The golden light of hope

This is just the sort of day, this nearly perfect final day of spring, when the phone might ring. I’d answer it to find my youngest sister, born in May, on the other end, calling to see if I could come out and play in the woods with our dogs, go for a river float in our kayaks or hop on a horse for the afternoon.

And though I cherish this thought, it won’t be the case today. Amy was thrown from a horse nearly three weeks ago. She sustained multiple fractures of her skull, facial bones and neck. Within a matter of seconds, the course of her life was changed. It came to a halt as her body was sent, head first, into a collision with metal and cement.

I think of those childhood drawings of Humpty Dumpty, lying at the base of his famous wall, hairline cracks coursing over his egg-like white form. This is what I imagine Amy’s skull to look like under her abundantly bruised skin.

What miraculous force placed Dave, a ski patrol rescuer with substantial trauma experience, on the scene at that precise moment? Within minutes, Amy’s airway and spine were stabilized and a helicopter summoned.

“Amy’s had a bad accident and we’re on our way to St. Luke’s Hospital. We’ll call when we get there.” My mother’s panicked voice on my answering machine seemed unreal. A quiet riverside picnic had been planned for the evening.

The drive to the hospital was endless, though achingly beautiful. It was early evening, the golden hours, when the retiring sun makes its final efforts to infiltrate both forest and city with saturated light, when the wood thrush gathers such light and transforms it into a song prayer, ushering dusk. Amy often painted this light in her oil and watercolor scenes. If it were a sound, this kind of light would be somehow similar to the sweet melodic nature of Amy’s voice as she performed with her guitar at Blossom Studio in Mountainhome recently, holding the audience spellbound with her transporting delivery of Sting’s “Fields of Gold.”

The song played over and over like an endless loop in my mind throughout the drive. I recalled meeting Amy at a favorite meadow of tall, unruly grasses whose bushy seedheads undulated in waves of russet and flame, much like Amy’s wild wind-tossed amber hair. Those fields were since laid to rest under asphalt. Box stores sprouted in their place and more people came than we ever saw there when the place was a wild meadow.

For most of the first week, Amy was suspended in stillness, plied with paralyzing and sedating drugs to prevent further damage. Fluids entered and drained, incisions were made, staples installed, a Frankenstein-like bolt was implanted in her head and a feeding tube in her stomach. A tracheostomy was performed. Beeps and alarms and digital numbers registered fluctuations, minute by minute.

As drugs and ventilator were weaned away, evidence of Amy’s essence began to creep forth. Now limbs stretch and bend; toes and fingers wriggle. An angelic smile lifts the corners of her mouth in response to questions; fingers curl and grip our hands. She knows who she is and who we are.

Mom asks Amy for only one gift for her birthday. “Please open your eyes.” Long-sealed eyelids flutter apart, followed by that smile.

Dr. Cipola, who received Amy into the trauma unit that night and gave her his finest efforts, says, “Give me a thumbs up!” Amy responds with two. “I never thought she would come this far this fast,” he says. Her fiancé Mark, who remains at her side throughout, asks for a kiss and receives one.

The next day she signs her name in script. She struggles to regain her breathing, to terminate the assistance of the machine at her side.

Seventy-two hours later, she is poised for the next stage of this journey. On the last day of spring, she departs for Good Shepherd Rehabilitation Center in Allentown, PA.

Departing St. Luke’s, we glance back at the place where a long line of miracle-workers plied their expert trades, saving my sister’s life and doing everything within their power to restore possibilities for her future. Although relieved to be leaving, profound gratitude marks our passage through this portal and guides our entrance into the next. We carry with us the abundant good will, positive thoughts and heartfelt prayers that have clearly helped Amy to survive this life-threatening event and to make such stunning early progress.

On this eve of summer solstice, we light a small fire on the hill in thanks for all everyone has done for Amy and for us. This is just the sort of thing I would call her about. I’d invite her to come over, cozy up to the stone ring and catch up on things as the flames burn down to embers. In her absence, we’ll celebrate her continuing presence in our lives as this dark night fades with the light.