The Angel Who Weighed One Hundred Kilos and Smelled of Cheap Coffee
In the playroom of the oncology ward, there was a silence almost as fragile as glass. Only the rustle of paper and the scratch of felt-tips broke the stillness. It was a peculiar hush: too concentrated, too adult, for children not even ten years old. We had a simple taskdraw a Guardian Angel. The children were intent on their work.
For me, as a young volunteer, this was a test. Id grown up with the proper lookchurch stained glass, where angels are feather-light, golden-haired, with eyes the blue of spring skies. I walked from table to table, captivated: Jacks angel wielded a massive sword, Sophies had wings fluffy as fresh meringue. All perfect, touchingand just a tad similar.
That was until I came to Emily.
She was seven, her head as smooth as a snooker ball from yet another round of chemo, translucent skin stretched too tight. Emily worked with fierce concentration, pink tongue poking out as she focused.
I looked over her shoulder and barely stifled a gasp.
Her angel was a strange sighta large, sturdy man taking up nearly the whole page. No wings. What he did have was an enormous belly under a white coat, a bald head like a new potato, and thick, crooked glasses perched on his nose like a button.
Emily, I asked gently, kneeling down beside her. Whos that? Were drawing angels, remember?
That is an angel, she replied quietly, still colouring the belly with a white crayon.
Hes a bit unusual though, isnt he? I ventured. No wings? And hes rather big?
He does have wings, Emily insisted. He just hides them under his coat. So they wont get dirty. It gets messy here.
I smiled indulgentlychildhood imagination knows no bounds.
In the ward, you often heard a laboured, wheezy breath making its way down the corridor, like a train approaching. Thud, thud. Heavy footfalls that seemed to shake the carpet.
The playroom door swung wide and there he was.
Patrick Harris, our consultant in resuscitation. He was enormous, with a triple chin and a coat stretching across a vast belly, always left unbuttoned. His face gleamed with sweat, complexion oddly pallid. Thick glasses slipped down his nose, only for him to nudge them up with a fleshy finger. He smelled of tobacco, sweat, and strong, cheap instant coffee. Hed been living on the wards knackered sofa for three days straight.
To me, Patrick Harris was just a tired, dishevelled old man who ought to be retired, or at the very least, in a shower.
Whats this, then? Little artists? he boomed, his voice seeming to vibrate straight from his belly. Are we still going?
Were still going, Doctor! replied a ragged chorus.
He shuffled among the rows, bracing himself on the backs of chairs.
He paused by a boy tethered to an IV drip, putting a heavy hand to the lads pale brow.
Hang in there, old chap, he murmured. We got the results. Well manage.
Then he approached Emily. I saw her eyes kindle as she reached out tiny arms to this hulking, tobacco-scented man.
Drawing, are we? he asked, and behind those thick glasses, something shimmered: not a tired mans glazed stare, but a piercing, sleepless blue.
Drawing you, Emily whispered.
He snorted, pushing up his glasses.
No need for that. The paper would split in two.
Suddenly, an alarm shrieked from the corridor. Shrill, urgent.
Patrick Harris transformed at that instant. Gone was the laboured breath, the shuffling. He turned with sureness belying his size and dashed out.
Nobody move! he bellowed from the hallway. Liz, crash trolley, now!
I stayed glued to my spot, clutching my arms tight. Beyond the wall, frantic voices, metal clattering, and his voiceno longer warm, but steel.
Breathe! Come on! Stay with us! Breathe!
That shout chilled me. It was both a plea and an order. I squeezed my eyes shut, frightened.
Forty minutes ticked by, each one stretching on endlessly. The playroom was silent. The drawings cold, abandoned; the children watched the door.
At last, Patrick Harris returned, clutching the doorframe for support. He was drenched with sweat, his coat marker-stained and damp, a bloody smudge on his sleeve. He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, streaking exhaustion across his face, then collapsedgroaningonto a tiny plastic chair, which creaked miserably beneath him.
It worked, he wheezed into the hush. Hes sleeping.
I gazed at him. Suddenly, as if someone had ripped the mist from my eyes, I understood.
I glanced at Emilys drawingthe awkward, rotund figure. Then at Patrick Harris himself.
I didnt see fat or sweat. I saw weighta vast, steady weight of love, anchoring these fragile, fluttering souls to earth, when they might float away. A gilded angel would be no good heretoo light, drifting off with them.
We needed thisweighty, solid, smelling of earth and stale coffee, catching life with those huge hands, growling, Youre not going anywhere.
His bald head shone beneath the harsh light, a makeshift haloworking class, sweat-damp, nothing gaudy.
Emily slid from her chair and waddled over to the doctor hunched with his head bowed, wrapping her arms round his thick legthe highest she could reach.
I told you, she said softly, looking up at me with ancient eyes. He hides his wings, so we dont catch a chill.
Patrick Harris placed a broad, trembling hand lightly on her bare crown.
Hold on, darlings, he whispered. Just a little longer.
I turned to the window, unable to look any more.
At last, the tears Id dreaded slid down my cheeks. Out of shame for my blindness. Id searched for beauty in shine and elegance, but true Beauty sat right in front of me, mopping his brow on his sleeveheavy, unpretty, and the holiest thing Id ever known.
