I am standing in the entranceway to the hospital cafeteria, talking to the activities director.

“Are you ready to go up?” she asks.

I gulp. I’d forgotten we were going to go room to room. I’ve never done this before.
“Just let me grab my stuff.”

I pick up my portable easel and sling it over my shoulder—my board, paper, clip, and markers.
We head to the elevator.

“How many kids are we going to see?”

She pulls out her list. “Ten,” she says. “If we can’t do them all in an hour, that’s okay…”

“Oh, we should be able to get them all done in an hour,” I say.
But then we start walking.The halls are long. Christmas trees line the walls, and I think how much it would suck to be a kid stuck in the hospital at Christmas.

That’s actually why I’m here—to draw caricatures for the hospital’s annual Christmas tree lighting.
This place, with its endless twisting halls, reminds me of the nursing homes I used to work in.
Twenty-five years ago, when I first started drawing caricatures professionally, I worked in several nursing homes as an activity director.

I loved being in Activities. I felt like I was making a difference.

Caricaturing on the weekends was just a way to make ends meet back then.

But I made better money as a caricaturist, and I struggled with that.

I didn’t think drawing funny pictures would make enough of a difference in people’s lives. I didn’t want to do something for a living that didn’t help people.

Working in nursing homes was helping people.
Drawing funny pictures was not.

Eventually, money won out. I had to feed my family.

I enjoyed my job, but I resigned myself to just making cute, fun pictures instead of making a difference.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this—over twenty years.

We visit several kids.

I draw a boy as Miles Morales and he lights up that I know who that is.
I draw a little girl in a wheelchair who wants to be “the princess who wears pink.”
I draw a teenage girl who cheerfully tells me she “almost croaked” from septic shock, while her mom quietly tells me how scared she was.

And then -

We come to the last room.

It’s dark. Quiet.

A teenage boy lies in the bed. He doesn’t look so good.
“My name’s Miss Kathy,” I say. “What’s yours?”
“Tyrell,” he says.
I offer him a fist bump. He manages to raise his hand.

“So Tyrell, I’m a caricaturist. I draw funny cartoons of people. Would you like me to draw one for you?”

He nods.

“What do you want to be?”

“Basketball,” he croaks.

“Basketball it is.”

I start drawing.
I’ve drawn this body and scene at least a thousand times—fast, confident, automatic.
Speed is what I’m known for.
It comes in handy here, where Tyrell can’t handle more than a few minutes.

A nurse comes in behind me.
I hear her mention morphine.
Morphine.
That registers somewhere in the back of my mind.

Because instead of drawing a very sick kid in a hospital bed…
I’m drawing a strong athlete flying through the air, about to slam dunk a basketball.
I work quickly.

I keep talking.

Normal conversation—with a very ill, possibly dying boy.

“I have a son about your age. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Same age. He just got his license. Do you drive?”

He shakes his head.

His lips are pale. Too pale.
I think—this is not good.
The nurse is hooking up the meds.
I need to finish.

A few last touches.

Done.

“Ready to see it?”

He nods.
I turn the drawing around.

​

and... 

Tyrell’s reaction takes my breath away.
His whole face lights up.
He looks and looks—smiling like it’s Christmas morning.

And for that one minute—
he is a normal, healthy kid again.

I am choked up.

​

This is a moment I will never ever forget.

This is why I do what I do.
I am making a difference.

I thought I was giving a kid a gift that day.
An interactive art experience.
Something to inspire him.

But that day—
I wound up getting the gift.

I remember back to that time in my life when I didn’t think drawing pictures would make enough of a difference in people’s lives.

But now, after 27 years, I finally realize—
It does.

It really does.