One Suffering One

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

Her eyes were large and dark, fringed by long, thick lashes. She had the habit of gazing steadily for a long moment at all newcomers to the children’s ward. If she liked what she saw, her face would light up and she would come over and introduce herself.

She had a smile, the nurses said, that could light up a room—and you could 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. I gathered that Valerie had already shed all her tears several years and countless operations ago.

Valerie would come to the children’s surgical ward for long 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, what was called, multiple birth defects.

Whenever she was recovering from one of her operations, Valerie would tumble out of her bed, shuffle around the ward, helping with the care of the other children.

The small patients liked Valerie in spite of her appearance and way of moving around. She could get them to do things when the nurses couldn’t. Pain was a fact of life for Valerie, yet in her small, misshapen frame, she had enough courage for a ward full 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. Her mother always gave the impression of embarrassment, and she moved away from her daughter when other parents stopped by.

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, “Hello, 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.

Then one cold and windy autumn night, Billy came into the ward. He came up from emergency surgery, the victim of a car accident on the 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 felt 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 doctor’s prognosis was nonsense. “Billywill 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 command. “Out of that bed, Billy, 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 in 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 protests from her unwilling patient. Once, early on in the rehabilitation programme, Billy lost his temper and stormed at her. “Valerie, why can’t you leave me alone? What do you know? You are strange.”

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