Edited by Roxanne K. Young, Associate Editor.
The businesspeople in the Newark Airport Ambassador
Lounge wear their importance on starched faces. Card-carrying members of the
upwardly mobile, able-bodied set, they sip café mocha over cylindrical
pretzels, while ambidextrously scanning the Internet for urgent e-mail. The
word-pressured, time-pressured cerebral hemispheres are benignly neglectful
of a world beyond self.
The bell is ringing in my reverie as I sit in the lounge, laptop in
front of me. He is calling. The man who never called on me before, who never
called on anyone—for anything. It is my turn to answer the auditory
call-light in our homespun ICU. "COM-ING!" I shout, dashing down the dark,
thin hallway to his room—the room my parents slept in for all the years
of my life; the room into which I would tiptoe as a child, 3 AM, trembling
from a nightmare, to beckon them to my aid.
Greengold NL. Stroke. JAMA. 1999;282(8):716-717. doi:10.1001/jama.282.8.716