Live is Change Essay

Life is Change

Jennifer Burns

I have always thought of myself as somewhat of a boring person. I don't travel the world, I don't party on the weekend, I have been known to just hit “repeat” on movies while I clean the house or work on crocheting hats, and most of my music collection is the same stuff I've listened to since I was 17. But narrowing down a subject for this essay has taken nearly a week. Every night, I've written upwards of 1000 words, none telling a specific story. Then, a news story reminded me of one specific instance that I still hold close to my heart today.

As a child, I spent a lot of time in the hospital. I was born with an Atrial Septal Defect, and I was physically too small to have it repaired until I was four. I'd had 4 blood transfusions by the time I was 3, and several months-long stays in the hospital just to stay healthy. This is the part where people usually say “aww, that's sad!”, but, really, I didn't know anything different. I grew up trusting doctors and nurses, and always had great care. There were always other children there with me, with various forms of cancers, injuries, diseases, or disorders. We all got to go to story time, we all got to watch the movie on Friday, and we all fought for the prized toy of the week.

I don't remember any names, but I remember all of their faces. Most of them didn't grow with me, and are forever young. We played games, and would make up stories in the books (since most of us were to young to have learned to read yet), drew pictures, and kept each other company. The thing is, whether parents want to admit it or not, sometimes, kids can tell when another kid just needs a little room to JUST be a kid.

About a month before my 5^th birthday, I finally went in for my ASD repair. I would have the surgery that would allow me to run without giving my mother a heart-attack and live a long and healthy life. It was a special occasion, so I asked my mom to curl my hair. The night before, I took a bath, and got my hair done up in pink sponge curlers, and picked out my favorite blue dress to wear to the hospital. I didn't find out until years later that my mom spent the night crying, because even the doctors did not expect me to make it out. She indulged every whim I had that night, and in the morning, we left for Salt Lake City to Primary Childrens Hospital about an hour away from home.

I got set up, got my pokes and my IV's, and got prepped for surgery, my golden curls pushed up under my cap. The nurses called my Goldilocks, and I quite liked the attention (what 4-year-old doesn't?).

The next morning, I woke up, surrounded by some of the members of the Bishopric of our Ward praying over me, for me to heal quickly. During the surgery, I'd gone from two IV poles to one, which made it easier to move around on my own. It also made it easier for me to accidentally pull out my IV. The Doctor and nurse arrived to re-insert my IV and do a general checkup, and promised me that if everything looked ok, I'd be able to go play the next morning. I was not ok with waiting, apparently. The moment they turned to talk to my mother, before they re-insterted the IV, I had bolted out of the room and down to the play room. The play room that contained a sign that said “No Doctors, Nurses, or Needles Allowed”. This room was safe from poking and prodding and everything that I didn't want to deal with.

Inside, there was a little girl. Only one little girl. She looked like my friend two beds away who was there for treatment for Leukemia, only sicker. But, she had a smile on her face. Because someone had come to play with her. We played together for about 10 minutes before her nurse spotted her, and came in and not-so-gently grabbed her by the arm, reprimanded her for leaving her bed, and took her back to her room. My nurse showed up moments later, and did the same.

There was a lot of commotion, and they cleaned and sanitized the entire playroom before anyone else was allowed in there. I was poked and tested. And I never saw her again the whole time I stayed there, which was about a week for recovery.

Fifteen years later, I went back to Primary Childrens, for my oldest son's circumcision. One of the nurses recognized me, and told me stories of when I'd come and make a mess of the play room to put on a play about lords and ladies. So, I asked her if she remembered that little girl. Teary-eyed, she nodded her head, and said that yes, she remembered her.

“Why didn't I ever see her with the other kids at story time or movie night?” I asked.

“Back then we were overly cautious, especially with kids who had a chance to make it. We knew that you couldn't catch what she had unless you roughhoused, and none of you ever did.”

“What did she have?” I asked.

“She was dying, of AIDS-related Pneumonia. She passed away 2 days after we caught her running into the play room to play with another little girl.”

I was shocked. I mean, she certainly looked sick, but I know enough about AIDS that in 1984, the medical community knew that AIDS was a blood-borne disease, and simply playing with her would not have caused the transmittal of HIV.

“She didn't run into the room to play with the other little girl,” I said. “I ran in there to play with her.”