I've been thinking a lot recently about the one person I haven't been able to thank, the man who came up to us while we waited in front of the life guard stand for the paramedics to arrive. He came right over, said, "I'm a heart surgeon -- actually, I work in trauma" and reached for John's left wrist. He stayed with us the whole time we waited, moving back and forth from side to side, tracking the pulse in John's arms. When the paramedics came, he talked to them a bit, and then as they carried John off the beach, he told me that John had an injury in his spinal column, probably a herniated disk, and that an MRI would be taken at the hospital to confirm it. And he told me John would be OK. I remember asking him to repeat what he's said he thought was wrong with John, so that I could tell them at the hospital, and he told me not to worry -- the doctors there would know what to do.
When I went back to the island on Wednesday to see Nora and for a shower and clean clothes, I went down to the beach for a minute. I knew that if I didn't go then, I'd never be able to step foot on sand again, and I just wasn't ready to give up on that. And I found the nurse who'd been there with us (Nora had played with her little girl that weekend), I found the guys who pulled John out of the water, I found a cousin of one of the lifeguards who'd been on duty when John got hurt. And I got to thank them all for saving his life, a profoundly powerful moment. But I couldn't find the surgeon. And no one remembered ever seeing him before. Odd for that stretch of beach. Certainly he might have come down just for the day and happened to pick the 81st St. beach. But you don't usually see that -- people usually come for at least a whole weekend, and we recognize each other. And no one remembered him...
Maybe I'd just let him fade away in my memory, but for a crazy little detail: he spent his time going back and forth between John's wrists, holding his fingers on John's pulse. And he spent about twice as much time on John's left wrist (his non-dominant side). And throughout recovery and rehab, his left side has responded earlier and stronger. For while, it even looked like he'd be switching to left-handed. And now it's his right shoulder that troubles him.
What am I stumbling my way toward? I have thought about him a lot in the past year. And I always come back to the way he introduced himself: "I'm a heart surgeon -- actually, I work in trauma." He was John's angel sent to take care of him (and me), I believe. He took care of our hearts during this trauma. This was the beginning of the grace that has healed John and sustained me and Nora and the rest of our families throughout this ordeal. Thank you, our friend...
