Crossing the River by Amy Ragsdale Read Free Book Online

back of his head down to his left ear. His CAT scan had checked out normal, and I’d been able to give him the running score of the World Cup finals, which, of course, the CAT scan technicians had been watching in between patients.
    But it wasn’t over. They wanted to keep Skyler for observation, be sure he could keep food down, be sure there was really no braintrauma. As the evening wore on, Skyler and I were transferred from room to room, as space was needed. We watched as the gate clanged open and an increasing number of cases, each more gruesome than the last, were wheeled through. Was this standard Sunday-evening fare, or had things been exacerbated by whipped-up passions surrounding the World Cup? We shared rooms with men who appeared to have been shot, knifed, beaten. We listened to them wheezing into respirators, watched blood clotting their bandages. Privacy was not an option.
    I’ve always dreaded the possibility of ending up in a rural hospital in a developing country, with their mildewed walls, gaping entrances, and flies in the operating room. I remembered my mother talking about a hospital in Cairo when I was twelve. She’d gone in to help a young American woman who’d been turned inside out by the local food. When my mother found her, blood was going up her IV tube rather than the rehydrating solution going down. As an adult, I’ve heard that’s not so uncommon, but as a child, it left a graphic picture of why you should never end up in one of those hospitals yourself. I now know, however, that they can be full of smart, experienced, kind people, capable of saving your son’s life.
    We met a lot of people at the trauma center, which served the surrounding fifty-two towns. They came to help, to interpret, or just to check in on the Americanos (clearly a novelty): Fabiana, a rotund, genial surgeon who spoke good English and gave me restaurant recommendations for her hometown of Maceió; Dr. Lobo, the taciturn neurosurgeon; Lima, the blue-eyed guard who gently ushered us from place to place; Tonya, the whiskey-voiced head nurse; Ivanildo, a lab technician who wanted to practice his English and talk about American music; and of course, Cassia, the ambulance nurse from Penedo, who stayed with us for the next four hours when she could have gone home. She held me tight when my eyes filled with tears, on hearing Skyler’s CAT scan was normal.
    Being a person who is quick to tears (not necessarily of sadness, but of inspiration, empathy . . .), it was surprising I didn’t bawl with relief. But I find in crises like these, my mood drops to calm, like a Ferrari dropping its weight into the pavement getting ready for a high-speed ride through unpredictable curves. Instead of feeling hystericalabout Skyler, the emotional intensity of the situation bound me fundamentally and unforgettably to everyone around me. My tears came months later, when I ran into Cassia on the street in Penedo. Then, my gratitude for her companionship and care in this moment came flooding out.
    Released too late to go back to Penedo, we spent the night in a small hotel and delivered flowers to the trauma center staff the next day before returning home. Thanks to the Brazilian healthcare system, the entire event, ambulance and all, was free.
    When we got back to Penedo, everyone seemed to know what we’d been through.
    â€œ Seu filho? ”—Your son?—strangers stopped to ask.
    I knew they were wondering who we were, how, like aliens, we had landed in their town. But no one addressed that now. This was more important. I was a mother with a son, and he had been hurt.
    You’d think I might have asked myself at this juncture whether this had all been a mistake—this pulling our kids out of school in the United States, away from friends, putting our jobs on hold, risking our kids’ lives (or so thought some of our friends). But as a person who tends to keep moving forward once I’ve