It was well after mid-night, wrapped in my warm fleecy robe I stood silently staring out the ninth floor window of the daunting New York hospital. I was staring at the 59th Street Bridge. It was as sparkling and beautiful as a Christmas tree. New York city has always been special to me： the Broadway theatre, the music, the restaurants from the deli’s to the Tavern-On-the-Green. “This is what the city is supposed to be about,” I thought, dreading the morning to come and all the uncertainty it held. But the morning did come and at nine a.m. on that March 17th, I was wheeled into an operating room. Eleven hours and forty-five minutes later I was wheeled into a recovery room, and a very few hours after being returned to my own hospital room, I found myself actually on my feet, half walking, half propelled by medical equipment and members of my f***ly. The orders were to walk the length and back of the long hospital corridor.
It was then that I first saw him. I saw him through a haze of drugs, pain and the dreamy unreality that this could be happening to me. He was standing in the doorway of a hospital room. In my twilight, unfocused state I saw him almost as a spirit shape rather than a full blown person. Yet the body language of this shape was somehow sending out sympathy and encouragement to me.
This became my daily routine for the next three weeks. As I gained a little more strength the man would be standing in the doorway,