There is something miraculous about hospitals. They save people, breathe new life into people and allow people another chance. But there is something even more magical about the paediatrics department.
I had been quite excited - bizarrely. I loved London, so I suppose that had something to do with it. But I hadn't been in a hospital for years beyond which I could count. And I had never been in a hospital in London - particularly one of such stature as 'The Royal Brompton'.
It's a sad scene to see poorly children. The rainbows and butterflies on the walls seem to lose their vibrancy just that little bit. The building blocks in the play area you know have most probably been thoroughly sterilised. And the sharp, jagged colourings of pirates and fairies pasted upon the walls seem to scream; LIFE'S TOO SHORT!! - certainly too short to worry about colouring within the lines.
But you can make your own fun and there's no such test to optimism as in a paediatrics department.
Of course, as an 11 year old, table football was always going to be the pot of gold amongst the train sets and over-sized building blocks scattered upon the floor. And, of course, as an 18 year old with a strong aversion to football, horrendously poor judgement and a set of lanky limbs, table football was never going to be my forte.
Regardless, between appointments, my cousin and I set about a match with the chocolate figure players.
My heart was racing; a sudden, burning competitiveness shining through. It was to no avail however because it wasn't long before I was beaten. Hardly surprising. But it had been good fun, so I sat in anticipation for when my cousin would return and we could duel once more.
We were into our third game before a young girl stood as a spectator, first leaning over the sides and directing my awkward movements and, later, as half of my team. Despite being in charge of just 3 players ball after ball continued to fling itself through my control and into the back of our net. It was, therefore, a rare and joyous occasion when we could enjoy a goal.
"YES!" cheered my little partner as our first went in.
I smiled. For all my earlier apathy and general lack of competitiveness, scoring each goal felt good and wholly deserved.
She lifted her hand, her fingers splayed just above my chest and I clapped mine against hers.
That tiny boned, slender, warm hand of the young girl cushioned by my strangely large and utterly unfeminine man-hand.
In that moment of connection, I realised what life meant for the children of this ward. All these children in the ward who made multiple visits per month and even per week for another appointment, the next consultation and further treatment. That little hand, swallowed by my whole palm, was part of a body that had experienced more than I had. She had seen far more than I had. She knew more that I did, despite being at least 8 years younger. Whilst my head was in books, thinking very highly of myself as I sat and churned out essays, this little girl and many others like her already had more knowledge than I could ever study for. Their misfortune, in many ways, had lead them to fortune.
Whilst making them better and curing them, the hospital and its staff were educating them. Strengthening their emotions. Improving their perceptions. They could walk into that waiting area and not be saddened to the core, as I had, by the sight of little boys walking around wired to tubes. They could be amongst these children without any other feeling than what was normal and indifferent. They could demand that their daddy's not walk them to their next treatment in the room down the hall because they could go with the nurses on their own. They weren't scared.
It's not only hospitals that are miraculous but, also, these brave little soldiers who carry on with life - day in, day out. Hospital is just a different way of them living their life. And that is truly what they do.
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