My shoes were doing that thing again, where they squeak after every step along the sterile hospital floors. This wing of the hospital must have been built so long ago as is evidenced by the unintentional off-white tinge of the paint. There is something so un-glamorous about the scene but at least it's familiar. I pump two squirts of foul-smelling disinfectant into my hands and enter the unit. The nurses look up from their screens, then back down. My ultra-fashionable blue polo, ill-fitting khakis and naive 16-year old smile are my ticket in. I walk into room 3014. "Was it bed A or B?" It must be A since that's the only one occupied.

His turquoise eyes beam up at me, and I can honestly say that I've never looked into eyes as expressive as those. Down his little chest is a scar almost as big as him. There is clear evidence of multiple incisions, and one freshly-healed one lay on top of the pink, firbrosed network. His body riddled in pain, he manages to muster up the biggest toothless smile. I place my hand over his; it's traced by multiple attempts at an IV. He immediately grips at my finger, it's a strong grip and I'm rather impressed. I glance down at his legs which look a little blue - "why isn't he covered with a blanket?" I begin to wonder if the nurses are paying enough attention.

I notice his legs are a bit rigid and I press the nurse call light. The nurse looks tired, and somewhat irritated at the volunteer calling her in. I ask if I can hold him and she situates him in my arms. The rocking chair is uncomfortable but I'm so happy to hold him. The bracelet around his swollen, little ankle says he's only 8 months old. That's a lot of pain to go through so young. Soon a woman walks in and settles in next to bed B, she says she's waiting for her baby to come back from some kind of test. She goes on to tell me that Charlie* is in foster care and never has any visitors. She says Charlie has to have physical therapy every day just so he won't lose mobility from laying in his bed all day. This breaks my heart and I tear up.

Looking down at his chubby little cheeks and beautiful eyes I notice his grip isn't as strong as it was 10 minutes ago and he proceeds to fall asleep in my arms - he must be so tired.

(I started volunteering at the hospital at 15 and did so until starting medical school at age 22. I came to know the hospital very well and truly appreciate all of the lessons "my little patients" taught me. They taught me about suffering, and pain but most of all they taught me what resilience really means. I'll never forget Charlie's little blue eyes and I hope he's out there somewhere smiling a more tooth-filled smile)

*name changed to protect privacy.