THE WORD FOR STRAWBERRY | Natasha Kulviwat

One shouldn’t have much in common with a nine-year-old.

But within the walls of the pediatric oncology unit, I’ve found age had little to do with how old someone felt. Fleeting moments of joy felt the same. Tears stung the eyes the same. Sacrifices weighed the same.

I was cleaning toys when I met the gaze of a mother and her two daughters. The mother approached me and asked a question in Spanish. “I’m sorry. No habla español,” I said. A nurse soon arrived and led the mother and her younger daughter who was tethered to an IV pole toward the bathroom.

“The family doesn’t speak English,” another nurse told me before leading me and the older sister back to the playroom they were just in. “If you could take a break from cleaning and help entertain the older sister that’d be appreciated.” 

The nurse held out a lollipop to the older sister. “Do you want a lollipop?” she asked. The girl stared at her blankly. “Oh, right. Let me pull up the translator.”

A robotic voice repeated the question in Spanish. The girl shook her head.

“I need you to stay here while I take care of your younger sister, okay?” 

The robotic voice repeated for the nurse. The girl nodded. The nurse turned to me. “The older sister gets in the way of the doctor sometimes. Do you have any questions before I leave you alone with her?" 

How much life has she already lived? How do I even comfort a child whose language I don’t speak?

But instead, I lied. “Nope, I can take it from here.” 

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it. Thank you again.”

I looked back at the girl. She had brought her own bag of toys, carefully packed as though she already knew the hospital playroom might not have everything she needed. I wondered how many hospitals they had been to. 

"¿Cómo sé llama?" I asked her pointing to her doll. 

All the Spanish I knew came from watching Dora on the various hospital televisions while my younger sister underwent MRI scans. She looked at me strangely. “Lama, like the animal?” she asked. 

“No, I was trying to ask for the name of your handsome doll.” 

“You can hold him.” 

“Aw, thank you. That means a lot.” I paused. “Wait, so you do know how to speak English!” 

She let out a coy smile. 

So, she understood earlier when the nurse said she was in the way. 

“But please,” she whispered. “Secret.”

“I pinky promise.” I reached my pinky out as she did with hers. She had stopped before completing the sacred swear. “You don't want to know why?” 

I already knew. 

“Do you want to tell me?” She thought for a moment before shaking her head. 

“No worries. I keep all of my pinky promises regardless.” 

“Do you know how to play Zingo?” 

I laughed. With the time I have spent playing with the other kids in the clinic, I’d mastered all of the board games in the playroom. Usually, I’d feign a loss to put a smile on their faces but in this case, I wasn’t even trying to lose and she had defeated me seven rounds to two and two-sevenths (she was generous enough to offer me partial credit). 

“You know, I think you deserve a lollipop as a prize. Do you want one?” She nodded and I happily brought over the lollipop tree. “They don’t have…” she said angrily “How do you say fresca? I forgot.”

“Oh, I know! Strawberry. That’s a hard one.” 

Thank Dora. 

I held her hand and walked over to the back while digging through our lollipop reservoir. “You’re really lucky. That was the last one. Fresca is a popular flavor and it’s my favorite too.” 

Her mom came back to the playroom requesting something in Spanish. “I have to go help translate before the translator comes.” 

I was right. 

I peeked into the room. A fight between her and her little sister ensued. The mom’s lips moved and all of a sudden, the lollipop was surrendered and now in her little sister’s hands. 

“Wasn’t there a nurse who could speak Spanish? Why can’t she translate?” I asked my nurse supervisor. “Oh, so the older sister speaks English?” 

I had accidentally broken the pinky promise. 

“But she’s only nine. She didn’t know the word for strawberry. I really think we should wait for an adult interpreter.” 

“Well, the Spanish-speaking nurse is with another patient, and her mother may need something urgent.” 

I looked into the window again and the girl looked back. I recognized that look. One shouldn’t have that much in common with a nine-year old but I had worn that look before. 

***

“It could probably be a brain hemorrhage.” The doctor diagnosed. I scratched my head. “Head bleed?” I translated.  My Thai immigrant parents looked confused. “Can you ask him to explain that again?”  

“Can you say that again please?” I asked, growing anxious. 

“It could also be brain cancer.” the doctor added.

I knew what that meant.

“Is there anyone besides a nine-year-old I can speak to?” I also knew what that meant. 

The pediatrician’s growing annoyance upset my already uncontrollable little sister whose cries drowned out my own. 

***

We were back the next week for our Zingo rematch, this time with her little sister besides us. 

“Do you have anybody who you like?” she asked. “Yes. My mom and my little sister. Just like you.” 

“No, I mean a boy.” I raised my eyebrows at her. “My precious girl has a boyfriend?” I teased. 

“No!” She laughed. “Just a crush. He goes to my school. But don’t tell my mom. She won't like it.”

She trailed off. “Actually, she doesn’t know who he is anyway.”

“Well did you see him this morning then?” 

“I don’t go to school anymore.” 

Only then was I reminded of how far she was from home. 

“Secret,” she said.

“You can always come to me with any secrets. I’ll keep them.” 

Her younger sister tugged at my sleeve. “Bed!” She wanted to lie down. Their mother had stepped away, so I steadied the IV pole to help move the younger sister to her room. “But we’re not done,” the older sister protested. “We can finish in the hallway. I’ll get us chairs so I can still watch your sister.”

She nodded, understanding. “Thank you for always being so flexible.” I hugged her. “You’re so kind.” 

***

Her birthday had been the day before.

“Was the cake good?” I asked. “Was it strawberry-flavored?” 

Her face changed.

“We didn’t have one. My mom had to take care of her.” She pointed toward her sister. “But my mom said double digits means that I’m an adult now. I have to act like one. I can’t cry because it will scare my sister.”

After my own childhood, I should have known better than to ask.

So, we made a cake in the playroom kitchen. Plastic strawberries, wooden candles, empty plates.

A pretend cake in a pretend kitchen for our pretend family to preserve a childhood she pretended not to need. 

Hospital toys were not supposed to leave the playroom. I decided the hospital would survive without one pink ball. We washed it together and fanned it dry with our hands.

“Secret,” I said.

She named it Strawballberry, smiled and tucked it into the bag she carried from hospital to hospital. Then she returned to her sister.

Real cancer in a real hospital impacting her real family. 

***

During our fourth week of Zingo, she wasn’t grabbing the cards with as much ferocity as usual. 

“You’re a really good big sister, you know.” 

She was caught off-guard, as though goodness was something she was expected to demonstrate but never expected to have noticed.

Perhaps I said it because I thought she needed to hear it. But perhaps, selfishly, I wanted to hear it too. I wanted someone to acknowledge the kind of presence that rarely announced itself. The person sitting beside the patient, surrendering the lollipop without complaint, learning the language of every room and pretending not to be scared.

“I see that smile,” I told her. “Don't try to hide it. I like it when you have loud smiles.” Her mother returned with her sister ready to finally go home. I helped carry their car seat back to the hospital-provided apartment as they packed to leave.

She skipped beside me while translating her mom’s directions as we walked. 

***

The following week, I saw their family. They were back.

Why were they back?

Before I could ask, the older sister ran toward me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

“I wanted to say bye,” she said.

For once, no one asked either of us to translate. 

I held her until she let go.

Natasha Kulviwat is an undergraduate at Harvard University studying neuroscience. She serves as co-editor-in-chief of the Harvard Brain and co-president of Harvard Undergraduate Women in Medicine. In her free time, she enjoys writing for herself but felt this piece was worth sharing.

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