enthusiasm. I’ve never been to the room where they change splints before.” And it’s true, I haven’t. “If you let me and Kelsey come, you can pick an animal and I will pretend to be that animal all the way there.”
“Oh, but Mike,” Kelsey is immediately aware of my plan, somehow before I am, “what if H makes you pretend to be a lion?”
“She wouldn’t do—“
“You’re a lion!” H grins, comforted in the knowledge that if she has to suffer, at least she will enjoy my suffering first.
Kelsey is made to be a mouse (her greatest fear from earlier) and we begin our game of cross hospital cat and mouse... or rather lion and mouse. Slowly, I form a strategy that I hope will work. Unconscious, at first—it’s just part of “what I do,” but then with a growing awareness. H needs to be distracted and needs more than anything to feel some control. Some strength.
“I’m gonna get there first,” I roar as I burst from the room, claws out and hunched over, I race off down the hallway.
Giggles from behind me, I turn around. “You’re going the wrong way, silly lion.” Darn. Behind already.
And that’s how it goes. Every time it seems like the lion might get out in front of H’s wheelchair, H roars, or my lion runs into an empty bed or mop pail in the hall. We pass by startled and concerned doctors and nurses in small groups. Kelsey uses her relationships, authority and charm to ease concerns of the staff over our strange behaviour—especially once we have left the paediatric wing. I am also gratefully aware of the latitude that the nurses and H’s mom allow me. Right now, I am huge. My personality takes up all of the oxygen around me and turns it into a playful fire roaring through my imaginary jungle. Every little bit of that energy goes straight into the frightened and hurting girl in the wheelchair who is right now threatening to run me off the road with glee as her bewildered nurse pushes like mad to try and keep up.
We take the elevator down several floors and along some more corridors, arriving at the specified room and, of course, the crazed race comes to an end. Immediately, things get dark again. Not only does H need to have her splint changed, she has to learn to do her own physiotherapy. It is clear that even something brushing against her fingers is painful, but worse for her is the fear of the pain.
H is soon crying and begging for the nurse not to change the splint. The nurse calmly removes the plastic sheath from H’s arm. Under the gauze, I can see H’s tiny and badly bruised hand shaking. I realize that this is the part that she has been dreading all along. She has to start to teach her fingers to move again and to stay limber as they heal. H must take each of her fingers and try to make them “kiss her palm.”
“No. I can’t. It hurts. Don’t touch me. No, no, no...”
Her mother steps forward. “I’m not going to touch your hand, I’m just going to show you with my hand. There, see? Each finger down and count to... she looks up at the nurse.
“Eight.”
“... and count to Eight. Can you try that for me?”
“No, please, don’t. Don’t make me.”
“This is the only way your hand can ever get stronger again,” I interrupt, hoping that I’m not overstepping my non-existent authority in the room. I don’t know healing or anatomy. I’m a stranger. I have a relationship of less than an hour with this child. I’m nobody, here. Right now, that doesn’t matter. “Sometimes when we are learning to do something, it can be painful. Like... skating, or riding your bike,” I throw out a couple of guesses.
“I just took off my training wheels,” she says.
“Right, but I bet you fell a few times. This is the same. How is your hand ever going to get strong enough to wear these finger puppets, if you don’t do your exercises? Now, these puppets on my hand,” I continue, “they hate finger stretches. Every time I try, they want to quit. But if you do your stretches, they will do them with you. We will call them your puppet exercises.” My hand wriggles and I throw out of chorus of voices as the animals whine, “No! Don’t make us do it. We can't. I hate them."
H takes hold of her pinky, so delicately—like trying to hold a soap bubble without popping it. She grimaces as she stares at the puppets on my right hand. “One... two... three...”
She continues, her voice quavering, as my puppets complain. With each progressive finger they say they are tired—that it’s time to go home—that “eight comes after four, honest!” They cry and cajole, but H knows what’s good for them as she works her way through her entire hand, laughing, crying, and counting at the same time.
Comments
Thanks for the kind comment regarding RUH. I’m lucky that my job at the library at first “allowed” me to do that work, and eventually has fully encouraged and facilitated it.
Just for you, I will write a post today to catch folks up with my life!