Bert Goes to the Hospital

Written on July 21, 2006

We woke up to a cold, yet brilliantly sunny day one morning in early March.  Up until that point, the weather had been far too wet and windy to permit for many excursions out of doors, so we decided to snap up this rare break in the solemnity of winter to go for a walk.

On the far side of the hotel, medical clinic and employee dormitories was a seemingly pretty little area, which we hadn’t yet explored.  We elected this place to be our destination

I’d often spent time watching from our window as the locals made their way up and down the cement path which led to the park, but had not yet set foot under the braided canopy that tangles of dormant grapevines wound round the support beams, which, themselves, stood like tired sentinels ever ready to embrace the weary passerby in the arms of the graceful plants and I longed to behold this living tunnel from within.  

The children had finally settled comfortably enough into a routine that a break in the daily grind again served as a source of joy rather than anxiety.  Still, on this particular morning, Sam seemed upset about something and, rather than telling us what the trouble was, began to act out, obstinately refusing to eat her breakfast or allow me to dress her in the padded clothing necessary to protect her from the bite in the outside air. 

Only after Rod’s and my frustration reached the point where she was told that, if she didn’t settle down and behave herself the outing was off, did she blurt out one syllable in response: “Bert!”

Two years previously, financial matters had forced us to move into a small house approximately twenty minute’s drive from the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona.  Eventually, both Sam and Josh had charmed our landlord to the extent that, each time we went to pay rent, we would return home with our arms laden with gifts for the children, one of which happened to be a small stuffed toy about eight inches in length, of the Sesame Street character Bert. 

He had originally been intended for Joshua, but Josh far preferred the stuffed lamb our neighbor had presented to his sister and, since as far as Sam was concerned it was love at first sight in regards to Bert, we saw no harm in letting them trade.  After about a week, Joshua’s adoration had shifted focus to a rattle, but Sam has slept with Bert by her side since the day of their introduction.

At first I thought Sam merely wanted to take him along for the stroll, an idea neither Rod nor I was particularly thrilled with, seeing as vast amounts of mud still plagued the landscape, but trying to convince Sam of the wisdom in leaving Bert behind seemed futile and, as she became more and more adamant in her proclamations of, “BERT!! BERT!!!” I began to wonder if we were missing something.  She wasn’t acting angry.  In fact, she sounded panicky and afraid.

Moving purely on instinct, I walked over to her crib to investigate.

Lying there, looking somewhat like a wounded soldier was Bert.  The seam running down his back had popped during the night and his stuffing had begun to push its way out through the tear.  No wonder Samantha was in such a state!  Her loyal companion of nearly a year had suffered a potentially fatal wound!  She just wanted us to make him feel better.  Unfortunately, that would require a needle and thread; surgical tools I was not in possession of. 

I picked Bert up, examined the damage then simply stood there holding him in my hands, trying to figure out a way in which to tell my two year old that I couldn’t fix him.

As my brain desperately sought out solutions, Sam began tugging on my pant-leg.  I looked down into her hopeful eyes, unsure of what to say, when it hit me. The answer was so remarkably simple I felt quite the fool for not immediately coming up with the idea.

“It will be alright kiddo.” I assured her as I turned to the boys, who seemed completely lost as to what was transpiring, and told them, “We have to take Bert to the Hospital.”

The Lobby of the Airport Hotel was not an extremely comforting environment.  The walls, for the most part, were lined to the ceiling with a depressing shade of taupe marble.  The floors, also made of marble, were of a darker hue, which served more as a mirror than a point of contrast.  The whole place would turn a dismal shade of gray once the weak and indirect sunlight managed to find its way through the two-story tall glass windows framing the front entrance.  The over-stuffed armchairs, the enormous, yet dusty and corroding chandelier, the crescent shaped front desk trimmed in black and that drab shade of green often associated with hospitals all had a tendency to gang up on the inhabitants of the building making them feel a little lost, cold, and out of place.  Not a pleasant experience… But however depressing the ambiance of the Lobby could become, that of the Laundry Room always rested on the opposite side of the spectrum and this is where, five minutes later, Samantha, Bert and I were headed. 

The washroom was actually divided into two areas whose walls had been painted butter yellow.  All of the doors, windows etc. were made of or trimmed with wood lacquered to a dark burgundy.  Initially, the area was intended as a beauty parlor, but had since been haphazardly renovated to function for its present purpose.  The washing machines sat upon raw wooden palates that I suppose were there to protect the floor which, though of the same ghastly taupe, didn’t appear heartless in this environment.  A large table had been padded and placed under the window in the room where the washing was done.  This served as an ironing board.  Cords, pipes and laundry were strung all about the place, but rather than appear as clutter, they added a distinct charm to the overall character of the location.

In the immediate left-hand corner of the first room rested and old faded blue armchair next to which were parked the bicycles of whoever was on duty at the time. 

This particular morning, a dark blue bike rested lazily against it’s kickstand like a tired old mare waiting to bear its master home.

The place felt familiar and as we stood there for a moment or two I could feel Sam relax her grip on my hand, but I didn’t want to rush her.  Something warned me of the situation’s importance.  I had to let Sam do this on her own, at what ever pace she felt comfortable.  Bert was her friend, not mine.  I was merely there for moral support.

The “Short-Haired Laundry Gal” (as Rod had begun referring to her) was ironing a pair of slacks when I first caught sight of her.  I waited until she turned to hang them on the clothes rack which stood against the far wall before lightly tapping on the door, to make our presence known, whilst guiding Samantha through the entrance.

She seemed surprised at first to find me there with a child rather than a bag of clothing, but a simple look into my daughter’s pleading eyes told her I wasn’t the one who had come for assistance. 

She lowered herself to Sam’s height and smiled reassuringly at her as I did my best to show Sam that I trusted this person by gently placing my hand between her shoulder-blades, nudging her toward the place where the Laundress crouched.

Sam seemed reluctant to leave my side at first, but after a brief re-examination of Bert’s wound, a questioning glance in my direction, and a final sigh of resignation, she slowly began her approach. 

The Laundress’ eyes darted from the toddler, to the toy in her hands, to me several times in succession, but, as she fit the puzzle pieces together, the tenderness which she emanated did not falter and, eventually, Samantha extended both arms towards the stranger, offering Bert up to her capable hands.

She smiled lovingly down into the little child’s face then began speaking softly to her in Mandarin as she threaded a needle, seated herself on the chair by the ironing table, and began performing the delicate procedure.

Sam, still a bit unsure of the scenario, kept about four feet of space, to begin with, between herself and this new person.  She was watching every move though, practically counting every stitch the woman pulled through the material of her friend’s back and, inch by inch, I watched her creep closer to where the Laundress sat sewing.  By the time the last knot had been tied, Sam was pressing up against the woman’s knees with her hands resting on the woman’s lap. 

She smiled at Sam, trimmed the excess thread from the surgical sight then reunited the girl with her, now healed, companion. 

To my surprise, Samantha met the woman’s kindness with a grateful little smile of her own before running excitedly towards me.  It was the first time she’d really smiled since our arrival in China.

I was indebted to this person for so much more than repairing a child’s toy.  She had also stitched up the wounds left in a toddler’s heart directly following our experiences in Beijing by taking the time to prove to a scared and hurt little girl that China wasn’t full of “bad guys”.  For that, I knew I’d never be able to thank her enough.

The following afternoon, she told me her name was Guo RongJun.