trains and helicopters

About 24 hours ago, I finished moving into my new dorm.

Why the move? Not important. It should suffice to say that I am in a better place now.

Or am I?

Last year, I lived in the middle of campus, very close to the main hospital which also had a helicopter landing pad. Often I'd take visiting friends to a bench in a grassy area outside of our library. We'd sit and take in the night, telling stories of things that had happened during our time apart. We'd conjure up images of grand and fantastic experiences, each one building off of the last, each one trying to be grander and more fantastic than the last. And with some luck, and interesting phrase in this case, a helicopter would come racing overhead and land not 50 meters away on the top of the hospital building. The noise was deafening, but we would watch in awe. Since it was impossible to see anything by the massive rotors once the helicopter had landed, we could only imagine what was going on up there.

Our blocked vision was probably a blessing, because the truth of what was going on up there is scary. For someone to be airlifted to or from a hospital means, to mince words a bit, things are not going so well. It means that the staff attending to the patient in the helicopter did not think that the patient could survive an ambulance ride, whether because of timing or stability issues or otherwise. Bottom line: Not good. At all. In fact, bad. Very bad.

But 80 meters below we were ignorant to the desperation above, and so we would sit, waiting for the rotors to start up again, and the helicopter to slowly hover and then speed off. Again, another very cool sight.

In my new dorm across campus, I live now with the train tracks on one side of my building and once again a hospital, this time the children's hospital, on the other. Twenty-four hours in this new dorm and I've heard roughly 6 trains and 20 - check that, now 21 helicopters - not to mention the numerous ambulance sirens. For someone who doesn't sleep much to begin with, it's a bit less than ideal.

The trains come and go, and it's about 30 seconds to a minute of rumbling. But, now, outside of my window, I can see the signal light for the helicopters ceaselessly revolving, and when a helicopter lands or takes off, I have a perfect view straight out of my third floor, 1.5 meter tall by 2.5 meter wide window. It's a widescreen, highdef view in full living color of a 3-10 year old boy's fantasy. Yes, it's loud and obnoxious, on the one hand, but on the other it's oh so cool!

And on the other...

Well, there's a reality to it. Children in critical to near-death conditions are being rushed to and from one of the leading pediatric hospitals in the nation. At 2:30 AM when I'm trying to get to sleep, and 8:30 AM when I'm trying to sleep in, and 1:00 PM when I'm trying to watch a movie, kids are fighting for their lives. And at 3:30 PM when I'm starring out of my window watching this incredible view of magically machinery in motion, doctors, EMTs, paramedics, nurses, and other medical professionals are fighting for them, too.

What then?

El nah r'fah nah lah. Please God, heal her now.

My inner 7-year-old boy and my inner insomniac meet with my inner humanity and together say the words of a desperate Moses as he prayed for the health of his sister.

Simple words. Words that could come to the lips of anyone standing over the body of a loved one. Words that despite my fascinated and restlessness give appropriate pause and perspective. So that I can try to go to sleep. Or keep on watching. But never misunderstand the awesome power of a helicopter.

ALS

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