Leaving the oncology ward did not feel like leaving a hospital.
It felt like saying goodbye to home.
Martha skipped beside me while clutching her certificate.
She pointed toward the glass entrance.
“The sun looks brighter today, Mom.”
“I think it is the same sun.”
She shook her head.
“No. Today he is smiling.”
I squeezed her hand.
“Let’s go home.”
We were only a few steps from the hospital doors when Dr. Collins shouted after us.
“There Is Something You Deserve to Know”
Dr. Collins slowed when he reached us.
For several seconds, he simply looked at Martha.
Then at me.
His eyes filled.
“There is something you need to know,” he said. “I couldn’t keep it private any longer.”
I frowned.
“What is it?”
“Now that Martha’s treatment has ended, I believe you both deserve to know.”
He glanced toward my daughter.
“Would you come with me for a few minutes?”
Martha looked worried.
“Are we in trouble?”
Dr. Collins chuckled.
“Quite the opposite.”
He led us back through the oncology ward we had just left.
Past the nurses’ station.
Past the treatment rooms.
Then he stopped in front of an old conference room I had never entered.
When he opened the door, I could not move.
The room was full.
Not with strangers.
Nearly everyone who had quietly become part of our lives during the previous two years was waiting inside.
Nurse Angela.
Mr. Howard.
Johnny from security.
The cafeteria employees.
The pharmacist.
Receptionists.
Child-life specialists.
Volunteers.
Several doctors and nurses who were not even scheduled to work that day.
Martha whispered:
“Is this for me?”
“It is,” Dr. Collins said.
The room was filled with smiles that looked difficult to hold.
He folded his hands.
“For two years, you believed your daughter’s medical team consisted of the people wearing white coats.”
He shook his head.
“It never did.”
I looked around in confusion.
“I don’t understand.”
