ICU = International Community of Unity

When the ambulance came to my parent's house they knew right away that my father had suffered a stroke. They drove as fast as they could to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) at the HCMC hospital, located in downtown Minneapolis. This facility is known as one of the best in the country for stroke victims.

The ICU was located on the top floor and was it's own world, far away from the rest of the hospital. The "family room" for the families of patients was equipped with lockers, a TV, a computer with Internet, a refrigerator, microwave, and unlimited free coffee. We practically moved in and had someone (usually a large group) with my dad 24-hours a day. 

I admit to being more than a little surprised and proud that the ICU had such an international population. My father's room was between a Palestinian family next door to the right and a Native American family to the left. There was a Somali family across the hall and a Latino family at the end of the corridor. The refrigerator in the family room reflected this diversity with tortillas stacked on top of pita bread and cilantro-infused chicken leaning next to grilled lamb. During meal times the room overflowed with large families eating together and I was reminded of middle-school field trips to the "Festival of Nations," where food carts offered specialties from over 100 different countries.

One day the Native American family performed a healing ceremony and burned sage in their room. The nurses came let us know so we would know the source of that distinct smell as it wafted throughout the hallways. I was hoping that it would drift into my dad's room and help him too.

Not only were the neighbors multi-cultural but so was our own room. It was was filled with prayers from around the world. One of my dad's co-workers asked if he could bring an Israeli prayer cloth and we welcomed this gift. Tibetan prayer flags, hands of Fatima, and statues of Ganesha adorned the walls. My dad received messages and cards from around the world, from Norway, Malta, France, and my students in Mauritania. We read the letters to my dad and told him about all of the prayers around the world. Although my family is not very religious, this immense out-pour of love helped us get through those long days in the hospital. I am certain that showing my dad how much people love him from all corners of the globe helped him stay focused on getting better too. 

We felt that our neighbors genuinely cared about my dad's progress. We compared notes with all the families, asking questions such as, "is your father still on the vent?" "Did your mother pass the swallow test?" "Did your brother speak yet?" "Is your sister able to sit in a chair?" Small victories were celebrated together by everyone on the floor. The ICU became a large family of brothers and sisters and the doctors acted as parents. 

We cried when our neighbors cried and smiled collectively when there was good news. One by one, our neighbors left the ICU. We usually didn't get to say goodbye when the patients either passed away or healed enough to move to a room downstairs. We did our best to welcome the new arrivals. We watched the contents of the refrigerator shift. We waited for our turn to leave, praying it would be to a room downstairs and not upstairs. 

When we did leave the ICU to head for the 4th floor we were relieved to see the Palestinian, Somali, and Native American families. We mourned the missing Latino family and imagined that they had been released home. The 4th floor lacked a family room and it was open to patients from many other wards. The magic spell of the ICU that tied us together was broken and we were all left to our quiet privacy. I will never forget the unlimited kindness of everyone in the ICU and I still think about our old neighbors and send them wishes of health and recovery.