Plurk paste

For being on a space station, Maria’s room at least had some personalization to it. Drawings on the walls in crayon, of her and Gerard and her family back down on Earth - and a recently new one of me and her holding hands, something I couldn’t help but smile at. A few soft plushies, teddy bears and bunnies and other assorted animals along with a set of skates and the handle of a jump rope sticking out of a box that had the G.U.N. Logo scribbled out with permanent marker and instead proudly renamed ‘Maria’s toybox’ in her handwriting. A nightstand was right behind me, with little knick knacks and pill bottles on top of it, and her clothing inside.

And right above us on the bed, small and unobtrusive but undeniably there, were the hooks that would support an IV setup if need be.

If she needed it.

There were other things, too - lying in darker corners or in hidden compartments. A bedpan under her bed, where someone could easily grab it for use. A wheelchair that lay folded behind a panel that would swivel at a touch. The pill bottles on her nightstand and the other medicines and tubing and sterile needles in the top drawer. The ever-present smell of sanitizer, harsh and clear, even permeating the smell of the blanket and bedsheets. The coldness of the metal walls, and how so much of her room looked like the rest of the station, bleak and dull and unable to be covered by the small amount of drawings she’d done at her stay here so far.

A child shouldn’t have to have a room like this.