CEILING TILES CAN LOOK LIKE SKYLIGHTS, TOO
LILY WEBER
The exam room is decorated with pictures of friendly safari animals: all smiling big cartoonish smiles and painted in colorful shades. The lights in the hallway are kept slightly dim, not the full powered fluorescents I’m accustomed to in a hospital setting. Everything about the Foster Children Evaluation Services (FaCES clinic) seems designed to soothe, to curate an experience not normally encountered in healthcare. My day spent shadowing at the FaCES clinic was as rewarding as it was challenging. It offered the privilege to witness the care of a vulnerable population at an especially vulnerable time in their lives.
That day, I met a pair of siblings recently removed from their home. When the doctor asked if they agreed to have me present during the exam, the older sister shrugged her shoulders and agreed. The younger boy was more hesitant. He furrowed his brow, set his mouth in a deep pout, clenched his fists, and stamped his foot on the floor.
I didn't take it personally. I honestly appreciated the assertion of autonomy in a situation which must have registered on some level as profoundly out of control. Retreating to the hallway, I stared up at the ceiling tiles, painted to look like blue skies with puffy, cotton ball clouds.
When the doctor emerged and announced it was time to give out presents, for which I could do the honors, I was admittedly apprehensive. As she rummaged through the closet, producing a set of coloring supplies for the girl and a superhero costume for the little boy, I felt uneasy. I wasn’t sure the younger boy would want to receive a gift from me.
Nonetheless, I re-entered the room, greeting everyone in turn: the sister, listening to music in the corner, the boy munching on a chocolate chip cookie and scrutinizing his iPad, and their foster parent sitting in the middle. The girl accepted the coloring books without comment, so I held my breath as I turned to my next recipient.
Heeding the doctor’s earlier advice, I unwrapped the plastic wrap to reveal the prize: a crimson red cape and matching mask. I held the cape aloft, unfurling it like a flag. Scarcely had any words had time to leave my mouth before his eyes locked on the costume and he leapt out of his seat, flying into the air like he had the cape on already.
The boy’s face, a carefully guarded mask, melted away, an entirely new expression taking root. He looked much younger suddenly, more like his age. His face seemed to break wide open, the two halves melting away like ice. It was the first smile I saw that day. The tiny fists were now wide open, reaching for the item in my hands.
I let out the breath I was holding as he broke into what can only be described as a joyful shriek, seizing it from my arms sprinting around the room in exuberant circles. The costume wasn’t much in a material sense. It was nothing more than a length of fabric, a simple mask. But he hoisted it into the air with the same pride one would display a precious award. I could hear his elated screams even as we walked away after, echoing through the halls, bouncing off the nurses station, the vitals carts, the ceiling tiles that looked like skylights.
When I first arrived at the FaCES clinic, the doctor told me that they made it a point to give each child a present, to weave moments of positivity into an experience that could otherwise be quite negative. At the beginning of the day, I found myself wondering what sort of difference this could meaningfully make. At the end of the day, I had my answer.
Lily Weber is a second year medical student at UMass originally from Nyack, NY. She studied Biology and English at Northeastern University, making The Interstitium an ideal home for her to keep up her love of writing and its inherent intersections with medicine. In college she wrote and edited for Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine as well as NU Sci, a student-run science magazine. She has been writing narrative essays and poetry for most of her life and has found writing to be more valuable than ever as she navigates medical school.
