The Healing Colors of Love by Chrissy Medeiros

This morning, I spotted the wings of an angel.

Now, as I headed down the hall of the hospital where I worked, I hoped to show this angel to a “patient” of mine.

The wheels of my cart squeaked, echoing off the walls. I stopped outside a door, and knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice I knew belonged to him. My heart began to race as I turned the knob, and entered his room.

My art has helped me through stress.

My art has helped me through pain.

Now, I wondered, could I help my “patients” overcome the same difficulties?

The door clicked behind me, and I turned my head, locking eyes with Sam Murphy. He sat up. “Hey Emma.” He smiled, revealing his dimples. Shockwaves of heat spiraled through me, the sensation at odds with the way my heart squeezed in pain as I absorbed the sterile, white room around him, and a silver tray lined with several wrapped vials of medicine.

I breathed deep. Emma, what the hell is wrong with you? This man had been about to experience a serious, painful treatment process. Why had my body been deceiving me, reacting like an unfaithful companion to this situation?

The top of Sam’s hairless head shined in the light as he turned to the nurse. “My favorite painter is finally here.” His tone was hushed, but loud enough for me to hear as he turned back to me. His deep, rough voice drew me to his eyes, which shimmered with a type of heat that he seemed to direct only to me. It’d been the same intense gaze that he gave me when I first met him – ten treatments ago. Back then, he’d been wearing a tight grey t-shirt, which emphasized the sharp curve of his muscles. I’d been curious about, and wanted to trace the inked tattoo that swirled down his right arm. I’d also wanted to run my hands through, and feel the soft strands of his dark, wavy hair. Back then, Sam projected a delicious image of health, and vitality that would be a feast for millions of women if he graced the cover of a fitness magazine. Back then, Sam had a body chiseled from stone. Hard. Unbreakable.

That is, until cancer had shattered that image.

“Do you even know any other painters?” I asked.

“I missed you Emma,” he said, ignoring my question.

I missed him too, but was I ready to admit to that? I still didn’t know if his feelings were genuine, since his flirting might be a creative way of blocking his pain during his treatments here.

His attention though, made me feel wanted, needed. It’d been a long time since someone had made me feel that way.

“You’re here for the best part.” Sam jerked his chin at the nurse, who leaned toward him, a vial of medicine clutched in her hand.

I frowned. The nurse had been about to dispense chemotherapy drugs through a port, already secured to Sam’s chest.

Now’s your chance. I pushed my cart toward his bed. Divert his attention. Help him through the pain. My paint brushes and easels clattered. “How do you like my newest painting?” I pointed to the ceiling above him, at my attempt at recreating the sunrise with the angel wings that I’d witnessed that morning.

He looked up, those green eyes studying my canvas that had taken the place of one of the tiles. The nurse pushed on the syringe, dispensing the medicine that would hopefully destroy the cancer cells killing Sam’s body. He winced. I watched him, clenching my hands, hoping that he experienced minimal pain. I couldn’t wait for his response though. I needed to know. “Do you see it?” I asked.

“See what?”

“See those rays of light around the sun? Don’t they look like angel wings?’

“Oh…yeah…yeah they do.” He smiled, but it was tight. I searched for that light behind his eyes, but I found only shadows and darkness. “It’s beautiful love.”

“Liar.” So far, Sam hadn’t given me the response that I’d hoped for regarding my art – although the flirting part had been nice. No. I’d never been able to paint anything that quite made Sam forget about why he was here. It was my job, and I’d been failing at it. “What’s wrong with my painting?”

Sam shook his head. “Love, you’re a wonderful painter; like I said my favorite. The best.”

“I can see the pain in your eyes though, and I want to help take that away.”

“No image could possibly erase the pain, not completely.” Sam lifted his head, and stared at the ceiling again. “I really enjoy the outdoors though,” he said. “And I feel…lonely when I look at landscape art, because it just reminds me of activities, like camping that I haven’t been able to do since I was diagnosed with cancer.”

I sighed. What was I doing here? Sam was right. Still. I thought about the beach scene that I’d painted for a ten-year-old girl. She’d forgotten her illness. She’d forgotten her pain. I could see it in the way her eyes had sparkled with laughter because I’d included the snowman Olaf, her favorite character from the animated movie Frozen. That image, that memory made me want to try again, but I had to try another tactic. “After you finish your treatment, can I show you something?”

An hour later, I pushed Sam in a wheelchair, and we made our way down the hall past the nurses’ station next to the elevators. I stopped in front of a row of paintings. “These are mine,” I said. I pointed to a photograph next to the artwork. “Here read this.”

Sam lifted his head, his eyes scrunching as he read the caption underneath the photograph. His eyes widened in surprise. “You were a patient here?”

My stomach twisted, and my throat grew thick with emotion. I usually didn’t talk about my time at the hospital. It brought up way too many unpleasant memories that I’d worked hard to forget. “Yes,” my voice cracked in response. “I had breast cancer.”

“Sweetie, I’m so sorry.”

I nodded. “When I was a patient my painting was the only activity that I could do that helped me forget.”

Sam raised his eyes. “Forget?”

“Yes, forget. Even if it was for a second. For that short time, I didn’t think of the disease before I thought of myself. Each time I picked up that paintbrush, I left this hospital, and my worries with it. My painting helped me heal.”

I didn’t tell him the whole truth though. Since my cancer diagnosis, and subsequent mastectomy three-years ago, I’d changed. The cancer cut more than my breasts from me; the disease had removed my soul. I no longer held my head up high, and any male attention I’d quickly diverted. Who would find me attractive? And no one had – at least I didn’t think so – that is until I’d met Sam.

I leaned up against the wall. “After my surgery, I convinced the hospital to hire me as a painter for the patients. More and more hospitals are beginning to implement similar programs after research has proven that positive images can help them heal.” I began pushing him back toward his patient room. “Can I try painting for you again?”

Sam smiled. “Of course.”

Later on, I pushed my cart back into his room, and placed a new canvas on an easel. Was I really doing this? I’d never done something this bold. At least not since I had my own cancer.

“That’s…that’s…” So many emotions danced in Sam’s green eyes.

“I’ll help you out,” I said. “When you’re through here, you don’t have to sleep under those stars alone.” I turned to study my painting. Stars glittered against a blue, black sky. Down below, moonlight highlighted two shadowy figures, watching a sunset with their hands clasped. Sleeping bags and a tent stood behind them. Was it too much? The message seemed clear. If Sam healed from this experience, I wanted a piece of that life with him – no matter how long we had.

Sam grabbed my hand, leaned over and kissed me. I jolted with surprise, but a burst of heat welcomed our first encounter. “I would love to sleep under those stars with you.”

The door opened, and the nurse walked in. “Mr. Murphy, the doctor is read to talk to you about your progress.”

I stood up. “I’ll be right outside when you’re done.”

“No. I don’t want to hear this alone.”

Sam nodded to the nurse, and as the doctor entered, we continued holding hands.

“Well, we’ve done eleven treatments,” the doctor said, pulling out his charts. “And, according to the tests, we don’t see any more traces of the cancer.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks. Sam turned, and kissed me again. He wasn’t alone anymore, and neither was I.