PAPER CROWNS | ABIGAIL DENIKE
When Maeve woke up from the anesthesia, she looked like a sort of whimsical cow. She unfurled her head and blinked her silky brown eyelashes, her eyes quivering in her skull. They moved slowly as she took in her hospital room, her nurse, her father at the end of the bed, and then me. She whispered my name and reached out her hand. Her palm was small even though she was lanky for a six-year-old. She pulled me to her face. “You have four eyes,” she whispered. “You are beautiful.”
We had just met that morning on the second floor of the hospital in the pediatric oncology wing. For most of her appointment, she was hooked up to a machine cycling in fresh fluids to help her fight the leukemia. My job, as a medical student, was to keep her company during her infusion and distract her from her upcoming procedure, where the doctor would inject the chemo into her spine. I came into the room and introduced myself tentatively, not wanting to overwhelm this little girl, perched on her dad’s lap, with healthcare providers circling her.
We spent the morning making paper crowns because the nursing staff had said Maeve’s dream was to become a princess. We glued gems onto the thick construction paper. She pointed with her finger to where I should glue the gems and furiously colored flamingo pink and dark purple spikes, ignoring her dad’s many questions about how she was feeling. I was impressed by Maeve’s attention to detail and her insistence that more sparkles are always better in every situation, with no exceptions.
After the procedure, I looked around the room for her crown. Placing it on her matted head, I told her she looked beautiful. She scrunched her face. “I am not beautiful because my hair is not long and straight,” she said, still groggy. I insisted that all the cool girls were wearing their hair short and curly, but she just shook her head, jostling the crown off to the side, and closed her eyes.
I learned from the nurse that Maeve often has double vision as the anesthesia wears off, and yet I think her perception of her situation was profoundly clear. She knew this was not normal and she was not a princess. She knew what a spinal tap was, or a “back-pokey,” and how chemo squashed her desire to laugh at her dad’s jokes. She knew her hair wouldn’t grow until her cancer stopped. Like every young girl, she knew the desire to fit in and have someone think you are beautiful.
As she continued to wake up, the nurse documented on the computer and her dad went to get a coffee. I recalled a moment from earlier that morning when I’d asked Maeve if she wanted to be a princess. She looked at me quizzically, “I want to be a doctor,” she replied, “like you.” She went back to her coloring. We made the crowns anyway because she was a good sport, albeit particular with her color combinations. We existed alone together in a world of purple and pink and glitter glue.
The medical team had assured me she would beat the cancer—she was close to having this behind her, only three more back-pokeys to go. I sat at her bedside, squeezing her hand, and hoped. I hoped she would have the homecoming dance with the tacky corsage and the first date with her dad anxiously awaiting her return. I hoped she would have all the “significant” moments in life where you look beautiful, and someone is meant to tell you. But, what I hoped for most was that Maeve would become a doctor, look into the eyes of her patient and make them feel understood, important and beautiful. Like she did for me that day.
Abigail DeNike is a medical student at UMass Chan Medical School living in Worcester, Massachusetts.