A Forever Kind of Kindness

The sun glowed softly behind big clouds, and the wind was slow, but kind. With the ceiling fan swinging and creaking at low speed, it was pleasant in our hospital ward. The sky wore a happy blue and fluffed up its clouds. All in all, it was a terrible day to cry.

The boy’s mother held his hand as he swayed and wobbled to the video room. In Neurology, we document the patient’s defects in video to monitor their progress. His left arm was bent at the elbow and the fingers were curled up like he was hiding something in his palm. With the other arm, he moved his stiff limb out of the way and plopped into a chair. The room was lit by a cold, indifferent tube light so that the camera could see well.

The boy had short, cropped hair and a soft pubescent moustache. He clenched his teeth and shifted in his chair. His mother sat across the room and looked at her son but didn’t move. I put an arm on his shoulder softly and asked him where it hurt. His voice was muddled up, like he was biting into something as he spoke. I asked once more before his mother translated, “Everywhere”, in a clear and measured voice. Her eyes wore a habitual pain that betrayed the calmness in her voice. A pain that was once too much to bear but had now become part of her routine.

He was asked to move the limbs he could move, as much as he could move them. Then he was asked to speak as much as he could speak. The child couldn’t move well, but he followed every command. He answered in a tongue that only his mother understood, but he spoke with intelligence.

Towards the end of his assessment, when we paused for a few seconds, his mother hung her head in the palm of her hands. Almost instantly, I heard the boy shout. I tried to listen, but his mother didn’t lift her head to translate. Then, with the hand he could move, he traced imaginary teardrops on his face. I could make out, “Amma” and “crying” from his vehement protest.

She lifted her head a few seconds after and there were no tears. She said casually, “Hey, why would I cry? I’m not crying.” He seemed content with the hollow smile she had eked out.

I had to move out of the room since a doctor tearing up isn’t very professional. A lot of life happens in the hospital and sometimes it overwhelms me.

The child was looking out for his mother’s pain even while he was hurting. He was being kind, even in his suffering and I couldn’t remember when I had last seen something so pure.

As he hobbled out with his mother, he turned to me and smiled. I prayed a silent prayer for both of them and smiled right back.