Micah

Micah was a long, thin stork of a boy, a 19-year-old, neurologically devastated man-child, lovingly cared for by his grandparents for many years. His mother had been young, shiftless, irresponsible, into drugs, and had never really been around much. He’d had a hemispherectomy for intractable seizures as a little boy and had only been minimally responsive since then. Micah had rarely been hospitalized but was now my patient due to aspiration pneumonia.

The story is sadly common. I have taken care of many children like Micah. I reviewed his chart and was ready to listen to his chest, check the pulse oximeter, assess his stability, and talk with his grandmother.

I walked into the room to meet Micah and his grandmother. The room was darkened, and my patient was asleep. I jumped with a shock of recognition, as my own mother stood up and said, “Hello, Doctor.” There she was—my mom, who had been dead for 10 years. She was standing right in front of me, with her sweet southern accent, in her matching Alfred Dunner blouse and slacks and sensible shoes, holding onto her red rolling walker. Her brown hair was softly curled as always, with a wing of white along one temple. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I stared.

She walked toward me, pushing her walker, and as she came into the light, I saw that she was not my mom. Of course. My heart slowed down. But I had never seen anyone (even …