Tribute to a Young Lady/Kid
12.13.15
A few weeks ago I was
called to make urgent portraits of a
very young woman, a patient at a local hospital, for a charity that I
have volunteered for for three years – Flashes of Hope. Lymphoma was
mutating and
attacking her body and she was dying soon.
I set up my backdrop and lighting in a colorful room at the
hospital's pediatric ward, it's tricked out with things that kids like: it's a clubhouse on a
floor of the usual drabness of a hospital with beiges and pinging machines.
Time, as it does in hospitals, mutated into timelessness and
we (me and two Flashes of Hope chapter leaders) waited for her arrival.
We heard from nurses that she was hesitant.
We heard from nurses that she was alone.
We heard from nurses that she was not feeling well.
Then word came that she was getting ready.
Then an update came down the hallway that she would be
arriving soon, in wheelchair.
She rolled in.
This young lady was imperious, in a fine way. In a short
time we knew that she lived with her best friend and her family, and that her
biological mother had died. We also knew that she had several siblings. I would
meet one of them in a few days in a classic hospital moment: a guilt-soaked time
of apologies and tears and she pretended that she was asleep through it all.
She had hair and makeup done and when she was ready I
adjusted her satin tank top to cover her port near her collarbone, and to drape
a silk scarf around her shoulders. I would later PhotoShop out any evidence
that she was sitting in a wheelchair so it looks like she is sitting in an
appropriate throne.
When her portrait was done I invited her to stay with us,
saying that she did not have to leave, to hang out, and she did until she was
exhausted. Before that I went to get her some hard candy, stopping by the
nurses' station and then her room where I saw a large corner room that felt
very empty and devoid of evidence of many visitors. She did, however, have an
impressive stash of candy and soda, the offerings of nurses and caring staff
adults. There was a small collection of greeting cards. I would visit in a few
days and bring her some little presents, and another card in case she was
sleeping when I visited. I learned that hospital trick years ago: your visitee
may be sleeping or wacked out on meds and actually forget that you stopped by.
They also might get into that dusky hospital timelessness and enter into a zone
where things like visits and concrete concern drift somewhere else.
I brought her lip gloss, adorable slipper socks with elves
on each, chocolate and the card.
We watched Scooby-Doo together and the cartoon featured
KISS.
I asked her if she knew who the band is, and she answered,
lying on her back, "I know who they are" in a tone that said
instantly she was culturally aware and impatient with my older suppositions.
So when she wanted, after her photo shoot, to head back to
her large and empty corner room I offered to push her wheelchair, warning her
that it would be a hell ride.
In my world/experience (beginning with my wild first boy
cousins pushing infant me in my stroller, running me through the streets of
their west side neighborhood – I loved it), that means license to run and
scream at will while pushing a wheelchair/stroller/friend or young niece in a
shopping cart.
We ran down the hospital hallway to her room, her letting
out a scream, the nurses looking over their station wide-eyed.
We talked in her room for a while, she didn't want help
getting into her bed.
This imperious in a fine way young lady/kid laughed when I
asked her if she would like to ask me anything about being a non-twin: she was
a twin. All twins are asked about being a twin.
She was young and she is gone.
