Gail Carson Levine, Ella Enchanted
During the first week of February 2018, I flew from St. Louis to Miami, then out to San Diego, before heading back east with a late night arrival into Jackson, Mississippi.
As I prepared to board the plane for the final leg of the journey, I received a text from Tim, a dear friend back home. One of the financial advisors on his national sales team had shared some heartbreaking news in a weekly check-in: His neighbor’s young son had been involved in a terrible car accident a few weeks earlier. The boy, just eight years old, had suffered a massive head injury, and was not expected to survive.
Shortly after the accident, the boy’s parents were given a copy of On Fire. They were inspired by my story, and by the reality that miracles still happen despite dire statistics. Could I reach out to his parents to offer support? Tim asked.
I texted Tim back and asked him to track down their mailing address, so I could send a note and a care package.
After landing four hours later, I turned my phone back on. There was a detailed message from Tim providing the parents’ names and phone numbers, and the mailing address of the hospital where their son, Curtis, was being treated.
I stared at my phone in shock.
That hospital was Memorial Hospital, in Jackson, Mississippi.
A chill went down my spine.
I had just landed in Jackson, a city that I’d never even been to before. I knew at that moment that this trip was about much more than a speaking event. That I needed to see this family in person.
Even though it was late, I reached out to the boy’s parents, and scheduled a visit at the hospital the following morning.
After arriving, I made my way to the elevator and exited on the floor where Curtis was being treated and practically walked into his parents, Adrienne and Brad. They were anxiously awaiting Curtis’s return from another early-morning surgery.
We sat down and began to chat. I learned that Curtis had been spending the weekend with his grandfather when they were involved in a serious single-car accident. The car was so demolished that when the first responders arrived on the scene, they rescued the grandfather and assumed their work was done. It was only after his grandfather asked how his grandson was doing that the EMTs realized there was a second person in the car.
They cut Curtis out of the car and airlifted him to Jackson.
He wasn’t expected to survive the night.
When his parents arrived early the next morning, they rejoiced that he was still alive. And prayed that he could keep beating the odds.
Curtis had been fighting for his life for the last three weeks. He was still in critical condition, with extensive swelling of the brain. He still hadn’t shown any real signs of life or purposeful movement.
I asked about his prognosis.
Brad took a deep breath. The doctors were amazed Curtis had made it this far. But they weren’t promising anything. If he did pull through, there were likely to be lasting effects from his brain injury. They expected severe cognitive delays and thought it unlikely Curtis would speak again. He might never regain his sight.
I saw what the weight of this news was doing to his parents. But then Adrienne told me, “They can say what they want. I just want my son back. Regardless of his condition or how different he might be, I want the chance to keep loving my boy.”
My eyes welled with tears. I couldn’t imagine what they were going through.
With that, the doors to the elevator opened, and several nurses, doctors, and transporters emerged, pushing a hospital gurney.
Curtis was out of surgery.
The entourage stopped briefly to let Brad and Adrienne see their son.
The large gurney practically swallowed the boy. His light-colored hair poked out from a blue helmet that protected his skull against any further damage. Tubes tethered him to the machines that trailed behind him giving him a chance at life.
After a brief moment with their son, Brad and Adrienne let the medical team continue their journey down the hall. Curtis was pushed into the ICU, and the double doors shut behind them.
We stared despondently at those doors for a bit. It’s wildly disheartening when your child is rolled away, out of sight, a picture of how completely out of control you feel.
I turned back to Adrienne and Brad, “He’s a beautiful boy. I understand why you want him home. I bet his siblings are eager to see him, too.”
Brad and Adrienne exchanged a look.
“They haven’t visited yet,” Brad said. “We don’t know how they’ll react when they see how much Curtis has changed. We don’t want to scare them. And we’re not sure Curtis would want them to see him like this.”
I nodded. I understood their concerns. But also knew how lifesaving it could be to have your siblings by your side.
When I was stuck in a hospital bed for five months as a nine-year-old, no matter how severe my physical pain, how deep my sorrow, or how intense my fear, I knew that once a week, on Sundays, my entire family would come visit. I looked forward to it all week.
In the early stages of my recovery, when my eyes were still swollen shut due to all the fluids they’d pumped into me to cool my body temperature, my ears were anxiously listening for the sounds of their voices echoing down the halls. I have five siblings. Before the accident, all I’d wanted was my own room, my own space, and a little peace and quiet. Afterward all I wanted was my old life back. I longed for the noise, the raucous sounds of my family, and our messy, beautiful life.
Once the swelling subsided and I could open my eyes, their smiling faces reminded me how much I was loved. And after months of Sundays in my hospital room, when the staff finally allowed us to eat Sunday brunch together as a family in the cafeteria, it was as if new life was being breathed into me, sitting around the table with my family again. That dose of normalcy was vital. It reminded me who I was and all I was fighting for.
While everyone else was afraid to touch me, my older brother, Jim, would hug me every time he entered my room. My sisters Cadey, Amy, and Susan took turns gently rubbing my back to alleviate my pain. I remember being in my wheelchair, unable to move, when my two-year-old sister, Laura, came running down the ICU hallway (ignoring the admonishing nurses), climbed up onto my lap, and snuggled against me.
Now, don’t get me wrong: Before I was burned, my siblings and I fought all the time. We wrestled, yelled, pouted, taunted, and tattled. And we returned to that same sense of normal the day I came home from the hospital! But during the months of recovery after I was burned, we set aside sibling rivalry and bickering to come together. The pats and back rubs and hugs and smiles didn’t take away my pain, but they served as an awesome weekly reminder that we were going to get through this—together.
They gave me a palpable sense of belonging.
And that sense, sparked by their visits, just might have saved my life.
Why were the visits from my siblings so life-giving? Why did they inspire me to push through the week ahead? What is it about our connection with others that can fill our lives with purpose, joy, and meaning, and give us the will to continue on?
We are a social species, and our brains are wired for it. When you watch someone pick up a glass of water to drink, you can begin to feel thirsty yourself, thanks to mirror neurons. “We are hardwired to perceive the mind of another being,” says Dr. Daniel Siegel, clinical professor of psychiatry at UCLA School of Medicine and author of Mindsight.1 In other words, these neurons help us empathize with others in real time.
Neuroscientists believe mirror neurons helped our ancestors to survive. We needed a tribe to help protect us, find food, and provide shelter. Because we needed this interdependence to simply survive, we developed mirror neurons so that if one of the tribe members saw a threat to the tribe’s well-being, the other members of the tribe would pick up on the fear and escape to safety, even if they couldn’t see the threat themselves.
Think about that. Mirror neurons make our emotions contagious. It means that your mood can affect everyone else in the room.
I can be angry walking into my house, and without my saying a word, my kids are going to pick up on it. Or I can walk off a plane exhausted and full of anxiety and stress, and my colleagues are going to feel it, too.
Or I can walk into an auditorium and be fired up about life, and the audience can feel my excitement without me even saying a word.
In fact, Nicholas A. Christakis, a social scientist from Harvard, and James H. Fowler, a political scientist at the University of California, San Diego, found that you are 15 percent more likely to be happy if one of your friends is happy.2
It makes you wonder about the company you keep, right?
Our connections with others matter, and matter greatly.
When my siblings walked into my hospital room, they dispelled the worry and negativity and fear surrounding me, and instead brought joy. I’m sure my parents didn’t enjoy managing five children of various ages in a hospital room with their son hooked up to tubes and machines and buttons that they shouldn’t touch. But I’m so grateful they did.
They lifted my spirits. Gave me a sense of belonging, to dispel all the loneliness I felt in that hospital room.
And gave me something else that was just as life-giving.
While most people approached cautiously wearing hospital gowns and gloves, afraid to touch me lest they cause me pain or trigger an infection that could be deadly, my siblings raced to hug me. And in doing so, they helped me to heal.
Loving, physical touch does more than just feel good; it can possess healing properties. It has been proven to activate the immune system, lower levels of the stress hormone cortisol, and increase levels of the bonding hormone oxytocin.
We didn’t always know this. We used to keep premature babies exclusively in their incubators in the NICU. But a study conducted in 1988 discovered that infants who were massaged for just fifteen minutes a day gained weight 47 percent faster than those who remained alone in their incubators, even though they were given the same amount of nutrients. The babies who were touched were also discharged from the hospital six days earlier than those who were not touched.3
Why? It goes back again to our early roots. When we are deprived of parental touch as children, our bodies think that we are on our own. Our metabolism then slows down to protect us because being alone means we don’t know where our next meal will come from. And a slower metabolism stunts our growth in the long term.
Babies who are not held fail to thrive. While seeking to discover why orphanages were reporting infant mortality rates of 30 to 40 percent, researchers determined that a certain level of touch is required in order to turn on production of our growth hormones.
Today, we strive to place children under the age of five in foster homes, instead of bureaucratic institutions, because we have learned how important consistent, loving touch is to children. Institutions just don’t have enough staff to keep up with human infants’ need to be cuddled, snuggled, and rocked. Today, hospitals seek “cuddle volunteers” to visit the NICU so that babies can be held even when their exhausted parents need to catch up on rest.
And touch remains a powerful force for good long after our toddler days. A supportive touch from a teacher can double the likelihood of a student volunteering in class. A gentle massage from a loved one can decrease depression. Even a high five from a teammate can increase your connection to the rest of the team and improve chances of winning. Research shows that the most successful professional sports teams are those that touch the most throughout the game.4
Why?
Because touch helps us feel like we belong.
After listening to Brad and Adrienne’s concerns about having their other children visit, I shared how the hugs and cuddles and handholding and love from my siblings might have saved my life. And encouraged them to bring Curtis’s siblings to visit.
They thanked me for my advice. We exchanged phone numbers, hugged goodbye, and promised to stay in touch.
The following weekend I got a text from Brad. “Hate to bother you on a weekend. I wanted to share this video.”
I eagerly clicked Play, and my screen began to show Curtis in an oversized hospital bed, blue helmet on, acting a bit agitated as he is being encouraged to sit up. The effects of his brain injury are evident. He still can’t speak, or see. He doesn’t smile. But it is clear he can hear the instructions of his parents. He is moving on his own.
From behind the camera, I hear Brad saying, “Curtis, your little brother and sister are here to see you.”
Curtis’s brother, age four, and sister, six years old, have been placed right next to him on the bed.
Curtis blindly reaches out with his right hand to find his siblings. He feels the body of his brother, and then reaches up to touch his face. As his hand feels the bangs of his brother, then his nose, a small smile of recognition appears on his face.
Curtis then rubs his four-year-old brother’s face up and down, up and down, up and down, smiling all the while. And the entire time there is a look of peace, comfort, and connection on Curtis’s face.
Overcome with emotion, Curtis stops patting his brother’s face and uses his hand to begin wiping tears from his eyes.
Off camera there is the sound of crying from the adults in the room. It’s an intense moment of pure, unscripted, unconditional love.
After wiping his tears and composing himself, Curtis turns his head to his right, unable to see, but with the perfect vision of his heart he begins waving excitedly at his little brother.
Who sheepishly waves back.
The two continue waving at each other until Curtis reaches out, grabs his brother by the neck, pulls him in close, and cuddles him tightly for ten seconds. Finally, Curtis kisses his brother’s head and exhales deeply, as if to say, Okay, that’s what I needed. Let’s do this.
I’ve watched the video dozens of times. I cry every time. Because I see a little boy coming back to life through the presence and touch of his siblings.
A couple of weeks later, Brad sent me another video. This one was of Curtis sitting up, trying to tie his shoes. Stunningly, his eyesight had returned.
Not long after, Brad forwarded another video. Of Curtis speaking to his mom. His ability to talk had returned.
The last video he sent shows Curtis and his little brother playing catch in the backyard of their home in Louisiana.
Adrienne got her wish. Curtis came home.
How could this have happened? The medical community at Memorial can’t explain it.
The skeptics may call it simply good luck. Cynics might say Curtis wasn’t that seriously injured.
After I chatted with his parents, we agreed: we believe it’s the healing power of God’s love.
And sometimes that profound healing occurs through the contagion of joy, through the innocent, accepting, life-affirming touch of others.
We were not made to go through life alone.
We need to remember the curative power of a cuddle, and the amazing effects it can have on our body and our psyche.
We need to remember the power of a simple high five to elevate play and encourage greatness.
We need to recall the power of a hug to help us share our burdens and remember that we’re not alone, that we belong.
Most of us commute to work in our cars, alone, or plug into our devices on public transportation. When we wave to acquaintances or chat amiably with the cashier, it’s often at a surface level.
It’s time to dig deep, my friend. We let ourselves be ignored, but we long to be seen.
We desire to be heard.
We want to be known.
We pray to be loved.
We want to belong.
Without true connection, we will wither away.
With it, we survive, sustain, and thrive, together.