The Ward

I was only thirty-one years old when cancer took my life. The doctors said I had Osteosarcoma, but as I became more familiar with my unwanted guest, I came to call it the grim reaper and like the tax man coming to call, he literally cost me an arm and a leg. But the grim reaper wasn’t done with me yet. Along with crippling me, he decided to invade other parts of my body, slowly sapping life out of me. My doctors administered chemo and radiation and said they hoped for the best. Time went on and my hair became a thing of the past. The waiting in between was the longest moment in my life, but in the end, my doctors told me I had no chance of surviving. I had no wife, but my family members came and gave me that farewell look, the one that said there was no hope. Desperate and in despair, I found myself flying into Washington, checked in at the National Institutes of Health and began praying for a miracle.

When I threw myself at the mercy of the NIH doctors, they in turn honored me by transforming me into a lab rat. For six months I was treated with the most exotic and experimental drugs ever concocted. Countless times I’ve had serums of every color in the rainbow dripping from IV bags, chemo, radiation, everything you could imagine and more. Along with severe nausea, my joints and muscles felt like they were stabbed with fiery knives, and my head felt like it was being crushed in a vise. The drugs themselves pushed me to death’s door, but not quite through it. Finally, the treatment and all of the doctors’ suggestions came to an end, but the results were fruitless. When all was finished, the doctors ended up abandoning me, allowing me to die alone in my room. I listened to the heart monitor as it slowly came to a steady beep. My body became numb, but that famous glow of light never appeared. So much for great expectations.

You’d think I would have either gone to Heaven or Hell and that would be the end of the story, but sad to say, it wasn’t. Instead, my missing limbs returned, and I found myself wandering the halls and wards of NIH’s Building 9, seven stories of inpatient care and rehabilitation, for all the good it did me. I was a specter, a ghost, and like before I closed my eyes for the last time, I was alone in a world filled with people.

I can’t fathom the reason my soul became trapped there. All I know is as much as I tried, I couldn’t escape its red brick walls. So, I found myself a permanent resident of NIH, only now could I see and hear everyone, including those doctors who avoided seeing me.

For days I stalked them, listening to their conversations and watching their actions, determined to discover what monsters they truly were. Instead, I saw understaffed, overworked people sacrificing their personal lives to care for others. The longer I watched, the harder it became to hold on to my accusation. Behind the white lab coats and dangling stethoscopes were people I had mistaken for enemies—saints in disguise. Looking back on my last days in bed, I remembered the steady procession of nurses, attendants, and Red Cross volunteers coming to check on me. I had felt abandoned, but I had not been left without care. How had I failed to see it? And there was more I had yet to understand.

The most heart-retching place in building 9 was the children’s ward. There, dozens of children of all ages wandered the hallways or were bedridden. Baldheaded and bloated from experimental cancer medication, they lived lives knowing their time on Earth was going to be short lived. As in my case, their cases failed to respond to standard treatment and have come for that same miracle cure. Considering the situation, the kids themselves were in good spirits, not focusing on the future, but living the present.

The parents, on the other hand, lived with a fear their children tried not to dwell on. They knew they were grasping at straws when they came to NIH. Beyond praying for a miracle, they could only stand by, helpless, watching their children slowly die. In front of their children, they put on brave faces, hiding their feelings so the children would not become fearful and restless. Behind closed doors, the tears never stopped. I watched this cycle repeat, and my heart went out to those suffering parents. In time, I learned to accept that death was part of life, whether that life was short or long. I thanked God for the life I had been given. I was finally at peace with my death, even if I was not yet free of this place.

Now that I was free from pain and the fear of death, I began to view my surroundings in a new light and the people who dwelled there. Besides the absence of an emergency room, building 9 was built like most hospitals with one difference. It’s thought to be the largest red brick building in the world. But unlike most hospitals, NIH is not the place to come to if they are expecting to be cured. It’s a place you come to when modern medicine has failed you.

I’ve watched hundreds of studies test medications, therapies, and alternative ways to manage incurable diseases. I’ve seen hundreds of patients line up, begging and praying that theirs will be the one-in-a-million case that ends in a long, healthy life. From where I stand, hope too often gives way to disappointment, and I watch patients slowly succumb to the throes of death. Still, some walk out the front door. Those are the ones I envy. I can accept the life I had and the death that ended it, but I still cannot follow them outside.