Chapter Two
Carter
“You did not beatlevel ten on Super Mario Brothers,” I say, throwing my arms up in mock disbelief, challenging Kyle, the eleven-year-old boy standing in front of me in the hospital rec room.
“I did! Look.” He demands my attention toward the screen mounted high on the wall inside the playroom within the hospital.
“But you said that was impossible just a few days ago.” I grab the beanbag from against the wall and sit next to him. “Show me.” I nudge him with my shoulder.
I watch as he takes a serious game-playing stance, eyes glued to the screen, moving the controller up with every jump his character makes.
Seeing the enjoyment on his face lights up that dark spot in my heart. Working at UCSF Medical Center has changed me, both for the better and the worse. Seeing the fight in this kid’s eyes keeps me going every day. Even when he knows his life is limited, he keeps a good attitude and plays, knowing that today might be the last if he doesn’t find a donor soon.
After I sit with him for a few minutes, I nudge him again. “Hey, any chance I can get you to your room for a quick exam?”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Do we have to?”
“It’s either with me while I’m on duty or who you refer to as Nurse Ratchet,” I reply, tilting my head in question.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, acting all official. “You race me in Need for Speed, and if you win, you can examine me.”
I squint my eyes in his direction, trying to appear intimidating as I say in a villainous voice, “You’re on.”
He hands me a remote, and we get down to our game. The cars fly around the track as the police try to catch us. He knocks me off the track, but I steal the wrench he needs to fix his car.
We’re on the last loop, and I purposely throw the game by missing my turn and running hard into the wall.
As he crosses the finish line, he jumps up, throws the controller on the ground, and screams, “Woohoo,” as he runs around the room. “I just beat Dr. Donovan!”
He’s high fiving the other kids and parents as he runs the length of the room, and I stand up, knowing this is probably too much, and he’s going to crash soon.
I was right.
His face goes pale, and I race over to him.
“Hey, bud, enough celebration for today.” I pause to look into his eyes, making sure he’s okay before continuing, “Didn’t your parents ever teach you it’s not nice to gloat?” I tease, trying to ease the situation and not make a huge deal so he can enjoy his moment.
I walk him to a wheelchair and guide him into the seat as he says, “You lost fair and square. Now write it.” He points to the board at our running tally of games and winners.
I don’t throw every game, just ones I can tell need to happen. This poor kid is not doing well, and I want him to have better days in any small way I can help. Medically, this is our last hope, so yeah, I let him win a game here and there.
“Come on, can I walk you back to your room?” I ask, leaning down so I’m eye to eye with him.
“But I won! No exam needed,” he fights back.
“Yeah, well, next time, don’t run around the room, and I won’t force the subject. You and I both know you might have passed out there in the end, and now I’m forced to play the doctor role.”
“Damn doctor,” he deadpans.
I eye him, questioning his use of language.
“Damn is not a bad word. I hear my dad say it all the time,” he states matter-of-factly.
I laugh while starting to roll his chair, disregarding his statement and guiding him back to his room to check his vitals.
These kids have become my life. I never planned on being a pediatric oncologist, but when the residency at UCSF came up, something called to me, so I applied. When I got in, I knew this was where I needed to be.
Becoming a doctor was a dream of mine for years, and when I got a scholarship to UCLA, I knew all my dreams were going to come true. It was the opportunity of a lifetime to get out of our middle-of-nowhere town and make something of myself.
