It Started Here

The moment the set of automated double doors opened, a flood of familiarity washed over me. Could it be? The exact same layout, the same curtains. The same nursing station, but different faces. Did the floor look like that? I don't remember. One glance above confirmed everything: yes, the same train tracks on the ceiling--the train tracks that was going nowhere, repeating every half dozen of ceiling tiles.

This was where it all began, my destined life in hospital. This was the pediatric ICU I stayed in 13 years ago.

Holding the violin and bow in one hand, cane in the other, I was bursting inside as I followed the child life specialist who led the way. I remember staying in this corner after the first procedure, then they moved me to this one across from it. Then there were the second and third procedures, and I came to this side of the ICU. I remember the clowns that came one afternoon, and I begged my mother to close the curtains so they would not come visit me. I remember the way morphine made me feel. I remember the markers and the brown bear brought to me by a volunteer. I named the bear after my doctor, and did neurological exams on it. I remember the pediatric psychiatrist who came and asked me if I disliked playing the violin when I told her my symptoms persisted, and if my brothers were a pain in the butt (that was the first time I ever heard that expression--pain in the butt. I was mad at her for suggesting such a thing.)

I remember my mother, who just came to the States two months ago and spoke very limited English. We didn't have any other family in this country. I remember how she stayed with me the entire time. The nurses brought her a blue armchair so she could be more comfortable, after they realized that they could never convince her to leave my side. I would translate what the doctors said, skipping over the things I did not understand myself, and she would ask questions that I knew and she knew they couldn't answer. She would get pork chop noodle soup from the Chinese restaurant a few blocks from the hospital and make the nurses drool when they came in to check on me. They called her mommy and she never complained about anything. We got hysterical over the silliest jokes. She cried once, but I didn't see it. She told me years later.

I played for a child and her grandmother. I could not focus on what I was playing as memories surrounded me, as clear and strong as if they happened yesterday. As I turned to leave, the grandmother asked, "Excuse me, what was that piece you just played?"

"One of my own improvisations, ma'am."

Isn't that what life is? A constant improvisation composed of the present, hopes for the future, and a past that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.