this is what healing looks like.

On the second floor of a big glass building is a young boy with a still bloodied scar down his chest. He is plugged into life saving machines that pull blood through a sore rib cage and stuck with needles. A small tube runs across his face administering oxygen; his hands and feet are strapped to the bed. It’s hard to believe, but this is what healing looks like.

The many people that orbit the boy have had their share of clash in the past. I personally have not seen the boy’s father since the day he came to tell me that he would no longer be mine, but here we are together again in a dark room where the only light comes from the green numbers on a monitor that tell us the boy is alive. He gives me a long tight squeeze and although this is not how I imagined it, this is what healing looks like.

The young boy’s even younger brother stands glued to the floor where he stands. He has never seen his brother like this. I have, this is not the first time we have been here. That first time the young boy was very young, almost impossibly young. Young enough to still be carried like a baby. After that first time, I had nightmares where I would hold my little brother on my hip and his body would split right down the middle. In the dreams, he was hollow inside. I watch my brother process similar fears. My mother whispers to him, “It’s okay to be afraid. Basya had nightmares the first time we took Joey home from the hospital, it is scary, but it is okay.” He looks at me like that can’t be true. I nod. And though you may not notice it if you’re just quickly passing room 2017, this is what healing looks like.

That night we leave the hospital to let our brother rest. We lie in bed and watch episode after episode of Stranger Things. It is nice to know that things could be stranger. Our small dog falls asleep snoring loudly between us. We don’t stop until we’ve finished the season. It’s hardly healthy habit building, but sometimes, this is what healing looks like.

The next morning, the young boy is awake. It’s time to shower him with presents and love. We make our way to the hospital with hands loaded full of gifts and candy. I made a card. The grandmother of the young boy, who used to be a grandmother of mine, loves the card. It has a big pink beating heart at its center. She tells me she used to love seeing my art. She misses seeing my art. It’s weird and uncomfortable and this is what healing looks like.

The young boy is awake but can hardly lift his head. He does not want to talk or eat. His brother does the only thing he can do and gets in the bed beside him. With their chests rising and falling in harmony, it is easy to see that this is what healing looks like.

Behind the curtain at the back of the room their father, a self proclaimed non-believer, gently unwraps the leather straps of his tefillin from his forearm. Looking for a sweatshirt to combat the cool temperatures of the ICU and not knowing he was there I pull back the curtain. Our eyes meet and understanding passes between them. I roll the curtain back into place, because this is what healing looks like.

The truth is it is not the healing I had seen advertised, nor the healing I had wanted, but this right here is my healing. Messy, awkward, and even painful; this is what healing looks like.