Featured Story

week of March 14, 2020

One Suffering One

By Arthur A. Milward

She didn’t have red hair or freckles, but somehow she reminded me of Peppermint Patty and the little red-haired girl in “Peanuts” comics. She had the contrasting qualities of courage and innocent appeal.

She was about 10 or 12 years old. It was hard to be sure of her age from her appearance, as her stunted, malformed frame inside her made her look younger than she was. But her small oval face wore an expression more appropriate to a grown woman.

Her eyes were her dominant feature. Large, dark, and luminous, fringed by long, thick lashes, they were her one beauty. She had the habit of gazing steadily for a long moment at a newcomer to the children’s ward. If she liked what she saw, her face would light up and she would shuffle over and introduce herself.

She had a smile, the nurses said, that could light up a room—and could make you forget her misshapen body and painful, awkward movements.

She smiled often. I never saw her cry, although she had experienced a great deal of pain, rejection, and disappointment. Valerie, I gathered, had already shed all her tears several years and countless operations ago.

Valerie would come to the children’s surgical ward for prolonged periods. Then she would disappear, only to return within a few months for further corrective surgery—surgery that could only, at best, make life manageable for her. She had MBD—multiple birth defects.

Valerie had a well-developed and slightly cynical sense of humor. When some unthinking visitor would ask what was wrong with her, she would smile sweetly and suggest that he return later when he had a day off work and time to spare. “But,” she would add innocently, “if you’re in a hurry, I can tell you what’s right with me.”

Whenever she was recovering from one of her operations, Valerie would “fall” out of her bed—which was the only way she could manage to get out of bed without help (and she scorned help). She would shuffle around the ward, helping with the care of the other children.

The small patients liked Valerie in spite of her appearance and curious method of maneuvering. She could get them to do things when the nurses failed.

Valerie stood for no nonsense. Pain was a fact of life as far as she was concerned. And she had, in her small, misshapen frame, enough courage for a wardful of children.

Valerie’s parents didn’t visit her every day, as many of the other children’s parents did. Possibly her parents were both working or had other children to care for. They came once or twice a week, and Valerie didn’t seem to care desperately whether her mother came or not. A young, fashionably dressed woman, her mother always seemed to be in a hurry. She gave the impression of embarrassment, and she sort of disassociated herself from her daughter when other parents stopped by.

But Valerie’s father was outgoing and affectionate. He would wait at the end of the ward for Valerie to shuffle across to meet him, her face lit up. He always greeted her in the same way. “Hi there, beautiful,” he’d call. He made it sound as if he really meant it. And just for a moment, as the little girl reached the end of her shuffling run toward him, dropped her canes, and fell into his arms, he was right.

Another patient

 Then one cold and windy autumn night Billy came into the ward. Actually, it was very early in the morning, before dawn. He came up from emergency surgery, the victim of a car wreck on the M-2 expressway.

His parents were relatively unhurt, but Billy had been pinned in the wreckage for a long time. He had severe injuries to his lower legs. The doctor’s prognosis was that 8-year-old Billy had taken his last steps.

Billy was sunk in deep depression. He would never walk again, let alone run, jump, play soccer, or do any of the other things that made his life worth living.

But Valerie had other ideas. After summing up the situation, she decided that the prognosis was nonsense. “The kid’ll walk,” she declared. She had been there. She knew.

When, fairly well along in his convalescence, Billy still refused to get out of bed, put his feet on the floor, and try to stand, Valerie took over his case. After breakfast one morning she issued her first directive. “Out of that bed, kid. It’s time to get up!”

Billy tearfully protested that he couldn’t walk. He demanded that she go away and leave him alone. But by sheer force of will she coaxed him out of his bed and into an upright position, then into the metal walker.

She spent exhausting hours with him every day. And at the end of the day she would crumple into an untidy heap on the floor. She would be asleep before a nurse came by to lift her onto her bed.

She put up with all kinds of abuse from her unwilling patient. Once, early on in the rehabilitation program, Billy lost his temper and stormed at her, “Valerie, why can’t you leave me alone? What do you know? You’re weird.”

Valerie stopped dead. Her oval face went white and her chin quivered. She looked as close to tears as I ever saw her. But only for a moment. Then she stuck out her chin and fixed the boy with her eyes.

“I know it,” she said. “But I can’t help it—and you can! Come on.” After that, things went better. Billy became more cooperative.

Some weeks later he began to share her faith that he would recover. He became enthusiastic, and the two children grew to be best friends.

Then, close to three months after he’d entered the hospital, Billy closed the curtains around his bed. He dressed himself in the new suit his excited parents had brought, packed his things into his small suitcase, and walked with his family to the parking lot in front of the hospital.

Valerie and some staff workers were there. Billy, grinning from ear to ear, turned and waved. Everyone waved back except Valerie. She couldn’t. She needed both hands on her canes to support herself. Her face showed no sign of emotion, but her tiny knuckles clutching the handles of her walking canes were very white. The contrast was hard to bear. The excited, happy little boy who had learned to walk again, and the tiny, misshapen girl who would never walk properly.

Billy got into the car with his parents and young sister. And with a final wave he was gone.

Onlookers and hospital staff stood staring out into the courtyard, unwilling to move.

Valerie was the first to speak. “Well,” she said, “what are we all staring at? There’s work to be done. Come on, it’s time to get trays ‘round for supper.”

In heaven Valerie will walk straight and tall. She will walk without tiring, and she won’t fall down.

—From Insight’s Most Unforgettable Stories

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