Autumn Orchid

A wailing sound broke out, piercing the momentary silence in the pediatric intensive care unit. My guide and I jumped, startled by the cry--the kind that plucks every string in one's heart in the most unpleasant way, the kind that makes one wince instead of say "Oh, poor child." No one around us seemed bother by it. Something in the atmosphere told us that this has gone on routinely, and there was nothing to be done about it.

We slowly approached the room. My guide stuck her head in there a few times before deciding that it was appropriate for us to go in. The room was shared by two patients, and the cry came from the inside bed, which we could not see because it was blocked by the curtain. Whoever made that heart-wrenching sound was clearly in a lot of pain, because the wailing continued on and off while we were there, even during the music. On the bed next to the doorway was a little boy, about seven years old. He nodded when my guide asked if he wanted to hear some music, his eyes wide open with a hint of nervousness. His mother sat next to the bed, holding his hands in silence. It was evident that the mother and son tried to keep calm from all the commotion across the curtain, but it was not easy. We stayed for just a few minutes as more doctors started coming in, snapping latex gloves on their hands.

I will never forget the first time I heard a cry like that. It was my first day in rehab, a few weeks after the hemorrhage. I lay on a mat in the occupational therapy room, unable to even turn to my side and get a good look of the room. As I stared at the ceiling, the most unpleasant sound I have ever heard came from across the room. It was a cry of pain, distress and total disinhibition. A ball of anger rose in my chest. Aren't we all in a very bad situation? How can this person be such a baby and make noises like that?

I later found out that the person was a forty-year-old mother of three who suffered from a ruptured aneurysm. She had a beautiful name, Chiulan, meaning "Autumn Orchid" in Chinese. Her sisters (six of them) took turns taking care of her in the hospital. The moment I saw her I reproached myself for ever holding a grudge against her. She had very limited mobility, suffered from muscle spasms all over, and could not control herself from outbursts. A huge surgical scar draped across the side of her head, barely covered by her choppy hair. Her eyes--small and round on a delicate face--showed that she was no longer there in that body.

I spent everyday with Chiulan for five months, either doing exercises next to her or hearing her scream across the room. When I left the hospital and went home at the end of five months, she was still there. I still think of her sometimes. I wonder how she is.