The Unfinished Puzzle: Finding Hope in a Hopeless Situation
From the diary of Hellen Achieng, Child Life Specialist at Sally Test Child Life Centre
There are moments in pediatric care that stay with you. Moments of triumph and moments of deep pain. This is a story of an unfinished puzzle. A story about finding hope in what seemed like a hopeless situation.
The corridors carry the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with fresh laundry, the familiar fragrance that marks the start of another day in the ward. It’s Monday Morning, and as I walk past cheerful greetings, the soft hum of machines, and the quiet rustle of nurses beginning their shifts, I feel a gentle lift in my spirit. After two days of rest, I return refreshed and re-energized, carrying with me excitement, the kind that comes with the promise of a new day.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I reach Tumaini Ward. Tumaini, meaning ”hope” in Swahili. The name feels fitting here. Despite the weight of illness and uncertainty that often fills these rooms, there is always a thread of hope woven into the lives of the children and families we care for.
As I step inside, I see him- a tall, brown-skinned teenager with a shy smile. I smile at him and he smiles back. This simple exchange becomes the start of a beautiful friendship.
I invites him to the playroom and introduce him to a shelf of indoor games. He gets so excited! I can see it all from his facial expression! Before long, the playroom not only becomes his happy spot but also a sanctuary. Soon he normalizes to the hospital environment, and I introduce him to the outside playroom, the library, the basketball court, the academic wing and most of all, the storytelling sessions. There, among other children, he shares part of his journey- his diagnosis and treatment with courage and a smile. This warms my heart!
He falls in love with Rubicks game and Connect Four and makes an effort to play the games each single day. He even invites his father to play with him at bedside during his low moments. Every time he wins, he beams with pride as I hand him a sticker, his small but meaningful badge of victory.
His friends and family visit occasionally to check on him, and he proudly introduces them to the playroom. Over time, I get to meet people who mean the most to him. I feel not only honored but privileged as well.
As the days pass, I watch him grow weaker. His once playful energy fades, replaced with fatigue. The doctors work tirelessly around the clock doing everything they can, as we whisper silent prayers of hope for him. His immunity drops, and the doctors recommend that he remain at his bedside for safety.
Still, I bring pieces of childhood to him. His favorite games, storybooks, and other kinds of distractors to keep him engaged and happy despite the sterile walls around him. One afternoon, he settles on a 300-piece puzzle. His tiny hands hover over the pieces, determination flickering in his tired hands as he begins arranging them carefully.
The following morning, I stop by his bed to check on him. He smiles faintly and assures me all is well but then makes one simple request: he wants to finish the puzzle, not while in bed, but in the playroom. There is resolve in his voice; this puzzle has become more than a game. It is his mission, his small victory waiting to happen.
After completing my morning rounds, I wheel him gently to the playroom, with the doctor’s word in my mind: “Bring him back at the first sign of discomfort.” To give him focus and safety, I close the playroom from everyone else. Mask on, I help him spread the puzzle pieces across the table we work side by side, moving quietly but with purpose, almost halfway through, until fatigue sets in and I decide to wheel him back to his bed.
On the way back, he pauses suddenly, turns to me, and says softly, almost pleading, “Promise me you won’t touch it. Don’t let anyone touch it either. I will be back to finish it.” I promise, and we seal our little chat with a pinky swear.
Back at his bedside, I make sure he is comfortable, adjusting his pillow beside his mother. His favorite song plays softly in the background. As I watch him close his eyes and drift to sleep, I’m hopeful that for the moment all is well.
The morning passes, but just before lunch break, the ward is suddenly filled with a sharp scream! Nurses rush to his bed, followed by doctors. Moments later, I see him being wheeled hurriedly to the procedure room, his mother screaming and following behind.
The procedure room door closes, leaving his helpless mother outside. I approach her gently, placing my hands on her trembling shoulders, offering support for her to let it all out. Her tears come out quickly, heavy and unrestrained, rolling down her cheeks. Moments later, she collapses into my arms exhausted from the weight of anticipated grief. Together with other team members, we escort her to the counseling room, a safe, quieter space to allow her to voice out the fears and breathe through the storm of emotions consuming her.
About half an hour later, a piercing cry echoes down the hallway—the anguished wail of his father. My heart sinks. My little friend, and their only child, has not made it!
I return to the playroom in silence. On the table lies the 300-piece puzzle we had been working on just hours before, untouched, unfinished. Now frozen in time!
The unfinished puzzle has stayed with me ever since he travelled to his next place. A reminder that in pediatric care, we often meet children in the middle of their stories, unfinished, sometimes unresolved. Our role isn’t to finish their puzzles but to honor their pieces: their joy, their fears, their victories, and their humanity.
In the end, it wasn’t about completing the puzzle. It was about the time we shared while it was still unfinished. I am not a writer but a human being who heals through writing.