Bailey's Story
Please Note: The dog in the accompanying photograph is the subject of the story, but the child or teenager pictured is probably not the patient in the story.It’s Tuesday, which means it’s “Childrens Hospital Day” for Bailey and me.
After years of working in an elementary school, where each day was filled with the playful screams of kids, the quiet sense of purpose in the hospital was a bit disconcerting at first. And not just for me—I knew that Bailey was sensing the struggle, determination and courage that was required of her “new friends”. After our first day of duty, she left looking exhausted, though the physical demands upon her had been minimal. It was as if she knew that these children were going through tough times—as if she felt the pain herself. I guess you could say she was emotionally drained.
It’s been awhile since our first visit here at the hospital, and I can genuinely say that we’re both leaving today feeling like we’ve really accomplished something; we’ve been able to share the joys of doggie friendship with the people who could use it most.
As we head toward the car, though, a nurse stops us and asks if we would mind visiting one last patient. Is she kidding? Mind? Of course not; we’d love to! Bailey and I follow her back in, both of us anticipating the smiles we’ve grown accustomed to, the light in the kids’ eyes as they brush Bailey’s coat and have her do tricks, seeing the pictures they’ve compiled of themselves with the various therapy dogs, and just watching them hug Bailey as she nuzzles up to them on their beds.
But when we arrive at the door for our last visit, something is different. We can’t go in the room. I try to see who is in there, but there are only three little windows in the door. The nurse informs us that the two-year-old girl who is inside cannot leave her room or have visitors, but that she really wants to see the puppy. I don’t know what to expect, so I wait. And before I know it, Bailey is crouched down by the postage stamp window near the bottom of the door, nose pressed to the glass, longing in her eyes. As I, too, crouch to see, my heart breaks. There, with her tiny hands pressed to the window, is a little girl with eyes too old for a child and a heart so big it sends the love right through her fingertips. She touches the glass so gently, as if it were Bailey she was petting. And in her little eyes, I can see years of mixed emotions---of patience, of acceptance, of pain, of fear. I see happiness so pure that I don’t know if many of us can even allow ourselves such a freedom. But this little girl, after only two years, has figured out how to love without care for the circumstances, to embrace moments before they pass, and to appreciate the small things in life, because they really aren’t so small at all.
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