Yesterday, I had the great honor of bring present at the dedication of a new hospital wing for all the kids with blood disorders and cancers. With these new rooms, the hospital will double their capacity for care, and it is beautiful.
And it is time.
Because the beautiful, timely, and terrible truth is that double the beds are needed in this place.
And tucked away, in the southern corner of this seventeenth south floor is a single room. The director pointed it out in its quiet corner space, proudly gesturing as he gave the state of the art designations.
This room is different.
This room is completely reinforced with lead. To protect everyone from radioactivity… “for kids with thyroid cancer.”
And as the group turned and moved down the hall, I hung back, faced the door, and took a picture.
It might be his future and it might not (depending on the outcome of his body scan when it happens), but now I know the southern corner room and we had a second of silence together – that door and me.
And it’s funny how an inanimate object can make you feel sick.
In a strange way, it stands for everything that has passed and everything that could lie ahead, and it’s only fitting that a threshold becomes the symbol.
A threshold coated in lead.
“If I’m radioactive, Mom, will I turn into Spider-Man?”
Moment by moment…
