Molly and the Dragon

Molly has a shield. Molly has a sword. Molly has a helmet to protect her from the dragon. Her silver shield is so shiny and bright that it can cut a path of light through any darkness. Her sword is always by her side, sharpened and sheathed, ready to pull out if the dragon turns mean again. Before she puts on her silver helmet, she always rubs her bare scalp three times and makes a wish. Mommy calls it her “bald pate” and says it has magic power.

Molly has seen pictures of other little girls her age in her story books. Some of them have golden ringlets, some have wavy brown hair, some have beautiful kinky black hair. None of them have a magical bald pate. Molly knows she is special.

In the old days, the dragon was fierce and filled her with terror. Now he mostly curls up beside her and seems more of a companion. The doctors seem to think he’s her enemy, but Mommy says no, he just came to help her learn courage and strength. Mommy says don’t be afraid. And she isn’t.

In Molly’s picture books, the other little girls have houses with smoke curling out of the chimney, curtains at the window, and a cat in the front yard.  Molly’s home now is the hospital, with its friendly children’s ward, the doctors and nurses who love her, and her very own little room with drawings of dragons pinned to the walls.

The dragons she used to draw had huge sharp teeth and horrible red eyes and looked like they could eat her alive. The newest ones are gentle, almost purring. She reaches out a hand to pat the little pink and gold dragon she drew yesterday. He’ll make a good pet.

“I have to go now,” she tells him, “but I’ll be back soon.” When she finishes her hours of chemotherapy, she’ll snuggle in and tell him a story about little girls who make friends with dragons, but keep their shields bright and their swords sharp, and never give in to the darkness.