“Little one, won’t you smile for me?”

Her eyes twinkled, and her smile held more warmth than the summer night outside. Her hands held Krishna’s firmly, but gently.

Krishna stopped struggling to escape from my arms.

He looked into her kind eyes, astonished.

It was night. Krishna and I waited in the hospital room as my husband argued downstairs with the administrative staff for an early discharge.

Krishna needed some scans. These are always done under sedation. The hospital dislikes discharging him until he eats something, to prove that the sedation has worn off without ill effects.

Krishna will not eat or drink in the hospital, especially after sedation. He is anxious, uncomfortable, and angry. He wants to go home.

He protests loudly and vigorously, by hurting himself.

When he is in this mode, he is lightning fast.

And we feel like we are moving in slow motion through water, trying to block him.

That is what was happening this time too.

I was trying hard to hold him even as he struggled desperately to break free.

And then I heard this beautiful voice.

“What is it, little one?”

She is Lakshmi, part of the hospital’s housekeeping team.

She doesn’t know about neurodivergence.

She doesn’t know about autism.

She doesn’t know about anxiety.

She doesn’t know about meltdowns.

She hasn’t had awareness training or sensitivity training.

She walked into a hospital room to mop the floor and saw a desperate, hurting child—and his exhausted, equally desperate mother.

It didn’t occur to her to frown.

Or scold.

Or quietly slip away after staring for a while.

She just walked up to Krishna, held his hands, and spoke to him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And Krishna paused.

He looked into her eyes—something very rare for him, especially with strangers.

He let her hold his hands.

He let her sway him gently in a rhythm, almost like a quiet dance, as she spoke to him and to me.

She kept him engaged like this for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes.

It is a lifetime, when you count it.

My husband rushed in with the discharge papers.

Lakshmi smiled again at Krishna.

“Bye, Krishna! Will you say bye to me?”

Krishna waved shyly—at the floor—and we left, before the magic Lakshmi had woven could dissolve.

Lakshmi was that rare ray of grace that sometimes shines through the darkest storm clouds.

I can never forget her.

Rainbow Children’s Hospital—thank you for having this beautiful human being on your staff.