Summer evokes memories of clear blue skies dotted with soft clouds that float over giggling children in parks. I envision rainbows glittering through sprinklers that moisten the freshly cut grass and the humid air that carries the Texas heat. Instead, I am here, briskly walking down the sterile halls of this metropolitan hospital. Children lie with their parents in the waiting room, some entertained with various toys, some fixated on the movie dancing across the nearby TV screen. Many, however, do not seem distracted and a look of anxiety crawls upon their innocent faces. My heart catches itself in my throat as I imagine how it must feel to be in such an unfamiliar and frightening place in the middle of the bright, blue summer.

I am not here as a patient or visitor, but rather as a summer junior volunteer for the whole month of June. The field of biomedical sciences has always fascinated me, and what better place to witness innovations, research and patient care than in one of the most prominent children’s hospitals in the nation: Texas Children’s Hospital. Stepping through the double doors on the first day, I think I have an idea of what to expect: professionals’ stern faces, patients in tears, congested halls, more soulless machines than humans. I was convinced that my place was in the lab and that I could never become a doctor. I can only imagine all those years of relentless studying and fatigue to work in such a place, surrounded by the dampening, lingering fog of others in pain. It would devastate me to see the children so uncomfortable in this uneasy space instead of racing in the park or eating a warm meal at home, where they belong.

Leaning against the back wall of the elevator, I try to take up as little space as possible. Beside me stand fatigued nurses, snacking on bits of chips or protein bars to regain energy as they wrap up their twelve hour shifts. A ding alerts me to step onto my floor. This floor is called Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation, the department where patients with injuries or disabilities visit to heal and regain control of their bodies. It is a repetitive, tedious process, where families must make time in their week to travel to the hospital and attend their appointments, only to return soon. My job here is simply to lessen the anxiety of patients and their siblings. I meticulously shuffle a deck of cards and linger in the room as the minutes tick by. 

The glass doors swing open and I hear a cheerful shout coupled with thundering feet racing through the hall. A mother’s voice follows and she attempts to quell her young son as their calm nurse paces toward them. Amid the adults’ conversation, the boy escapes from his mother’s eagle eyes and scoots towards me as I offer him a sticker. “Do you have any sea animals?” he asks. I rummage through my overflowing bin, but regretfully can not find one, so he settles for a bright star that I place onto his hand. He peels the sticker off, too, and places it on mine. The nurse beckons him over and he reluctantly leaves, asking her if I would still be there when he returns.

Minutes turn into an hour and I occupy myself by interacting with the shyer patients, most of whom are unaccustomed to a teenager in a uniform asking them to play a game of Uno. They do not speak much, but I continue to smile and converse to break the thick layer of ice between us. The flow of patients ebbs as the clock approaches noon. The same young boy springs out of the physical therapy room and quickly takes a seat beside me. He spots a sea animal coloring book and we begin coloring a crab. The boy eagerly recounts to me extensive stories of his favorite animals, the colossal squid and seahorse, that he learned from school lessons or library books. His favorite color? Blue, like the sea. Unfazed by his environment, he enjoys the company of the nurses and me. His small body contains such a large personality and his resilience and optimism bring a warm feeling to my heart. Once our drawing is complete, he presents it to his proud mother, whose smile I catch a glimpse of from across the waiting room. He gives me a quick hug before departing from the waiting room and descending into the elevator to go home.

This is not the last time I see him. The young boy, always filled to the brim with energy, visits several times a week and we discuss sea urchins and octopi, coral and seaweed, creating a blooming imaginary world in our minds. Every day, I anticipate his familiar voice and the sight of his round glasses and brown hair, bouncing as he runs. Although short, the connection I formed with him is one I will remember for the rest of my life. It was so unusual to meet a child so free in such a binding place. 

For the rest of the month, I paced down those same halls with a more spirited walk. To my left and my right, I could see nurses cheerfully pushing giggling children in wheelchairs, witness young siblings tumbling through the halls and hear the cries of a mother when she saw her daughter walk again. Beneath the surface, this hospital is truly a place of hope, an intertwining of communities and abundant altruism. The doctors and nurses that fill the halls are noble through knowledge, yes, but also noble through the morality and kindness in their hearts that wakes them up every day, knowing they will change someone’s life for the better. My perspective had forever been changed. As to the memory of the young boy, I treasure it every day, especially when my studies become challenging. It helps motivate me to push through complex chemistry problems and extensive biology readings, knowing that one day I too, may come back to this place as a doctor to help another child like him.