Making Magic and Hope: How Art Transforms a Pediatric Oncology Waiting Room

What does it mean to “hope” in a space that is typically associated with great suffering?

This is the question that came to mind when Nitza Danieli, Arts Director of Art in Medicine, invited me to volunteer at Robert Wood Johnson’s (RWJ) Pediatric Oncology unit.  A year ago, when I was exploring the possibility of a nursing education at Columbia University, Danieli popped up in an article featuring the intersection of art and medicine.  As someone who is passionate about just that, it was only a matter of time before we met.  For the past year, I have been attending her seasonal events for Hope and Heroes, a pediatric oncology charity, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she guides people through an exhibit and later hosts an arts-making session.

When you imagine a hospital waiting room, fluorescent lighting, sterile walls, and uncomfortable silence are typical hallmarks that come to mind.  The pediatric oncology unit of RWJ, however, is nothing like this.  As Nitza enthusiastically pulls out paper, paint brushes, and clay from a cabinet, I take in the colorful canvases embellishing the windows.  They were all created by the children: those who were being treated, and children related to those being treated.  It’s also clear the medical staff knows they are in store for a fairy-godmother-like revolution in the next four hours of Hope and Heroes’ presence.

Following Nitza’s lead, I introduce myself to the parents and children – some in Spanish, too!  It’s the beginning of a beautiful experience, and the people who have participated before already know it.  It doesn’t take much time before the children disperse themselves onto tables, with their creativity ready to be unleashed at the gloppy swipe of a brush, or the rolling of magic clay.  

“It’s really magic?!” a child asked me, with his eyes wide open.  I considered this for a moment, made a ball, and bounced it to him.

“If you believe in magic, you can make it magical,” I responded.  His smile electrified and he scrambled on the floor, eager to recreate the ball.

Magic clay or not, Hope and Heroes offers just that: magic.  In such a structured setting, where every thing is measured – from medications to appointments – making art and playing is somewhat of a radical act.  There is no agenda and everyone is welcome.  It offers an opportunity for patients to not be patients, but souls; for caregivers to not be seen as solely caregivers, but souls too.  To release, create, and reconnect with lightheartedness and ease despite the heavyheartedness and dis-ease.  

In the time that I was there, I witnessed a play in a ad-hoc cardboard house and a fashion show with wooden dolls, I un-rusted my algebraic factoring skills to tutor a rising freshman, and got “poop” clay smeared on my nose.  Hope is sometimes misunderstood as something passive, wishful thinking.  But hope really requires active engagement, the ability and courage to realize that reality can be lived differently.  For those four hours, Hope and Heroes transformed the waiting room into another reality.  This organization inspires hope, and hope, in the face of uncertainty and fear, after all, is a heroic act.  

I’d like to conclude with a sweet story written by an unknown child at the RWJ waiting room.

One day there was a girl her name was Olivia

She lived in fairy land

Every fairy in her class already discovered their superpower, 

except her and she’s sad about that

One day she felt weird

She didn’t know what had happened

Then Mollie, her fairy teacher came and said:

I see, you learned what your power is

I think so, but I don’t know what it is

She went home to sleep and she dreamed that her power was flowers

Then she woke up

I know what my power is

She is very happy

Then she lets flowers grow everywhere

The End