Stories from a home for terminally ill children

To honor and celebrate young lives cut short, Kathy Hull founded the first freestanding pediatric palliative care facility in the United States, the George Mark Children's House. Its mission: to give terminally ill children and their families a peaceful place to say goodbye. She shares stories brimming with wisdom, joy, imagination and heartbreaking loss.

I want to introduce you to some
very wise kids that I've known,

but first I want
to introduce you to a camel.

This is Cassie, a therapy camel
visiting one of our young patients

in her room,

which is pretty magical.

A friend of mine raises camels
at his ranch in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

He has about eight of them,

and he started 30 years ago

because he thought
horses were too mundane.

John is an out-of-the-box thinker,

which explains why the two of us
have been such good friends

all of our lives.

Over the years, I've convinced him
to shuttle those sweet furry beasts

up to hang out with our sick kids
from time to time.

Talking to John, I was surprised to learn

that camels have an average
life expectancy of 40 to 50 years.

The life expectancy of many
of the children with whom I work

is less than a year.

This is a picture
of the George Mark Children's House,

the first pediatric
palliative respite care center

to open in the United States.

I founded it in 2004,

after years of working as a psychologist

on pediatric intensive care units,

frustrated with the undignified deaths
that so many children experienced

and their families had to endure.

As I sat with families whose children
were at the end of their lives,

I was acutely aware of our surroundings.

While the elevated train
rumbled overhead on its track,

quite literally the room reverberated
with each passing train car.

The lights on the ward
were fluorescent and too bright.

Monitors beeped, as did the elevator,

noisily announcing its arrival.

These families were experiencing

some of the most excruciating
moments of their lives,

and I so wanted them
to have a more peaceful place

in which to say a last goodbye
to their young daughters and sons.

Surely, I thought,

there must be a better spot
than a hospital intensive care unit

for children at the end of their lives.

Our children's house

is calm and nurturing.

It's a place where families
can stay together

to enjoy quality time with their children,

many of whom are there for respite stays,

some with repeated visits
over a span of many years.

We call those kids our frequent flyers.

Rather than the bright,
noisy quarters of the hospital,

their rooms are calm and comfortable,

with actual living spaces
for the families,

a sanctuary of gardens

and a wonderful outdoor playground

with special structures
for children with physical limitations.

This sweet baby Lars

came to us directly
from a hospital intensive care unit.

Imagine hearing the heartbreaking news

that none of us would ever want to hear.

His parents had been told
that Lars had a brain anomaly

that would keep him from ever swallowing,

walking, talking

or developing mentally.

Recognizing what little chance
he had for survival,

his parents chose
to focus on the quality of time

that they could spend together.

They moved into
one of our family apartments

and treasured each day that they had,

which were far too few.

Lars's life was brief, to be sure,

mere weeks,

but it was calm and comfortable.

He went on hikes with his parents.

The time that he spent in the pool
with our aquatic therapist

lessened the seizures he was experiencing

and helped him to sleep at night.

His family had a peaceful place

in which to both celebrate his life

and mourn his death.

It has been five years
since Lars was with us,

and in that time,

his family has welcomed

a daughter and another son.

They are such a powerful testament

to the positive outcome that specialized
children's hospice care can create.

Their baby's physical discomfort
was well managed,

giving all of them the gift of time
to be together in a beautiful place.

I'm going to talk to you now

about the elephant

rather than the camel in the room.

Very few people want to talk about death,

and even fewer about children's death.

Loss of a child,

especially for those of us
who have our own children,

is frightening,

more than frightening,

paralyzing,

debilitating,

impossible.

But what I've learned is this:

children don't stop dying

just because we the adults

can't comprehend
the injustice of losing them.

And what's more,

if we can be brave enough

to face the possibility of death,

even among the most innocent,

we gain an unparalleled kind of wisdom.

Take Crystal, for example.

She was one of the first children
to come for care

after we opened our doors.

She was nine when she arrived,

and her neurologist expected
that she might live another two weeks.

She had an inoperable brain tumor,

and her decline had really accelerated

in the week before she came to us.

After settling into her room,

dressed entirely in pink and lavender,

surrounded by the Hello Kitty
accessories that she loved,

she spent the next several days

winning over the hearts
of every staff member.

Bit by bit, her condition stabilized,

and then to our astonishment,

she actually improved.

There were a variety of factors

that contributed to Crystal's improvement

which we later came to call
the "George Mark bump,"

a lovely, not uncommon phenomenon

where children outlive
the prognoses of their illnesses

if they're outside of the hospital.

The calmer atmosphere of her surroundings,

tasty meals that were fixed
often to accommodate her requests,

the resident pets,

the therapy dog and rabbit
spent lots of cozy time with Crystal.

After she had been with us
for about a week,

she called her grandmother,

and she said,

"Gee, I'm staying in a great big house,

and there's room for you to come, too.

And guess what?

You don't have to bring any quarters

because the washer and dryer are free."

(Laughter)

Crystal's grandmother
soon arrived from out of town,

and they spent the remaining
four months of Crystal's life

enjoying very special days together.

Some days were special because Crystal
was outside in her wheelchair

sitting by the fountain.

For a little girl who had spent most
of the year earlier in a hospital bed,

being outside counting hummingbirds

made for an amazing time with her grandma,

and lots of laughter.

Other days were special
because of the activities

that our child life specialist
created for her.

Crystal strung beads and made jewelry
for everybody in the house.

She painted a pumpkin
to help decorate for Halloween.

She spent many excited days
planning her tenth birthday,

which of course none of us
thought she would ever see.

All of us wore pink boas for the occasion,

and Crystal, as you can see,

queen for a day,

wore a sparkly tiara.

One hot morning, I arrived at work

and Crystal and her partner
in crime, Charlie, greeted me.

With some help, they had set up
a lemonade and cookie stand

outside the front door,

a very strategic location.

I asked Crystal the price
of the cookie that I had selected,

and she said, "Three dollars."

(Laughter)

I said that seemed a bit high
for one cookie.

(Laughter)

It was small.

"I know," she acknowledged with a grin,

"but I'm worth it."

And therein lie the words of wisdom

of a young girl whose brief life
forever impacted mine.

Crystal was worth it,

and shouldn't every child whose life
is shortened by a horrific illness

be worth it?

Together, all of us today

can offer that same specialized care
that Crystal received

by recognizing that children's
respite and hospice care

is a critical component missing
from our healthcare landscape.

It's also interesting to note

that we are able to provide this care

at about one third of the cost
of a hospital intensive care unit,

and our families don't see a bill.

We are ever grateful to the supporters

who believe in this important work
that we're doing.

The truth is that my colleagues and I

and the parents and other family members

who get to experience this special wisdom

are in a unique position.

There are only two freestanding
pediatric hospices in the United States,

although I'm happy to report
that based on our model,

there are 18 others
under various stages of development.

(Applause)

Still, most of the children
who die in the United States every year

die in hospital rooms,

surrounded by beeping machines

and anxious, exhausted adults

who have no other option

but to say goodbye
under those harsh, institutional lights

and among virtual strangers.

For comparison's sake,

the United Kingdom,

which is a country with about one fifth
the population of the United States,

and about half the size
of the state of California,

has 54 hospice and respite centers.

Why is that?

I've asked myself that question
obviously many times.

My best guess is that Americans,
with our positive can-do attitude

hold the expectation
that our medical care system will fix it,

even though it may be a childhood illness
for which there is no cure.

We go to extraordinary measures
to keep children alive

when in fact the greatest kindness
that we might give them

would be a peaceful, pain-free

end of life.

The transition from cure to care

remains a challenging one
for many hospital physicians

whose training has really been
about saving lives,

not about gently guiding the patient
to the end of life.

The dad of a sweet baby
for whom we cared at the end of her life

certainly captured this dichotomy

when he reflected

that there are a lot of people
to help you bring an infant into the world

but very few to help you usher a baby out.

So what is the magic ingredient
at George Mark?

The complex medical diagnoses
that bring our young patients to us

mean that their lives
have often been restricted,

some to a hospital bed
for long periods of time,

others to wheelchairs,

still others to intensive courses
of chemotherapy or rehab.

We make a practice
of ignoring those limitations.

Our default answer is "yes"

and our default question is, "Why not?"

That's why we took a young boy

who wasn't going to live
for another baseball season

to Game 5 of the World Series.

That's why we have a talent show
put on by the staff and kids

for family and friends.

Who wouldn't be enchanted by a young boy
playing a piano piece with his feet,

because his arms are atrophied?

That's why we have a prom every year.

It's pretty magical.

We started the prom

after hearing a dad lament

that he would never pin
a boutonniere on his son's tuxedo lapel.

The weeks before the dance,

the house is in a flurry,

and I don't know who's more excited,
the staff or the kids.

(Laughter)

The night of the event

involves rides in vintage cars,

a walk on a red carpet

into the great room,

a terrific DJ

and a photographer at the ready

to capture pictures of these attendees

and their families.

At the end of the evening this year,

one of our young,
delightful teenaged girls,

Caitlin, said to her mom,

"That was the best night
of my whole life."

And that's just the point,

to capture the best days and nights,

to abolish limitations,

to have your default answer be "yes"

and your default question be, "Why not?"

Ultimately life is too short,

whether we live
to be 85 years or just eight.

Trust me.

Better yet, trust Sam.

It's not by pretending
that death doesn't exist

that we keep the people,

especially the little people that we love,

safe.

In the end,

we can't control how long any of us lives.

What we can control

is how we spend our days,

the spaces we create,

the meaning and joy that we make.

We cannot change the outcome,

but we can change the journey.

Isn't it time

to recognize that children deserve

nothing less than our
most uncompromising bravery

and our wildest imagination.

Thank you.

(Applause)