I originally posted this in February of 2003. This patient crosses my mind periodically—maybe every six months or so. I saw her with my mind’s eye a few days ago. I’m not sure what triggers my memory of her. I imagine that she is now a beautiful woman who is breaking hearts left and right. I hope she’s healthy enough to do that.

I also note how my style of writing and idealism have shifted over the course of four years.

I peeked into her room and saw her sitting at her makeshift desk, grasping a bright red marker with her thin fingers. A wide smile sparkled on her face, like a new quarter in a pile of pennies.

Even though she was still clad in a drab white hospital gown, she looked so beautiful, so alive.

I recalled her face when I first met her nearly two weeks ago. Pale, tired, sickly. I remember waking her every morning around 6:30am to check up on her and ask about complaints. Even in the thin greyness of dawn, when she was in great discomfort and pain, her intrinsic beauty was apparent.

She was always so quiet, so demure. She never complained about the time, about my questions, about my cold hands. She never whined when I mashed on her belly. She patiently permitted me to listen to her strong heart. She breathed deeply so I could hear her lungs. She quietly adjusted her gown and her blankets so I could inspect her limbs, her skin, her mouth. She never became angry with me when I pushed on the right side of her belly—even when we both knew it caused her great discomfort. She simply regarded me with those large brown eyes—maybe with disdain, maybe with understanding. But always with patience.

The sunlight streamed in through her window and onto her light mocha skin when I sat across from her this afternoon.

Her big brown eyes smiled back at me. Her smile outshone the bland hospital lights.

I thanked her for being my patient, for being so kind to me, for allowing me to learn from her. She shyly turned her head away, and a half-smile played on her lips.

I got up to leave and took one last look at her before I left the room. She had gotten up from her desk, her brown hair cascading across her shoulders.

I could hardly believe that this teenager has leukemia. She looked so alive, so healthy. I know that she will soon fall ill, when we poison her body with chemotherapy drugs again.

I walk down the hallway, adorned with oddly colored forest animals painted on the walls. I think about her disease… I think about the tragedy of leukemia in children. I think about the hope that most kids with her specific malignancy will be cured, and that she will likely lead a healthy life once she finishes her chemotherapy. I think about her life, her experiences, her lessons in character building. I wonder if she takes life for granted, like so many of us.

I think about the joy of seeing a healthy child. I see the potential. I see the hope of healing.

The attending physician told me today that even he, who has been a pediatric oncologist for nearly forty years, still feels emotionally drained every day. Working with children so ill with cancer does take its toll on the spirit. But he found the successes so satisfying, so joyful. The challenges and their rewards sustain him.

I am exhausted. I am emotionally sapped, physically sluggish, mentally taxed, and intellectually resigned. But I am humbled.

I would have never thought that I would actually see her go home. I never thought that she would leave the service before me. But I saw her packing up her things today.

There is always hope.

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