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very well, I always resented the barrier, those rules placed between mother and son, husband and wife, partner and partner. Maybe it was different for me, being a pediatrician. On the children’s ward we recognized the role comforting parents could play in their children’s recovery, or even their reaction to a painful procedure. There have been many articles written in the medical literature over recent years about the positive effects parents report when allowed to remain at the bedside of their children, even during code situations. Apparently no one here at the Brigham had read that literature.
    The time we spent listening for that waiting room phone to ring was stretched out, tense. Whenever it did ring, we all looked to one another, wondering who would answer it. There were no rules. If I answered the phone and it turned out the call was for me, allowing me to see my son, I felt vaguely guilty leaving all the others stranded out there, still blocked from their loved ones. If the call wasn’t for me, if it was for Alice or Maura, I would make silent eye contact and lift the receiver in their direction. But if the name was new, if I didn’t yet know who their family was, I would be forced to say their names out loud, then hand off the call. It felt so awkward and impersonal, giving over a phone so casually when the news could be so grave. What was the proper look? A slight smile? Pursed lips and worried eye contact?
    Sometimes we learned what happened to people. Sometimes we didn’t. Regal Alice just one day stopped appearing. The hockey player was discharged to his family, a bad concussion but no brain bleed.
    Maura’s partner did not survive her transplant. Small crowds hugged and cried in the waiting room. Maura still drew comfort from her web page. She read fitting tributes aloud through tears. Family and friends again lit candles and prayed, this time not for Julie’s survival but for her peace. Sitting on the corner of the couch, waiting for Neil to return from the operating room, I tried to make myself small, to give the room over to Maura in her grief. Part of it was out of respect, but part of it was also out of fear. Being part of the waiting room community was one thing, but I did not want to be a part of this new group: the grieving community. I felt a great gratitude in that moment. Neil was alive. He was coming home. We didn’t know what awaited us. But we knew it wasn’t this.

    The surgeon finally came in to say that everything had gone well. He showed us the X-rays, smiling. So proud of his work. None of my fears had come true. Neil’s blood pressure had remained stable, his heart strong. No bandaged head. No ventilator. Nothing more invasive than a simple IV. He came back to us just the way he left us: sleepy and confused.

10
    A Bad Dream
    If having my youngest son in an ICU in Boston with a head injury after being struck down by a drunk driver was a nightmare, then trying to reach my oldest son in Mexico to give him the news about his brother was a real bad dream. Dan was in between semesters of his freshman year at Goucher College in Maryland and was spending three weeks in Cuernavaca living with a Mexican family and learning to speak Spanish. He had been sending us short, newsy e-mails from a cybercafe in town every day or two: descriptions of the countryside, the food, and his host family. Funny stories of linguistic missteps—like the time he tried to tell a cab driver he was hot, meaning the environment was warm; only it came out “I’m hot,” as in “hot for you.” I tried not to be jealous when he told us how much he liked his madre there.
    When Dan left, he had given us an emergency contact number for the language program coordinator at his school. We gave him a phone card he could use in an emergency. We thought we had our bases covered. We hadn’t counted on this.
    We thought about sending Dan an e-mail, but we couldn’t count on him checking it right away. Besides, striking