Little Boy or Angel

"Misty Cross" by Drew John Tankersley

Happy Sez- This is a reprint of a previous post, and is something that I plan to re-post over and over again.  When you read it you can see why.  Even though his name is lost in the shroud of history, he should not be forgotten.  He was my friend.

This story is absolutely true.

In the 1950s in Childrens Hospital in Los Angeles there was a whole floor, the fourth floor devoted to children that were dying of heart trouble.  In those days doctors did not have the knowledge, procedures and medicines of today - they just were not invented yet, the iron lung (there was a room full of them just down the hall we were never allowed in) along with some of the first antibiotics and the fluoroscope were state of the art technology then.  For most of us, the lucky ones, there was only one hope - an experimental operation that could give us a chance at life and the doctors a chance to learn something that might help someone else.  Open heart surgery and the heart lung machine was just being developed, and was often used in these experimental surgeries and with each use something new was learned.  In those days they operated on one child a day, Monday through Friday, and by Friday  night, oftentimes all five children were dead.  We, the children understood this and for the most part accepted this the best we could.  You grow up rather fast in many ways and you learn several things - you learn to fight, you learn to have faith, faith in your parents, faith in your doctors but most of all you have faith in God.

It was fall 1958 when I was in this time for a rather extended period of time.  In those days there were four beds to a room and as kids easily do you soon became friends with your roommates, at least the ones that were well enough.  (You can always tell the really sick kids, they don't cry, they mostly lay staring or are unconscious).  I was almost nine and there was a kid in one of the other beds that I immediately struck up a friendship with.  He was a lively little boy of about six or so with dark hair and a ready grin and easy laugh. Even though he was dying he loved to pull jokes on the nurses, or sneak out of bed and go for wheelchair rides or go into other rooms ( a BIG no-no) and talk to the kids and sing Yankee Doodle to them, a song that he just loved. It was obvious how much he loved everyone and was he was always concerned with them, not just how they were feeling physically but how they were inside, in their spirit and heart.  He was always going to the the one that was having heart surgery that next day and somehow he had a way of calming a soul.  I remember a little dark haired little girl of about eight in the next ward that was having surgery the next morning, her parents were gone and she was terrified.  He went to her (I know the nurses had to know he was there out of not just his bed but his room) and spent most of the night in there singing Yankee Doodle to her, a song he was constantly singing, sometimes annoyingly so, until she finally was graced with some calmness and got a little sleep.  She died the next morning during surgery.
It is those after hours that can get to you in a children's hospital, the time after visiting hours when your parents are gone, when the hum of hospital life has slowed down and the lights are dimmed in the wards with only the light from florescent tubes in the hallways reflecting off the pale yellow walls. It can be lonely and terrifying but I never heard him complain or talk about himself, his only focus was others. I got to go home for a couple of months just before Christmas, and I never saw him again but my mother later told me his story, a short story, a story he never got a chance to live out but a story that was filled with God and Grace.
He was dropped off at the hospital by his parents, who lived two miles from the hospital, sometime in June or July.  They never came to see him or contacted him in any way, they left him to die.  He died right after Christmas. 
As one of the lucky ones that survived, you soon get caught up in the whirlwind of life, of living that life you were graced with. As the decades go by and I think back and I realize that even though his name is lost, the calmness of spirit that he gave you, the lessons by example on how life should be lived to the ready smile and laugh, but most of all that voice singing Yankee Doodle and I know my life was blessed by an angel!