one more game.

For the past year I have been volunteering on the general pediatrics unit at a nearby children's hospital. I recently requested to transfer to the Hematology/Oncology unit after an afternoon of playing video games with two oncology patients. Fortunately, I was given the opportunity to make the transition and it has already been quite the humbling experience. 

I will be the first to admit that after commuting to NYC for almost two years I strongly dislike being stuck in a car (How I drove across country twice is beyond me). If I had my choice, I'd live in a city (hello, San Francisco...oh hey, Austin!), where I didn't have to drive anywhere. Don't get me wrong, I've learned to optimize my time while behind the wheel. I often use that time to catch up with friends, unwind by driving in complete silence, or exercise my horrendous vocal chords and pretend I'm the next "it" girl in the music industry, while people in the cars next to me wonder if I've gone looney tunes.  Friday was one of those days where, quite frankly, I just didn't feel like driving 45 minutes to the children's hospital (despite the fact that my heart was gently prodding me, saying "Courtney, you know you will be so happy once you're in your element at the hospital."). My pathetic saving grace was the fact that I was meeting up with some former EY co-workers who I hadn't seen in what seemed like eons, in the same vicinity as the hospital. 

Of course, I shouldn't forget to mention that I was running late. again. Although it is one of my NYR to cease this "being late all the time" nonsense, I am failing miserably. After I parked my car, I quickly navigated through the maze of a hospital and finally landed in the playroom on the Hemat/Oncology unit for my volunteer shift. Breathlessly, I threw my stuff in the corner and saw that one of the patients who previously stole my heart a few weeks ago was still here. As if it were routine, I gave him a high five and he passed me a Wii controller so I could join right in on the game he was already playing. He, of course, had to reteach me how to use the controller, because the chances of me ever being able to remember how to play a video game are slim to none. A fact that had not slipped his mind. 


For the next hour or so, we played super mario brothers. And by that, I mean he totally kicked my butt, while I tried my best not to "die" every two seconds. Unabashedly, he made fun of me every two seconds when I pressed "a" instead of "b" or shook the remote in a desperate attempt to make it over a jump - something that he made look so damn easy! I swear I put my whole body into playing the video game, so that by the time I was done my hands were sweaty and sore from gripping the controller so intensely. Over the course of that hour, we joked around as if he was the little brother I never had. Through it all, we never discussed the fact that he's been in and out of the hospital for months, battling a brave fight against cancer. We didn't discuss the fact that he had to wear a hat to keep him warm indoors, or the fact that he was hooked up to an IV and a random assortment of monitors around the clock. Those facts were lost to him. For the hour that I was there, all that mattered was that he was rocking me in Nintendo Wii and having the time of his life doing so. This fact is not lost on me and is something that I will carry near to my heart for a long time. 


After losing all of my "lives," I told my newest pal that I had to visit a couple more patients before I headed out for the evening. Rolling his big brown eyes, and not missing a second of the game (this kid has ridiculous multi-tasking abilities!), he told me to hurry back so we could play some more. When I came back to the playroom half an hour later, sure enough, the patient was still there, looking as happy as can be, lost in the video game. As I grabbed my stuff and told him "I have to, but I better not see you here next week!" (guiltily knowing that more likely than not he'd still be there), he looked up at me with those innocent eyes and wistfully said, "c'mon courtney! one more game!" I let out an exaggerated sigh of exasperation and said "why?! so you can beat me again!!!?!," to which he replied, "of course!!!"


And so he tossed me the controller and we played one more game. And then another.


I finally found the heart to tell him I had to be going. And as I found my way back to my car and hurried off to happy hour, all I could think about was how happy that little boy was despite everything he was going through.  His positive outlook on life was breathtaking and reminded me to relish in the simple things life has to offer, even if it's just a silly video game.


When I arrived at happy hour I found myself refreshed and revived, happy to see the familiar faces of old friends. And as I walked to my car much later that evening, I didn't think twice about the fact that I had forty five minutes of driving ahead of me. Instead I thought of my little angel back at the hospital, full of laughter and happiness and thought how we could all benefit from a dose of his outlook on life.