I suppose it was the glasses. Babies liked that sort of thing. Big, round, the kind that made me look like I belonged in some archaic, ancient library rather than in a modern hospital. My first day on the unit, nerves bundled. They shouldn’t have been, I’d had more experience with kids than I did with adults—day care, babysitting, tutoring and my many siblings—but this was different. This was the hospital.
I admit, when I had first signed up to be a hospital volunteer, I had been somewhat hesitant being stationed in the children’s hospital. One thing that always brought me so much joy from children was their energy, their life; I had no idea how seeing them so sick would affect me. Regardless, against my own judgment, my volunteer supervisor believed my skill set and disposition was best fit here and threw me in—so I did my best to settle my nerves.
A raspberry. That was my greeting. Worries and anxieties walking in… and the little gurgling sound made them instantly vanish. The baby stared at me… and did it again, with what I swear was a hint of a cheeky smile.
He was my first, and easiest. My little patient had Down Syndrome; no tears, no laughs. Just raspberries. The absolute glee that radiated from the little guy always brightened up my day, and made the worries—my classes, my job, personal struggles—just vanish. Because every Sunday I got to come in and get a little raspberry hello.
Rattles, tickles, toys. A good distraction during procedures, trying to keep his eyes on me with soft words and funny sounds. Books were his favorite. Making a “vroom vroom” or “quack quack” and scrunching up my face all exaggerated to get those excited feet kicking in approval.
Doing anything and everything to entertain before he’d instantly fall asleep with the suddenness of an active infant.
Eventually, to my joy, the little one got to go back home to his family for good. Although I missed the playful little greetings, it left such a tremendous impact on me. Between playing peekaboo with a baby missing her mama, to racing down the hall with an older wheelchair bound kid, I was able to see something I hadn’t been able to before. I assumed that seeing ill children every week would be a cycle of empathetic distress and weariness—instead, it provided me with the inspiration to get through every week. Yes, there was illness, but these children possessed such a pure joy and excitement for life… which inspired me in my own. The strength to smile through all the medications and injections, to laugh in the face of ailments so early in life. It soon became clear to me that the hospital wasn’t just a place of malaise and suffering, but a display of the raw human strength and lust for life. Through this experience, I’ve been inspired to pursue a career in medicine where I can only hope to make as much of a positive effect on my patients as they have had on me—a feat I believe insurmountable. All because of a raspberry.
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