The Obvious Child, by Martha Thomases – Brilliant Disquise

May 1, 2010 Martha Thomases 7 Comments

There are so many rules for volunteers at the cancer hospital that you have to take a class before you start.  You can’t just start knocking on doors and talking to patients.  You must learn hospital procedures.  You must get a tuberculosis test every year.  You shouldn’t wear perfume or strong-smelling lotion.  You must keep all patient information confidential.

For those of us who volunteer in pediatrics, there are a few extra guidelines.  You have to be very conscious about a child’s feelings, even more than those of a sick adult.  Kids can get frightened easily, especially if they are in isolation, and everyone who comes in the door has on a yellow gown, blue gloves and a mask.  Kids can be self-conscious about the changes treatment can make to their appearance, especially the puffiness from steroids and the baldness from chemo.  And kids who lose their hair can feel as if they have no gender identity.  Girls wear more pink and ribbons.  Boys put up more sports posters.

None of these systems bothered me when I started to teach knitting there once a week.  I have such a poor memory that I can’t remember anyone’s name from one week to the next, so confidentiality isn’t much of an issue.  And I tend to not talk about cancer unless it’s something the patient or the caregiver wants to do.  I see my job as providing the means to relaxing recreation, not psychological therapy.  I’m a big fan of cheap escapism, so that’s what I try to share.

My routine is to pack my bag with supplies, and start with those kids who are in-patient, on the theory that they are stuck in their rooms, and maybe they (or their parents) will get sick of watching television or reading.  If I have time, I talk to people waiting for out-patient treatment.  In the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve taught hundreds of kids and caregivers how to knit.  Some just do it for a few days, but some have continued for years, even making sweaters.

At first, I tended not to ask boys if they wanted to try it.  I consider myself to be a militant feminist, and I know many boys (and men) who like to knit.  However, I don’t think this is the occasion to make a big political point.  If a boy feels insecure about his identity, I don’t want to make it worse by asking if he wants to do something “girly.”

Still, some of my best students have been boys.

This column is about one who, to protect his privacy, I’ll call A, an 11-year-old.  I knocked on his door because I’d been told that his mom might want to learn to knit.  In fact, she was already a knitter, and I was delighted to supply her with some yarn and needles, since she had not brought hers.  A asked if he could learn, and I was happy to get him started.

Over the next few months, A was in and out of the hospital.  Since I have such a poor memory, I didn’t notice very much until he started to be there more often than he was away.  Usually, his father was in the room with him, and we would talk about what we were reading, the political situation in the Middle East (A’s family was from India, although A was born in this country, I think).  The family is Hindu, and there were pictures of Hindu gods on the window sill.  We’d talk about the statue of Ganesha at the Metropolitan Museum, the only statue in the place that is venerated.

Sometimes, A would be on Skype, with his classmates, keeping up with school.

“He is always happy to see you,” A’s father told me.  “You are the only volunteer he always wants to see.”

This surprised me, because A didn’t actually knit all that much.  He liked to do it, but he was frustrated by how long it took to finish a project.  When he was first starting an orange scarf, and complaining about the time, I showed him how to bind off and we made the scarf into a bracelet, which I tied around his wrist.  After that, he always seemed to be wearing it.

His grandparents arrived from India in March.  I asked if they were in town for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  A scoffed at me.

The next bit event in our relationship came when I saw some comic books on his bedside table, Superman and Batman.  After that, I started bringing him some, since I go on Wednesdays.  I would only give him those that were easy to follow without reading a lot of previous issues, so I gave him Flash #1 and Brightest Day #1.

Two weeks ago, his uncle was visiting at the same time I was.  A was having a lot of trouble with his eyes, and his uncle, hugging him, told him to be strong and keep fighting.  Last week, I couldn’t go in to see him, but I saw his mother outside his room.  I tried to give her a comic book for him, but she said he couldn’t see.

This week, he was gone.  He had died on Saturday.

Too many people that I know have lost kids recently, to disease or disaster.  I find it excruciating to imagine, and I never know what to say to them.  To my horror, I find myself thinking, “Better their kid than mine.”  Maybe I do the volunteer work as penance for my bad thoughts.

That’s not true.  The real reason is so I can meet kids like A.  Jessica, one of the professionals who works with Child Life Services, told me about A’s passing.  I said, “He was such a smart kid.  Really brilliant, and so sweet.”

Jessica said, “Sometimes it seems like the best ones are the ones who die.  It’s like their bodies can’t contain them.”

Media Goddess Martha Thomases will try to be funny again next week.