lunar eclipse

far and near

The Visit

written by my daughter when she was 13.


Nervous doesn’t even come close to describing how I felt. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and I couldn’t stop swallowing; basically, I wanted to run home to my mommy. But I stopped, and attempted to at least look as though I had regained my composure. I took a deep breath and slowly released all my discomfort. My dad looked my way and grinned with pride. I answered with a half smile, trying to show my support but not really wanting to. I let go of my inhibitions and I look a step into the building.

With each step up the stairs I gained more and more confidence. We walked past rugs, paintings, and antique furniture; this did not feel like a hospital to me. As we approached the front desk, I thought that I was calm and ready. Low and behold, my voice came out squeaky and juvenile, as it does on the first day of school. This nice woman didn’t seem to notice though; she smiled at me and talked to me about my dad. She told us we could go in, so my dad walked me through two large glass doors.

The whole day I had been looking at signs. On the highway during our trip here we took the exit labeled “White Plains”. We followed road signs to the White Plains Hospital. We even went to a building with a sign that said “Cancer treatment”. Although our path was greatly labeled, my dad knew the way by heart. That’s what happens when you go somewhere every day. Everyone there knew him; all we saw were smiling faces, waving hands, and other gestures of friendship. When we drove up to the building it seemed like a sad place, but once we ventured inside I realized that it was warm, welcoming, and very friendly.

“I can show her the radiation room while you get changed if you want,” said a nurse who then smiled at my dad and at me too.

“Sure that would be great.” My dad walked off to the side and the woman brought me around the corner. She introduced me to all the other nurses as “Tom’s daughter” which meant they all knew him well. I knew all their names, but I didn’t commit them to memory because names weren’t important to me in that state of mind. They walked me into the room and I braced myself for a shock.

It was nothing like I expected. The room was small, and the radiation chair was large; I didn’t think there could be more than two people in there, besides the patient, during the process. I thought the chair was curved; it was flat. I thought that the room would be bland; the ceiling was painted. That’s what most astounded me. The ceiling was one of the ones with the cheap large Styrofoam tiles, held up by a frame made with crossing perpendicular lines. On each tile was a piece of a scene of a springtime sky. The entire ceiling showed trees, clouds, sky, and even some birds. This piece of intricate artwork, on the ceiling no less, made me feel ten times more comfortable than I was before.

We walked back into the waiting room and I said my goodbyes to the nurses before sitting down to wait for my dad. After about ten minutes he was done and we were ready to go. On our way out, they gave him a basket of fun for those who are staying in the hospital after their treatment. They are mostly meant for young children so my dad wasn’t that interested, but I looked through to see what I could find. There was a beautiful bear that neither I nor my dad was interested in, but I kept it around. Now it is our annual bear drive at school, and I am going to donate that bear. It’s new, and the drive is to give them to kids in the hospital, which is what the bear was meant for in the first place. It feels great to think that this time it will go to some one who really needs it. Maybe it will go to someone who doesn’t really want it but can do the same thing I am doing and donate it. Whatever happens, I’m sure it will put a smile on someone’s face, and I’m sure that will make my dad happier than a bear ever could.

February Quickening