“Of course,” Dominique says. “I’m an artist. This reindeer is going to be green.”

“That’s very progressive,” I say. “Keep up the good work.”

I skirt through the room and watch Alba and her son decorate cookies with two little boys. Not every child was cleared to attend the party, so the hospital made sure to send cookies to the rooms of the kids who couldn’t come. But for the kids that could make it, they have piles of sugar cookies to decorate with globs of royal icing and plenty of sprinkles.

Along with a craft table, there’s also a holiday card station and an area where the kids can watch an endless stream of holiday movies with bowls upon bowls of popcorn and cups of hot chocolate with gooey marshmallows and whipped cream.

And as happy as the children look, their parents look even happier. They’re all on a physically and emotionally draining journey. A few hours away from the machines and routine checks? It’s priceless to them. Anything to get away from those same four walls and a ticking clock. A breath of fresh air. A new kind of hope. For a moment, they can forget why they’re here.

I would give them a million of these moments if I could.

Because I know what it feels like when you can’t forget—when you can’t escape the room and the machines and the revolving door of doctors and nurses and the clock that’s a constant reminder that time is slowly running out.

I spot a little girl sitting by herself at the greeting card table and take it upon myself to plop down on the tiny stool next to her. I don’t know why everyone else is complaining about them. I fit on them just fine.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi!” She looks up and smiles. “I’m Valentina. What’s your name?”

“Olivia”

“Did you get your appendix taken out too?”

“I got my tonsils out when I was seven,” I tell her. “Did you get your appendix taken out?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Then I got infected.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“A little bit,” she says. “My nurse, Maya, says I might be able to go home tomorrow.”

“That’s exciting!”

“My mom says I should make her a card to say thank you,” Valentina says. “She sneaks me extra popsicles and Jell-O cups.”

“I think she would love a card.”

“Will you help me? Sometimes I don’t spell words right.”

“Of course.”

Her piece of red construction paper reads Marry Krismas. I smile.

“Is that right?”

“Almost,” I say. “But let’s start over.”

She frowns for a moment, but then shrugs and grabs a piece of green paper. I spell Merry Christmas for her, but I don’t correct her when she writes her Rs and Ss backwards. They give the card character, and Valentina looks too proud for me to burst her bubble.