The PICU Bed By The Window

“Daad” she exclaimed, “look, the statue is holding a soft ice cream cone!”

We were on Ellis Island, and Ani and Greg were 8 years old. We wanted to show to them that eventually everyone is an immigrant. They were; their dad was. It was an emotional yet comforting day.

“One day, you will bring your kids here’” I said, “and tell them how you felt.”

… Ani will not bring her children to Ellis Island. I hope her twin brother will. To look into the eyes of his daughter and say “my sister and I were here at your age. She had green eyes just like you.”

Two years have passed since Ani closed her eyes while looking at us, holding our hands. She was courageous beyond belief. Only 9 days after her 12th birthday. On a steamy hot July day in Baltimore.

There is not a day when something from her or about her does not recall me back to her. Her bedroom is yet untouched, as it was the last time she slept there. The door is still closed, yet I know Greg sneaks in sometimes at night. I never asked why. Perhaps because I know.

I have not revolted against all those living on Mount Olympus. I have not asked “why?” Nor have I blamed us for letting Ani go. I have to believe that in the cosmic order of things, birds fly, lovers love, and little girls die.

… A few months back, for professional reasons, I had to visit the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at the university where I teach. I was hesitant, as I knew it would bring the times back when for almost a month we sat next to Ani’s bed, watching James Bond movies together, or holding her hand and telling her to be patient a bit more before we would all go home and play with Pita, her favorite dog.
Then, I went. It was a cool wintry day. The same brouhaha at the PICU. The same nurses, it seemed. The same worried parents sitting for endless hours in the waiting area.
I entered the PICU where eight beds were occupied that morning. And a bed was at the exact same location where Ani’s bed was, next to the window. The bed in which she died, that steamy day on July 18, 2005, at 12:56 pm.
I froze for a minute. Then walked to the bed where a 10-year old boy was, with a shaved head. His mom seemed worried, yet smiling.

“What is your name?” I asked.
“Andrew” he answered without hesitation.
“Hi Andrew. What are you going to do when you go home?” I asked.
And again, without missing a beat “I will have chocolate swirl ice cream in a sugar cone!” he said almost licking his dry lips.

In an instant, the moment from Ellis Island came back, swirling in front of my eyes!

“That sounds perfect,” I said “I am sure it will be just the coolest thing to do in February!” And then, I asked “Andrew, have you ever been to Ellis Island?”

This time he looked at me for a while, then said “No... Why?”

“Well, I once knew a beautiful girl who saw the biggest soft ice cream cone there! Maybe you should try it.”

His eyes lit up. “Mom, can we go one day?”

His mom looked at me with the eyes of a mom who hopes her child will never return to the PICU again.

“Andrew will be fine soon, I am sure,” I said. “This is the best hospital in the world.”

July 17, 2007