Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 27

My mind is lodged inside a vortex, eagerly trying to determine what Calix had meant. He'd said it with such seriousness in his voice.

There's something you should see.

Should I be worried?

We excused ourselves from the hedge maze, and to my surprise, Calix led us out with ease. I guess it's true what they say; when you're blind, your other senses kick into high gear. At times when I felt we were lost, Calix would make another turn and then another, which ultimately led us back to the Center. From there, he asked one of the staff members to take us to the hospital—the same hospital that had performed my surgery.

Now that made me worry.

It takes some maneuvering to collapse my wheelchair and fit it onto the golf cart, but we make it work with just enough room for Calix and myself to fit inside the cab along with the driver. It's a little bit uncomfortable, but at least the hospital isn't far.

"Why did you bring me here?" I say as we arrive, but Calix doesn't respond. Instead, he blows past the marble slab of monetary donors and into the main foyer of the hospital. Meanwhile, the driver unfolds my wheelchair and helps me get seated. I'm a little annoyed, however, that Calix didn't bother to help, nor did he answer my question. Once I'm situated in my chair, I chase after him, struggling to keep up with his pace.

Calix marches past the reception's desk and down a long hallway that connects to another hallway, and another, and another until I'd finally lost count how many we'd ventured down. What's even more concerning is he isn't using Teddy either; only draping his fingers against the wall for navigation twice. This is the first time I've seen him without it when he isn't at the Center. What's got him so galvanized?

Calix's pace slows as we approach a large red and white sign mounted on the wall, which reads:

Pediatric. Intensive. Care. Unit.

A brooding aura hangs in the air. There's something different about this wing of the hospital in comparison to the rest of the building; it's like an undeniable heaviness, a sadness that I can't quite shake.

Calix stands beneath the sign facing another long hallway, where nurses and doctors are milling about their duties, moving from room to room. Glass sliding doors are evenly spaced maybe fifteen feet from one another, allowing just enough space for a bed, a small work counter, and some medical equipment inside each room.

"Why did you bring me here?" I say again, hoping this time I will receive an answer.

He turns his head towards the sound of my voice. "We take each day for granted. We expect tomorrow to come shortly after we shut our eyes. For us, a moment is just a moment; they'll always be another one just like it. But for these little ones," he gestures with an open hand down the hallway, "each day is a precious gift, and any second could be their last."

I take a look through one of the windowed rooms; a bald little girl, who can't be any older than August, is lying in bed—strands of IV tubes are attached in multiple places on her body. The pained expression on her face tells me that she's helpless and miserable.

Calix continues. "There's a tragic story in every one of these rooms: the little girl who was told that she has stage three bone cancer at the youthful age of seven, or the boy who was born with a fatal heart disease that typically takes its victim long before they're able to reach high school age, or maybe the someone who's in a dire need of an organ transplant, but was callously told that they are a mere number among thousands on the waiting list."

I take a moment to consider his words, shuddering as they sink deeper into my brain. "I agree. That is all very tragic, but I still don't understand why you brought me here."