restorARTively

In my earnest efforts to improve the lives, illnesses, and deaths of anyone in the health care system I have had to share a rather personal story. All I have of my son is his memory. Yes, I am among the lucky bereaved parents that have surviving children. For each of them, there are memories about their births, illnesses and lives that will remain private. It is for our family to treasure. When my son died as a result of multiple preventable medical errors, negligence and sentinel events, I searched to hold onto everything that had his name or "print" on it. He never came home. So, all I had was whatever the hospital kept. Of course, I asked for his records. Why wouldn't I? That began a legal odyssey that wasn't intended at the outset. His memory became a legal argument . It became public information. Ironically, in buying back the right to speak about his life and death by refusing a $750,000 settlement with a gag order, I unwittingly gave James over to the...

The porch light is left on all night every night. There are seven Christmas gifts that have not been opened. His clothes are laundered, folded and tucked away neatly in a Rubbermaid container in the attic. His hospital beanie cap sits on my bureau. His portrait - dated by seven and a half years hands with his siblings which were all taken within a few months of today. He is here. But he is still missing. I have spent seven and a half years figuring out what happened to my son and then what I would do to be able to live with it. I am still figuring out. His body lays 8 feet or 9 feet under a small black marble slab with his name on it. The 32 plus x-rays taken in a day of his life probably are much more similar to him now than the photo sitting on my nightstand. Certainly the sternum wires are in tact. I am drawn to the cold, the wind, the snow. The sudden hush that blankest the bustling suburbia invites me to take a discreet and peaceful journey. I want to go back. Back to court. B...