Recently, on a morning that I had to go for chemotherapy, my five year old son drew me a picture. It depicts him and me, walking in the sunshine and holding hands. We have big smiles on our faces.
He made me promise that I would take it with me to chemo and post it where everyone could see it. “It will make you feel better,” he said.
And it really did.
When I settled into the hospital bed to get ready for the infusion, I pulled the drawing out of my bag and put it on my tray table. Right away, a nurse came to admire it. She gave me a bit of surgical tape so I could affix it where I could see it. For the rest of the four hours I spent in the chemo room, nurses and other staff kept stopping what they were doing to ask me about the drawing.
I think it served as reminder that the patients they work with are people with lives and loved ones. I think it made them look at me more closely. I think it also brought them up short to see such a concrete reminder that this particular patient is the mother to really little kids.