26/08/2026
Thereās a board by the nursesā station. Some names have stars next to them that say āDischarged.ā Some names just disappear. No announcement. The bed is just stripped in the morning,š„¹ and by afternoon a new kid with new toys moves in. The playroom is the saddest, bravest place in the world. There are wigs on mannequins and a box of hats that donāt fit right. Thereās a wall where kids put up their handprints in paint, and some of the paint is already fading. Parents learn a new language here: neutrophils, platelets, cycles, remission. We learn to read doctorsā faces before they speak. We learn to celebrate tiny things ā an appetite, a fever that breaks, a good blood count. At 2am the hallway is quiet except for beeping machines and soft crying. You can hear it through the doors. A mom bargaining with God. A dad pretending heās not scared on the phone to family. A child asking, āWill it hurt tomorrow too?ā And yet. And yet there are birthday parties with cupcakes in the day room. There are warriors who race IV poles down the hall. There are nurses who remember every kidās favorite juice. There is love here that is louder than cancer, even on the worst days. The 4th floor breaks your heart open. And it teaches you that courage can look like a 6-year-old holding still for a needle. That hope can look like a parent who keeps showing up, even when theyāre empty. We carry the 4th floor with us long after we leave it. Some of us leave with our kids. Some of us leave with only memories. And we never forget the ones who stayed behind,oncology ward is not the easiest place to be inš„²
