It was clinic day; a hive of activity, high energy, white coats bustling in and out of the examining rooms, children of all ages up to 18, parents (mostly mothers) and lots of support staff all with a genuine demeanor. This was a haven, all of us united by a common thread.

Jason would be examined, weighed, measured, blood work done, and a count taken of his café-au-lait spots (a possible indicator of Neurofibromatosis). We would then wait for Jason’s name to be called by his Oncologist and Neurologist. We would be at the clinic for most of the day. Jason was playing a checker game with his new clinic friend. His friend was receiving chemotherapy while they played the game. He had an assortment of lines connecting him to the various drips. The imposing IV poles were lined up beside them almost like they were peering down on the game. Jason and his friend were playing as if they could be anywhere, just like two regular healthy boys on the other side of the doors would play. Jason appeared to not notice any of this; the tubes, the wires, the beeping monitors, the main line giving his new friend a chance at life. What was wonderful was that Jason just saw a boy, his new friend, someone who also liked to play checkers.

As I nervously waited for Jason’s name to be called I made eye contact with some of the other Mothers. I was searching in them for something familiar, a sign that they were feeling like I did. I then realised that they too, were probably just like me. On the outside they appeared to be poised and brave ready to deal with what will come next, but inside there is such a churning of fear for their children. I am amazed how we can keep going with a certain amount of normality and control, when our whole world has such a threat to it. My thoughts were halted by the nourishing sound of children’s voices and laughter. This is where we get it from; such brave little souls, such troopers. The resilience of these children and their joy of living despite the horrible procedures they had to endure, was incredibly humbling.  When a child having a spinal tap behind a closed door could be heard crying, it was heartbreaking for the Mothers. The children just kept playing, not displaying any reaction to this. It appeared as if they had accepted that this was their world. The head of Oncology once said to me, “These children are born with halos over their heads.” She was right. These children are special children. I was changed on some deep level that day.

Over the many years on Neurosurgery hospital floors, I was privileged to share intimate conversations which would greatly affect me. It was as if we were both there at the same time to come together and have this profound sharing, and then forever disappear. We were strangers with exposed souls, connecting for a short time to help one another. These conversations have stayed with me.

A man whose life was ‘normal’… a career, married, young children, had just been told that he had 3 months to live. Sitting on a chair at the bottom of his bed, I compassionately listened to him. He was so raw and emotional. He was telling me how much was left on his mortgage, so worried about how his wife would manage, but as he was saying it, he realized in that very moment, that it didn’t matter because it would soon be paid off because he would be dead. The stricken look upon his face as he realized this halted my breath. He told me how ironic it was that just last month he was panicking about trying to make the mortgage payment, and now, the whole thing was going to be paid off. He was crying and trembling. He told me about how worried he was for his oldest child, a boy, and how scared he was about his children getting the same illness. He didn’t want to go to another hospital like they were planning, he wanted to go home and die there, to be with his wife and children. I was moved beyond words. I had never been with such raw emotion as it was actually playing out. We were strangers but for some reason this man trusted me with his almost primal emotion and anguish.  When I returned to the hospital the next morning, he was gone. I truly hope that he got his wish to go home.

I felt extremely privileged and changed by meeting this man.