I spent the better part of a day hoping to see Clem.
Clem the Clown. Yes. I know. So. Not. Me.
But, this is where we are.
We are 9 days into a stay at the Children's Hospital.
We are at the point where I can find good in a bus
driver tooting his horn. Double punch day at the
canteen's coffee counter is a hoot, and we hope
violently that we'll leave before my coffee card is full.
First it was, "Hey, the event calendar says Clem the Clown
is coming!" With the reply, "Oh God, Mom. A clown?!"
On and off for hours, we talked about Clem.
Would he be scary, would he be creepy, would he talk,
would I (hope against hope) get a balloon hat?
My girl moved from disbelief to laughter to resignation
that I've lost my mind, but she smiled and teased, and
her shoulders settled down.
Then, after 4 pm, I gave up.
"I think we must have missed Clem."
"Mom, um, I'm so, um, sorry. My heart bleeds."
"Hey, do I hear sarcasm? You wound me."
And then, about 10 minutes later, there was a knock
at the door. A painted face peered in and said,
"Can I come in? I heard you might not want to see me."
My girl said, "Oh. I don't want to see you, but my Mom
does."
"CLEM!" I cheered.
This is where we are.
We build up anticipation for shrinky dinks and clowns,
hospital bingo, and rides in the elevator.
We get more and more creative with the markers
on the white board for half liters of water drunk.
We watch the bruises from blood draws color, and each
night we save one 15 minute excursion to watch the sunset.
Diversion is an art form; we are becoming masters.
Clem was wonderful, by the way. He was sweet and kind.
He made my girl laugh and smile. That was the magic,
not the rope trick. He left us with a peacock feather,
two red noses, coloring sheets, and another day we
could cross off the calendar.