A Grand Theft: Children and Disease

Walking into a children's hospital causes the most pain. To see children so young, so innocent and vulnerable being robbed of their childhood. Being robbed of the happiness of health. Something so many of us take for granted. I think to myself, what if that were me, in that same situation. Would I be able to have the same smile these children have on their face? The hope radiates through their words.

The halls sing with a quiet sorrow,
a lullaby of beeping machines,
whispers of nurses, soft footsteps—
as if the walls themselves
are afraid to wake the sleeping pain.

I walk past doors labeled with names,
small warriors in oversized beds,
hands too tiny for IV lines,
eyes too bright for such dim-lit fates.

They do not ask, "Why me?"
Instead, they smile—
as if suffering has not stolen their joy,
as if hope still sings in their fragile chests.

I pause at a room where sunlight pours in.
A boy, no older than six,
cradles a stuffed bear with one arm,
the other tethered to a tube.
His mother reads to him, voice steady,
but I see the war behind her eyes.

I wonder—if that were me,
Would I have his strength?
Would I smile through the storm,
laugh in the face of borrowed time?

Disease is a thief, ruthless and unfeeling.

These young warriors show us everyday the blessings of life. They live in pain and suffering, while we have the privilege of being able to wake up in a warm house, not hearing the machines beeping. I think to myself, how can I help? What can I do to make these kids' lives just a little better? If it were up to me I would give them my health, just to see them thrive a little bit. Let them see the world from a different view rather than from inside a hospital.