Mon, 1 May 2017 | Cover | Page 11

The Christian Circle of Life

By Renée Henning

Back in 1951 I was admitted as a three-year-old to an American hospital for the long stay typical of that era. My recollections of that period are vivid. Many people underestimate the ability of a preschool child to form lasting memories. Many also underestimate the difference one act of compassion can make.

I was then at the stage at which some youngsters, like Linus of cartoon fame, walk about dragging their blankets behind them. My cuddly blanket and I were virtually inseparable. Unfortunately, I was also at the age to contract chicken pox, and I had. I also had something far worse.

The hospital, fearing the spread of chicken pox through the pediatric ward, had at first refused to accept me. However, besides being sick from a common childhood disease, I was in pain, and no one could figure out why. Ultimately I was admitted on the condition that I be put in a crib in a private room on the adult ward.

Unfortunately, the ward was ill-equipped to deal with this non-routine situation. The nursing staff limited all contacts with me for fear of contagion, and my parents had to abide by the restricted visiting hours of the adult ward, rather than the more liberal hours of the pediatric ward.

In the hospital one night I was awakened by pain. I was unwell from chicken pox and hurting from what was later discovered, when my appendix ruptured there, to be appendicitis. The hospital stay was my first time away from my family and the first time I was not sharing a bedroom. Yet I was at an age when children prefer companionship to face the mysteries of the night. Deprived of my security blanket, I felt so alone, and I cried. A stranger appeared in the doorway. It was a matronly black woman wearing a hospital uniform. She appeared to be a cleaning lady.

The woman walked slowly into the room.

She leaned over the side of the crib and looked at me. "Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry," she said. Then she softly crooned me a lullaby.

I cannot express how much her presence and her singing helped ease the suffering.

But may God bless her, wherever she is.

In 1986 I went to visit a dying friend in a hospital, and it brought back memories of my medical experience years before.

Hospitals no longer have the pungent smell of ether and disinfectant of the American hospital of 1951. However, they remain fearsome places, with their intimations of mortality and promise of pain.

Recalling my hospital stay and the kind stranger, I realized it was my turn to do more to help others. I became a volunteer in the pediatric department of a major hospital, where I sing to infants and toddlers. Since the late 1980’s I have crooned to hundreds of little patients.

Although I cannot reliably carry a tune, they seem to enjoy my one-on-one concerts and to find comfort.

In 2009 I noticed that a janitorial worker would spend an inordinate amount of time sweeping in my area during my recitals.

She was a distinguished older woman from Jamaica who loved children and knew hundreds of songs. Occasionally she joined in singing or humming, and her voice was magnificent. Through our conversations I learned her plan. After observing me, she was determined to sing to sick babies and was just waiting for her retirement and return to her native land. The last I heard, the lady had retired and moved back home. I imagine her serenading infants and toddlers somewhere in Jamaica, a part of the Christian circle of life. ■

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Renée Henning...a long time ago