From 1998-2000 I worked at a Pediatric Intensive Care Unit in a children’s hospital.. It was a life changing experience for me. I saw a lot of heart wrenching cases come in the door, as well as some real miracles.

Amos was eleven years old when he came to us. A cancer patient who was well versed with everything that could go wrong with chemotherapy. He had gone septic, and his body was wasted away.

For a number of weeks, he recovered on our unit. Still too sick to be on the regular floors. He was a favorite with the staff, a bright, well spoken boy that was kind to everyone. I never heard him complain about the course his illness had taken. He quietly would do what he could, and try to make his body work the best it could.

His parents were rare individuals who seemed to be in harmony about everything. Many times I would see moms and dads come in with a sick child and turn on one another. This couple did not. They worked together to make their son feel better and devoted all of their time to his recovery.

Amos had a younger brother named Martin, and I admired the way he would visit and make the best of a horrible situation.

The whole family seemed to exemplify what a real family could and should be. United, loving, kind. They were all bound together in so many ways, and projected a powerful bond. Visitors that came in often told us that they had always been like this. These were wonderful individuals who were loved and admired and spoken highly of by others.

Amos got better for a while, but eventually, his illness started to overtake his body. I remember it was Christmas time when he progressed to the point when he would have to be put back on a ventilator. He turned twelve on Christmas day. He was coherent, but struggling to breathe on his own. He said some final words to his family, and they administered the drugs that put him in a coma like state. On New Year’s Eve the doctor’s talked to his family. Amos was dying, and there was nothing to be done.

The family was devastated. I can still remember the mother crying behind a pulled curtain, the sound a hiccuping echo which seemed to reverberate around the unit.

The whiskey bottle was brought in by a family friend. It was the father who told us the story behind it.

The family had spent time in Europe, and the father had been a school teacher. In France, he had heard a story when Amos was first diagnosed with cancer about a sick French girl who lay dying in her bed. Her father, distraught by the child’s state, declared to the family that his daughter couldn’t die because she had never tasted champagne. So he instructed a servant to bring him a glass, and he pressed it to the child’s lips. When the liquor trickled down the girl’s throat, she swallowed and her eyes fluttered open. She was cured.

Amos’s father smiled when he related that story. The twelve year old scotch was to honor two things. First, the number of years Amos had been alive. Second, to remember the time that the family spent in Scotland, after Amos went into remission. They had all been grateful that Amos was better, and the two boys loved the country and their experience there.

As a general rule, alcohol of any kind was discouraged on the unit. But I think the nurses and doctors understood that the father was alone with his friend, and the two men needed to sit quietly, share a drink, and remember this remarkable boy. It was a way of dealing with a horrific situation, and allowed the father to let go of some of his grief.

The two men sat in the room all night on New Year’s Eve. As the night ended, the nurses allowed the father to add a small amount of the scotch to Amos’s tube feeding. It was a symbolic gesture, but they seemed to know that it would do no harm, and help the father come to grips with this lovely boy’s death.

The next day was New Year’s day. Once again the doctor’s talked to Amos’s family. Friends came to lend support, and without any fanfare or fuss, he was taken off the ventilator, and quietly passed away.

Later that day, I found the whiskey bottles in the trash. I tucked them away and smuggled them home. It got me some odd looks, but I knew they were special. I still have them, and every once in a while, I take them out, and think about that boy.

One thing I have learned from experiences like that, is that wonderful stories are out there. Ordinary people can do amazing things. I keep those two bottles because Amos’s story deserves to be told. He was a sweet soul, and as long as I have those things, I will remember him.

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Copyright  2008     Leland Pulley