The nursing staff and the pediatricians on the Pediatric Unit welcomed me with open arms.  But I was warned to not expect the same acceptance from every one.  Play Therapy was a new concept in a hospital setting. Some professionals believed that play was not appropriate among sick children, especially in cases of chronic illness, grief, and death.

One of the first doctors whom I met was a surgeon named Dr. Stringer.  This doctor was brilliant.  He was a respected neurosurgeon who had a warm and caring heart.  He took me aside one day and asked for my help with one of his patients.  “This child is special to me.  I would appreciate it if Karen could become special to you.”

Karen May was six years old.  She and her parents, George and Gwen, were from the small Mississippi town, Bogue Chitto.  This request was easy.  Bernard and Karen became the best of friends!

The morning came for her surgery.  It would be a long operation that would attempt to remove a brain tumor.  Her parents had been warned: Karen may not survive the operation, and if she did, she may not be the same child.

Karen’s mom and dad tearfully gave her a final kiss good-bye, and then, holding my hand, Karen and I made our way down that long surgery hall towards her surgical suite.  We were stopped at the entrance of the room by the anesthesiologist for Karen’s case.  “This is as far as you go,” he said firmly to me.  Slipping Bernard off my hand, I placed him in Karen’s arms and hugged her one more time.  The nurse continued with Karen into the surgery room.  I said to the Anesthesiologist, “Please remind Dr. Stringer to place a bandage on Bernard’s head the same as Karen’s.”  The doctor looked at me with disgust: “A bandage on a puppet’s head!   This child may be blind when she wakes up.   She could die!   And you are worried about a bandage for a muppet’s head!”  Then he went into the surgery room.

I was stunned at what this doctor had said to me.  I was embarrassed and ashamed.  I made my way to the prayer room, (a great hiding place!)

Was this doctor right?  How could I be thinking about a puppet’s bandage at such a delicate time?  Inside the prayer room, I burst into tears.

Several hours later, little Karen woke up in Intensive Care.   She asked for two people:  her Mommy and Bernard.   When Karen’s Mom and I entered that Intensive Care Unit, we saw Karen laying in her bed, looking so small and frail.   She was hooked up to several monitors.   Wrapped around her head was a large bandage.   Laying beside her was a puppet who had a bandage on his head. 

Dr. Stringer had not forgotten.

I slipped my hand inside Bernard, and Karen hugged him tight.  She touched Bernard’s bandage, and then touched her own bandage.   “Bernard, you have a bandage on your head like me!”  Bernard replied:   “That’s because you are a princess and I’m your prince!”

About a year later, I was invited to speak in Johnstons Station, a town located just south of Bogue Chitto and north of McComb.  The radio station announced that “Bernard the Hospital Puppet” would be at Johnstons Station Baptist Church.  When my time to speak came, I walked to the pulpit of the church and looked down at the children.  Karen was on the front row.

After the church service, Karen's mom told me that Karen had told everyone at her school that Bernard was going to come the next day for “Show & Tell.”   It never crossed her mind that Bernard wouldn’t come.

The next morning Karen proudly stood in front of her school for her special “Show & Tell” presentation.     She boldly pulled out her “treasure box” of hospital memories.  She carefully took out each “treasure” and passed it around to the other children.   The last item . . . . . a small bandage.   My heart ached with pride.  She was holding Bernard’s bandage as if it were a crown of silver and gold.

This small child taught me a valuable and wise lesson — what may seem foolish to some can at times make all the difference.

I have carried this lesson with me through out all these many years.   Sometimes I still feel “foolish” from time to time.   But in my heart, I know that through the eyes of a child, the work that I do is very important.