Dead But Alive

chapter eight: giving up hope

I am surrounded by little children.

Most of them are bald.

Half are carrying coloring books, board books and chunky wooden blocks and stuffed toys and dolls.

The rest are watching TV, putting together puzzles, hanging on me.

A tiny boy with skin the color of black coffee and tight brown curls peers up at me. "Reid? Reid, did Thomas the Train ever die?"

I look at him, his earnest dark eyes. I scoop him into my lap. "No, Peter, Thomas the Train will never die."

"Ever? Ever and ever?" Peter snuggles into my chest, his hair smelling like baby shampoo. He's one of the precious few who still has curls, and I treasure them because I know someday soon, he will lose them. He is brand new to the cancer hall, and chemotherapy, but I already love him so much. I have grown greatly attached to all of the kids, and they love me back, which I am grateful for. Ever since I began volunteering here last summer, I have gotten to know some amazing little children with amazing little personalities to go with them. They're all completely adorable.

"Never," I repeat. "He will never die, Peter."

"Like you," he says, clutching a fistful of my shirt. "You won't ever die, Reid, because I love you too much."

My heart melts, and I laugh. I think my masculinity just went down the drain. Ah well. Nothing wrong with being softhearted. I run my fingers through his curls. "I love you too, Peter."

Another small child comes over and climbs into my lap, her white-blond hair bunched into two tiny pigtails. She's wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that says it's nice to be nice. I remember her as Lyra, and that she's actually in remission, growing her hair back out. Her and Peter make up two of the five with hair. The rest are equally adorable and precious...but they're mostly clustered around the games table right now.

Then a little bald girl with a pink bandanna nearly trips over my foot, and I shoot out an arm to catch her. "Careful, Emma."

She beams at me. "You put your foot in the way, Reid!" She's seven, and she somehow has been convinced that I am the greatest thing since sliced bread and Ritz Bits. I don't know who deluded her, because I am not great, and sliced bread and Ritz Bits rank very much above where I am.

I laugh, tickle her with the arm I have wrapped around her waist. "Oh, yeah? Says who?"

She shrieks with laughter and tumbles into my lap, practically on top of Peter, who yelps. "EWW!" he squeals. "Girl cooties!"

"Peter!" I exclaim, laughing and squishing the three of them together. "That's not very nice. You have to always treat a lady with respect."

"That's not a lady," Peter says with contempt. "That's just Emma."

"Emma is a princess!" I tell him, not quite sure where I'm coming up with this imaginative fluff, but figuring I made the right call when Emma begins giggling in utter delight at being called royalty. "Emma and Lyra are princesses, and you are a royal lord. So you had better treat them with respect, and then I will make you a crown."

"Reid's gonna make me a crown!" he chirps, popping upright and launching into some kind of drunken-pirate dance. "GUYS GUYS GUYS, I'm gonna get a crown!"

The rest of the afternoon consists of helping small children make colored construction paper crowns and decorate them with doodles and sticky jewels.

I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Once again I remember Dr. Terrance's words.

And once again I know he is wrong.

I couldn't give up the opportunity I have to share love and joy to these perfect kids.

Couldn't give up their only outlet for hope.