A Perfect Stranger

The first time I met Tyler Benson he was roaming the halls of the children's hospital, entertaining the other kids to ease their fears. It was his escape from the cancer wing, to forget that he was a patient himself. He still had a full head of light brown hair then.

My daughter, Nora, was recovering from a Cochlear Implant surgery. She had woken up with a headache, which we expected since they had drilled a hole in her head, and lingering nausea from the anesthesia. I did my best to cheer her up, but nothing I did could make her smile. Not even her favorite teddy bear.

Her mood completely changed when Tyler stopped in her doorway and waved hello. When she waved back, he came inside the room with his IV pole trailing behind him and introduced himself. She couldn't hear him yet; the processor to her implant wouldn't be worn for another two months to allow her head to heal, so she looked at me to relay what he said.

"He said his name is Tyler," I signed with my hands as I spoke so both of them could understand what I was saying, "and he asked what your name is."

She smiled brightly for the first time since she woke up and lifted her hands to respond.

"Her name is Nora," I told him, "She just woke up from Cochlear Implant surgery. It's a hearing device they put in her head, but she can't hear you yet."

"Cool. Can you teach me some sign language?" he asked. It was the first time anyone had said something positive when they found out Nora was deaf. They usually said I'm sorry, which irritated me to no end. But Tyler, he was different, and I appreciated him for not treating her like she had a disability.

So I taught him the basics: hello, thank you, and how to spell his name. She taught him a few animal signs; turtle and monkey were his favorites and he had Nora roaring with laughter when he repeated them.

She only had to stay in the hospital for the day, but even then he made an impact on her. She was five; he was fourteen.

The second time I met him, he was Nora's roommate during her recovery from an appendectomy about six months later. Since he was sleeping when they put Nora in the room, I didn't know it was him. It had been a late emergency surgery and they assured me Nora would be fine overnight, but I wasn't comfortable leaving my daughter in a room with a perfect stranger. I insisted on staying the night.

When morning came, they recognized each other right away. It wasn't until he lowered his mask, and repeated the few sign language gestures Nora taught him, that Tyler's memory came back to me.

"Hey there, monkey," he said to her while signing.

She giggled, "I'm not the monkey, you're the monkey!"

Tyler's eyes lit up as she spoke. The last time they saw each other, Nora was only signing. "You have a beautiful voice, Nora!"

Nora beamed as she laid in her bed. Tyler was the perfect roommate for her in this moment.

"Hi, Mrs. Reynolds," he added.

"Hi, Tyler," I said with a heavy heart. He looked awfully sick with skin as pale as a ghost and his once thick head of hair now completely gone. He had dark circles around his beautiful hazel eyes, probably from the lack of sleep in this place, with nurses coming to check on you every few hours. The most startling features were all the bruises. Even looking as he did, he still had a high spirit and a sense of humor.

It broke my heart to see Tyler this way. He was only fifteen and going through his third battle with leukemia. Nora's hearing impairment and appendectomy seemed insignificant in comparison. I couldn't imagine having to watch my child suffer through a terrible disease like that.