There are some accidents that are so violent and gruesome that they capture the nation’s attention. The unfortunate victim will be at the center of a media firestorm with reporters swarming and photographers lights blazing. What happened? Who is to blame? What will become of the poor victim? Then days turn to weeks, and weeks to months, and our attention is drawn to other tragedies and absurdities of daily life.
Yet the victim remains. Clinging to life. Horribly disfigured. Sightless. Laying day in and day out in the same hospital bed, as days turn to weeks and weeks into months. Drugs will course through her veins to numb the pain and decrease brain swelling and dull the memory. Wounds start to heal.
The best and the brightest attend to her care. Teams of skillful surgeons in prestigious hospitals practice their art. She will receive the best of what science and technology has to offer. Miracles of medicine will happen in her hospital room.
And she will lay, day in and day out in the same hospital bed. Days will turn to weeks and weeks to months. She will be cared for and talked to. Day in and day out she will be called by her name, told where she is, and who is caring for her. There is someone in there, deep inside, laying in that hospital bed. She will be talked to and cared for as if she were awake. There must be someone deep inside.
Yet the patient remains quiet and empty in her bed. Swarms of reporters are replaced by swarms of surgeons and specialists, sweeping in and out of her room. She is talked to as if she were awake. Her nurse repeats her name to the patient every day. Miracles can happen in hospital rooms.
In her quiet room, days turn to weeks and weeks to months, and the quiet is broken with one miraculous word, Lisa.
RR
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