It was well after midnight. Wrapped in my warm fleecy robe, I stood silently staring out the ninth-floor window of the daunting New York hospital at the 59th Street Bridge, sparkling like a Christmas tree. New York had always been special to me. "This is what the city is supposed to be about," I thought, dreading the morning and all its uncertainty.
The morning came. On March 17th, I was wheeled into surgery. Nearly twelve hours later, I was in recovery. Soon after, I was on my feet in my room, half-walking, half-propelled by medical equipment and family, ordered to walk the long hospital corridor.
It was then I first saw him. Through a haze of drugs and pain, he stood in a doorway. In my twilight state, he seemed more a spirit than a person, yet his body language radiated sympathy and encouragement.
For the next three weeks, this was my routine. As I grew stronger, he would be there, smiling and nodding as I passed with my family. On the fourth week, walking alone, I stopped at his doorway. He was a slender, dark-complexioned man. He introduced me to his wife and his listless teenage son in the bed. The next day, he walked with me. He explained they had come from Iran to this "hospital of hope" for their son. Things were not going well. He told me how my first painful walk had encouraged him, and how he was rooting for me. For weeks, we shared conversations, each giving the other the gift of caring and friendship. He found joy in seeing my family rally around me; I felt sadness for his family's lonely struggle far from home.
Miraculously, the day came when I was to be discharged. I told him that night. The next morning, he came to my room. I was dressed in a bright yellow dress that gave me hope. We talked. I promised to pray for his son. He thanked me but shrugged, his gesture heavy with hopelessness. We knew we would never meet again in this world. In his sorrow, he was happy for me. I felt his love. He took my hand and said, "You are my sister." I answered, "You are my brother." He turned and left.
My family came to retrieve me. After goodbyes from the staff, I was leaving the room I had entered with such trepidation seven and a half weeks before.
As I turned toward the elevator, my brother stood in his doorway, smiling, nodding, and giving his blessing.
Fourteen years have passed since that surgery. Much has happened in the world since our farewell. Yet I think of him often; he is in my heart as I feel I am in his. I remember his intense, dark brown eyes as we pledged ourselves as siblings. In that moment, I knew the Spirit of God hovered over us, blessing us with the knowledge that we are all one.
I have often pondered why we meet our dearest friends or bond so deeply when we are most vulnerable. I believe it is because in times of crisis—facing illness, loss, or catastrophe—we shed all pretense. Our hearts and souls open, and we accept the love and kindness of others as freely and thankfully as children do. This love is blind to race, color, and creed. It is a pair of dark brown eyes seeking a pair of very blue eyes, pledging a love that lasts through time.