Sympathy the Size of Texas - Kindness of Strangers

Four years ago, my wife and I received an unforgettable phone call. It was January 2 and coincidentally we were discussing how we would spend our time now that our three children were settled down and living away from home.

My son answered the phone. Within a few seconds, I realised something was terribly wrong. The call was from Mammoth Mountain in the US, where my daughter Fleur was living with her American husband. My son, quite distressed, passed me the phone.

A close friend of my daughter, her voice trembling, broke the news that Fleur had suffered a cardiac arrest during the night and was being medivaced to Los Angeles in a coma. I immediately phoned the hospital at Mammoth Mountain and spoke with the doctor. He said her condition was critical and that she might not live, pointing to a very extended period without oxygen.

My wife arrived at Loma Linda Hospital in California the following day. I followed her the day after, to find my daughter in intensive care on full life support. The ward was on the top floor, by the helipad. Time after time, a helicopter would land, medical personnel would rush a victim past the waiting room into the ward frantically trying to maintain life and, a little later, tortured friends and relatives would gather in the waiting room, some silent, some praying. My own way of coping was to walk up and down the hallway, watching tragedies unfold, seeing people receive hopeful news and reflecting on our fate.

On the second day, a family from Texas arrived with a family member who had been thrown from a horse. The victim’s brother, a towering man with a ten-gallon hat, the archetypal Texas cowboy, said to me, “Man, you gonna wear that carpet out there!” I barely smiled or acknowledged him.

A couple of days later, with my daughter worsening and the prognosis of a vegetative state if indeed she survived, the big Texan received good news. His brother would be moved from intensive care.

The Texan approached me in the waiting room. He’d obviously found out about my daughter’s condition. Spontaneously he hugged me and asked my daughter’s name.

He introduced himself as Ray. He took out his mobile phone and contacted his home-town church to ask the congregation to pray for Fleur.

I am not a religious man, but I felt totally moved by this act of genuine kindness. In hindsight, that helped me get through a traumatic ten days.
My daughter has made a remarkable recovery, although she has great difficulties with her memory. The good news is that she gave birth to a healthy baby, Abbie Rose, in February.