Express Card

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Express Card I am the owner of an express card. This is not a credit card, nor is it a debit card. This bright neon orange card is made out of a heavy-duty paper stock, not plastic. It doesn't bear my name: it bears the name of my three-year-old daughter. This is an express card for Children's Hospital. Don't envy me this card. It's not something you should aspire to own. It's like the blue handicapped placard that hangs from the rearview mirror of my van; needed and necessary but I fervently wish neither were ever granted to me. With this card I am able to bypass the sometimes-lengthy wait to register for a visit to the hospital. I hand it to the woman in charge as she greets me by name. She makes me half a dozen labels that bear my daughter's name and her file number there at Children's Hospital. I use these labels at each clinic I visit so I can be billed for each service rendered to my angel girl. We are there at least once a week, sometimes more if warranted; hence the need for the express card. We see Neuro/Developmental, Orthopedists, Physical and Occupational Therapy, and have fairly regular visits to the lab where 'pokes' are administered to check that her blood has the proper level of medication in it to prevent the frightening seizures that sometimes occur. The express card makes it possible for me to not have to repeat over and over that yes, all the information is the same. Our address hasn't changed since last week, neither has our insurance coverage. Sometimes as I'm driving to the hospital, I wonder what other people do with their spare time. I wonder what it would be like to have my child be healthy and whole. Occasionally I'm not the pillar of strength that my friends seem to think I am. I fall into the black hole of self-pity, if only for a short time. It's not a place I want to stay. It's full of wailing, of pain and sorrow so profound that words are inadequate to express the depth of feeling that threatens to drown you. Then, as I am at the hospital I am brought back from my momentary lapse into despair. I see another Mom parking in the Disabled Parking area near me and we exchange tentative smiles. I use my orange express card at the registration area and then make my way with my daughter to the waiting area for therapy. The Mom and her little boy arrive a bit later in the same waiting area. She doesn't own an express card, but she should. We chat, glancing at each other's child and mentally calculating what we think might be the other child's diagnosis. I recognize the facial features of a child with Downs Syndrome. He's an adorable blue-eyed angel who, at nearly two years of age, is still unable to walk. He's also bald. She tells me that yes, he has Downs and that several months ago he was diagnosed with Leukemia. She is smiling and cooing to him, helping him pick up a block to place it on another. She is smiling. The little boy waves at me as she carries him off to their appointment and the mother says goodbye. I pick up my angel girl and hold her close to my heart, thankful that she doesn't have Downs Syndrome, that she doesn't have cancer. That all she has had is a stroke. I am made, once again, to feel grateful for what we have and thankful for what we don't. I pull the orange express card from the pocket of my jacket and look at it. I won’t ever be thankful that I own this card. I use it because I must, but I am thankful for so many other things.
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