I come from a very medical family and have been immersed in strange, critical, acute medical crises with family members. Vicki Forman captures the surreal fealings of being in the NICU, of dealing with various medical personnel, of feeling as if you are on one planet in the hospital and then a totally different planet as you drive home and try to carry on.

I distinctly recall a weird, surreal, painful drive home from Tufts New England Medical Center in Boston, up Rt. 93 to our home in Reading. (I had just left my mother, with whom I was very close, who was ill with a rare and confusing form of leukemia.) She was suffering in her hospital bed. I was in my van. It was late at night. The highway was eerily empty. I felt truly alone. I started to cry uncontrollably, the first release of the week really, and I started to yell up to the heavens, “Just what exactly do You want from us?” I pleaded. I begged. I lost it.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into our driveway. I wiped my face. I entered our kitchen, loaded the dishes in the dishwaher, realized we needed more milk and diapers for our newborn and crawled into bed, empty, scared, confused, and guilty. I was guilty of wanting my loved one to finally die, to let this insanity of suffering, ICUs and questionable procedures to end.

This happened 20 years ago. Vicki Forman’s writing put me right back there. There. That night. That year. That surrealness.

I wish the best for Vicki Forman and her family. I hope and pray for peace and serenity in the years to come. Acceptance may never come, or it may come in little snack-size bites, lasting no more than an hour or a morning. But, the ulitmate gift from the heavens of acceptance would be a goldeb gift for this family anf their “golden dragon”, Evan.

With appreciation and warmest regards.