eleahy, Fri, September 4th, 2009

I placed a colander of freshly washed cherries on the picnic table.

“Mom brought me cherries every day when I was in the hospital,” my youngest brother Steve said, “and she read to me from The Wind and the Willows.”

“Really?” I said, “I never knew that.”

Steve had accidentally lit himself on fire, when he was about six years old. He had been playing with those old-fashioned white tip kitchen matches back in the 1960s before the fire department’s dynamic program Stop, Drop and Roll.

My oldest brother Bill and I were playing catch in the backyard, when we heard Steve screaming. I assumed one of my other brothers was chasing him, until he came to our second story bedroom window.

Billy and I looked up and a gust of wind caught the fire on Steve and sent it roaring high into the air, way over his head. Billy dropped his glove and ran into the house, up the stairs and put Steve’s fire out with his bare hands.

The next thing I remember is Steve being escorted down the driveway between my parents. Each had a hold of one of his little hands and his once white T-shirt was charred. They were on their way to the hospital. I could feel his hot tears in my own, running down our faces.

That was the last I really saw my little roommate for about six weeks. At first it was just suppose to be overnight, then a few days, then a week and then his treatment dragged on, as he had incurred third degree burns, and needed a skin graft.

He had been a constant companion of mine. We laugh today when Steve recalls how us five children were always referred to as, “The boys and Ellen and Steve.”

“What does that make me?” he jokes.

“The baby?” I say.

I would get reports of Steve’s condition, but was not allowed to visit. I heard the nurses loved him and he was getting lots of toys. Not a surprise, as Stevie was always an entertainer.I mean he had bits and impersonations even at that age, plus a sunny nature and a sparkle that even that fire didn’t extinguish.

The only way I could make contact was to go to the hospital parking lot with my mom and wave at him. I seem to recall him being on the sixth floor, and not really being able to make him out - but as I looked up the big brick building, something seemed to move in the appropriate window.

That incident was perhaps 45 years ago and Steve’s suffering and my sadness are long gone. The ugly scar that was once the left side of his back is now about a six-inch square patch of rough, red skin like a topographical map. I bring this up, as I just toured the Golisano Children’s Hospital at Upstate Medical Center. I had heard there were all these amenities so the patient’s family could stay bonded but wasn’t quite sure what they were talking about.

And then it all came rushing back, as Upstate administrator Leola Rodgers explained the purpose of the new hospital’s design and how it would function. Parents could stay at a child’s bedside if needed.

Family members including siblings could visit and even hang out. The family would be able to maintain a sense of structure for the patient alongside the health care professionals.

Inside I was having this emotional response, as if I were vibrating. I felt like crying, but felt elated, too. I had to pause and compose myself. I was reliving the anxiety of that summer when Steve and I were separated by the hospital. Ultimately what I was feeling, to borrow an adjective from Billy Fuccillo, was a HUGE sense of relief. Health care was addressing the rest of the story, the whole person and their extended family.

Later when I spoke with Dr. David Smith, who is the head of Upstate, and also a pediatrician, he told me how this is only the beginning, a model of care they hope to produce throughout the entire healthcare system, not just with the children.

Essentially it is care that addresses an accident victim or person dealing with an illness’ very real fear with comfort.

Ellen Leahy is the editor of the City Eagle – reach her at city@cnylink.com or 434-8889 ext. 319.