The Gift
I am standing in the entranceway to the hospital cafeteria, talking to the hospital program coordinator whose name is Kim.
“Are you ready to go up?” Kim asks.
I gulp. I’d forgotten we were going to go room to room. I’ve never done this before. I am nervous. How is this going to work?
“Just Let me grab my stuff.”
I pick up my portable easel and sling it over my shoulder, my back board, paper, a clip and my container of markers.
We head to the elevator.
“How many kids are we going to see?”
Kim pulls out her list. “Ten,” she says. “If we can’t do them all in an hour that’s ok…”
“Oh we should be able to get them all done in an hour,” I say.
But then we start walking. The halls are long. They are decorated with Christmas trees along the halls as we walk, and I think how much it would suck to be a kid stuck in the hospital at Christmas time.
That’s actually why I’m here at USA Health Children’s & Women’s hospital. To entertain by drawing caricatures at the hospital’s annual Christmas tree lighting.
This place with the endless twisting halls reminds me of the nursing homes I used to work in.
Twenty-five years ago, when I first started drawing caricatures professionally, I worked in several different nursing homes as an activity director.
I loved being in Activities. I felt like I was making a difference. Caricaturing on the weekends was just a way to make ends meet way back then.
I made better money as a caricaturist and I struggled with balancing both things.
I didn’t think being a caricaturist would make enough of a difference in peoples lives and I wrestled with that a lot. I didn’t want to do something for a living that didn’t help people.
It seemed cut and dried. Working in nursing homes was helping people. Drawing funny pictures was not.
Eventually, money won out. I had to feed my family. I enjoyed myjob, but I resigned myself to just making cute and fun pictures for people.
It has been a long time since I worked in nursing homes. A long time since I’ve done any bedside visits. Over twenty years. And I never did any while drawing caricatures at the same time, though I always wanted to.
I think about this as I run along beside Kim, trying to keep up with her.
She’s tall and wiry and takes long strides. Unlike me. I’m short and fat and not in shape in the least. We must look like the odd couple rushing through the hospital halls.
I was not figuring in all this walking time in between rooms when I said that we could get them all in. I hope I wasn’t being too optimistic.
Kim and I visit about 7 or 8 sick kids. A few aren’t in their rooms.
I draw a Hispanic boy with a huge rectangular afro as Miles Morales and he is surprised that I know who miles morales is. He loves his drawing.
I draw a chatty 7 year old girl in a wheelchair in a classroom. School can’t be ditched even when you’re in the hospital evidently.
She wants to be “the princess who wears pink”. I know she means Sleeping Beauty. She must like the color pink.
She asks if she can color her drawing. She’s an artist. I tell her the teacher should copy it and she can color the copies.
I draw a Teenaged girl who tells me cheerfully how she “almost croaked” from septic shock, and they’re only giving her one day off before she has to go back to school.
Her mom tells me how it scared her half to death and she thought she might lose her daughter. I think of my own daughter and how I would feel if that were me. I think about how much I like these two and how much they are alike in both looks and spunky personality.
Lastly I draw a 19 year old young man who has had both legs amputated above the knee. I don’t ask how or why, I’m sure he’s tired of telling people about it. He jokes about it with dark humor that I find oddly funny.
He has too many people in his room and they are worried they’re going to get in trouble.
Miss Kim, always standing behind me as I draw, says conspiratorially that she won’t tell. I agree. No telling here.
I head back downstairs to the tree lighting but no one is around yet. It’s too early. Someone comes and whispers something to Miss Kim. A moment later she turns to me.
“Since you’re not busy yet, would you mind going back upstairs? There’s one other person who I think would appreciate a drawing.”
They have hired me for 3 hours. I’m at their disposal. That’s what I tell her. So up we go.
We come to the room. Kim knocks and peeks around the corner of the door. The room is dark and gloomy. I gulp.
“Hi!” She sings out cheerfully. “It’s Kim from the family and life program! And this is Miss Kathy. We’re here bringing the Christmas party up to you.” I follow her tentatively into he room.
A black teenager lies in the bed in the center of the room. He doesn’t look so good. It’s clear that he’s in pain.
I stand next to his bed. “My name’s Miss Kathy,” I say. “What’s yours?”
“Tyrell,” he says. (This is not his real name.)
I offer him a fist bump which I always do with kids and he weakly manages to raise his hand.
“So Tyrell, I’m a caricaturist. I draw funny cartoons of people. Would you like me to draw one for you?”
The boy licks his lips and nods. Kim grabs a chair for me and I sit at the foot of the bed and begin my sketch.
I have actually always wanted to do this, draw sick kids in the hospital, but I never had the opportunity before. But this kid. This kid is REALLY sick.
As I draw I talk to the boy.
“So I can draw you with whatever cartoon body you would like. I can do any superhero, or a sport, or…”
“Basketball,” Tyrell manages to croak.
I nod. “Basketball it is.”
I’m done drawing his face now, and I start in on my basketball body that I’ve drawn 1000 times or more. I work quickly with deft strokes. Speed is what I’m good at. It’s what I’m known for. It comes in handy here, where Tyrell can’t handle more than a few minutes.
A nurse comes in behind me. I vaguely hear her talking about how Tyrell is in so much pain she’s going to get him some morphine.
Morphine. Wow. My late husband had morphine when he was dying of pancreatic cancer. That’s some serious stuff.
This registers in the back of my mind as I work on drawing this very sick kid.
Instead of drawing him as a very sick kid laying in a Hospital bed, I’m drawing him as a muscular althelte flying through the air, palming a basketball that he’s about to slam into a hoop. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I hope he likes it. I hope I can give him something, anything, to help him through this dark time in his young life.
I’m making small talk with Tyrell as I pull out my art stick and begin shading the piece.
I do my best to strike a casual tone. Just a normal conversation - with a very ill, possibly dying boy.
“I have a son about your age. How old are you?”
“16”
“He’s exactly your age. Just got his drivers licence. Do you drive?”
He shakes his head. Despite being a person of color, he’s pale. I note that His lips especially are unnaturally ashen. I think this is not good.
The nurse is putting the meds into Tyrell’s IV. I need to work quickly.
A couple of last second touches and The drawing is finished.
“Ready to see it?” Up til now he couldn’t see what I was doing. This is on purpose. I never let anyone peek.
I live for this moment. Will he like it?
“Ready to see it?”
Tyrell nods slightly. His eyes have been mostly closed. He opens them with effort.
Slowly I turn the drawing around.
Tyrell’s reaction takes my breath away.
His whole face lights up. He looks and looks, smiling like it’s Christmas morning, and for that one minute he is a normal, healthy kid again.
I am choked up. This is why do what I do. I AM making a difference. This kind of thing makes my whole job worthwhile.
I advertise my caricatures as being a bucket list experience. Today, when I drew the kids in the hospital rooms, I got my own bucket list experience - as I was giving Tyrell his drawing.
I remember back to that time in my life when I didn’t think drawing silly pictures would make enough of a difference in peoples lives.
But now, after 25 years, I finally realize - it does.
It really does.
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Caricatures by Kathy
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part of my bedtime story for adults series
I love to make so happy in life Ghana Boy