January 2011
Dear Dr. Burghardt,
It’s taken me several weeks to begin this letter. Although I’m a writer, I’m not sure I’ll find the words to express my overwhelming gratitude to you, for so many things.
On December 2nd, I carried my six-year-old son into Children’s ER after he fell down some stairs at a friend’s. On the drive from our Cambridge neighborhood, I’d grown increasingly anxious as traffic slowed us down, darkness settled over the streets and Brennan fell asleep in his car seat. When I walked in those doors with Brennan in my arms, I had no idea of the extent of his injuries. It would be hours before I understood how badly he’d been hurt.
So many things could have gone wrong that afternoon, but the moment you appeared at Brennan’s side — and you rarely left him — I felt safer. I could see that you were truly attending to him, taking in everything about him and his condition. Assessing, monitoring, questioning, acting, advocating.
I know that you’re a mom, so you can imagine how I measured every word and gesture in that room, looking for clues and seeking assurance that Brennan would be fine. So once the gravity of his condition became apparent — once I realized that he might not be fine — it mattered more than I can say that you were the person on the other side of him, seeing that he got the care he needed, and then taking care of me. You walked with me to the OR, brought me a glass of water and a bag to carry my things, and sat beside me as I waited for my husband. You said just enough so that I didn’t feel alone. You let me sit in silence when I needed it.
And so, when Brennan came safely out of surgery, I thought of you and wished that I could thank you. I thought of you when he pointed to the space beside him in his hospital bed so that I would move closer, and again when I woke up, nose to nose with him, after I’d finally slept a bit, and he asked for his sister. I thought of you when he laughed later that day at one of Dr. Smith’s perfectly timed jokes, and the next day when he took his first hesitant steps down the hospital corridor.
And even now, when I drop Brennan off in his classroom and he runs to his friends, when he climbs on the furniture, picks on his sister, and tells crazy jokes of his own, I remember how you took care of him so that we could bring him home again. I’m so glad you were there for us, so glad we met. And I hope we’ll cross paths again in some other, much happier circumstance.
Yours truly,
Karen Dempsey (and John Commisso, Liddy and – of course – Brennan)
Karen Dempsey 