Follow in the Dark

By Andrea Scarpino

My dearest friend on the phone, telling me her 17-year-old daughter was in a car crash. Another girl was dead. Her daughter was airlifted to a Trauma II hospital. Severe brain injury. Coma. Broken back. Broken neck. This is why we invented prayer, another friend said. To have a sense of control, action, power in times of utter powerlessness.

I don’t normally believe that a higher power listens in to my desires. I don’t believe in an afterlife, in a heaven, a place where good souls go and bad souls long to be. I don’t believe in burning fires. I don’t believe that any one of us is born saved or damned. And push come to shove, I don’t believe the universe cares about any one of us. It’s just out there, doing its thing.

But with my friend’s voice on the phone, with her daughter’s picture in my hand, I prayed. To anyone or anything who would listen. I imagined her daughter bathed in blue healing light. Imagined her brain repairing itself, finding new connections. Her body bathing her brain in oxygen. With each breath, I reminded her how strong she is—a skater, an athlete. Told myself youth was on her side. I called my mother and asked her to pray. Called my step-mother. For the first time in decades, I kneeled beside my bed, clasped my hands in front of me, and begged, pleaded for recovery. This is the time for even atheists to pray, another friend said. I agreed. Blue healing light. Deep breaths. I repeated her name like a mantra, repeated, You are so strong. Over and over, You are so brave.

Then more news came: a follow-up MRI showed irreversible and widespread brain damage, no chance of recovery. This girl I’ve known since she was 4 years old, who I babysat, took to ballet, who squished her feet under my legs when she slept. Who wrote poetry, was incredibly sensitive to the world, loved her friends, her brother and sister, her family. Who painted her bedroom by hand, had beautiful hair and soulful eyes, who ended her texts to me with a smiley face. This girl.

So as my dear friend disconnected her daughter from life support, I sat with candles lit, a photograph. Zac and I told stories, held each other’s hands. I wished my friend strength, wished her daughter wouldn’t suffer. I asked her to go quickly, told her she could come back to visit any time but now, she needed to go. I thought about the lyrics to one of her favorite songs. An hour passed. As we each sent up one final wish and blew out the candles, I thought, again and again, I’ll follow you into the dark.

Andrea Scarpino is a frequent contributor to POTB. You can visit her at http://www.andreascarpino.com

Author: stevekuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by stevekuusisto