“She’ll never speak again. In the accident she damaged both her expressive and receptive speech centers.” The doctor went on, “This means you’ll never know if she can’t say something or that she doesn’t understand you.” Expressive and receptive aphasia they commonly and casually call it.

I knew she understood because she would turn the “get-well” cards upright when she opened the envelope. She could read and knew which way the words went. 

We tried everything to draw out her voice. All attempts were met with a coy, childlike smile, as if she was playing a game. Images of her favorite things, no response. Flash cards of familiar places and things, nothing. “What is this Vallee?” More nothing. 

She remained silent for weeks, No response to prompting, teasing, testing, or guessing. She woke and slept in great rhythms. Everything healing and coming along … but no speech. Nothing. 

“We know you have a great faith, but you shouldn’t expect her to ever talk.” They gently reminded me. I stuck my fingers in my ears – lalala, “I can’t hear you. YOU don’t know my God!” 

When we were alone, I’d put my face to hers, looking straight into her eyes, I’d say, “I know you’re in there. I know you understand me – talk damnit!” 

The room was always busy. On this floor, few recover. Not only was she recovering, she was a bright stop for nurses, doctors, and those training to become doctors. In truth she was closer to the age of the med students. Closer at least than other neuro ICU patients who had suffered a stroke. Most would never get better, but she did. Each day slowly returning to herself. Slow and steady with no setbacks. Nothing short of miraculous. A great encouragement to the nursing staff. And as always, another visit from the med students.

“We’ve come to say ‘good-bye’. Your daughter’s recovery has meant so much to us.” said the petite asian girl selected to speak for the group. “We’ll miss her and we wish her the best.” 

Good-byes resounded from the group of bright eyed students. Like the refrain from a familiar piece of music. 

“Good-bye.”       “Adiois!”      “Good luck.”

“Vallee, they’re leaving. Say ‘Good-bye.’” – nothing save the widening of her uneven smile. 

Each chimed in as they came into the room to say good-bye. Warm smiles and waves as they filed back out into the hallway. The last one, a taller thin student. He had a certain gentleness and a beautiful smile. Not to mention his wonderful head of black curly hair with flawless dark skin and darker eyes. 

“Good-bye. It has been wonderful to witness your progress. We’re off to a different rotation, but I will never forget you and your strong will to recover.” He nodded to me as he bowed gently.

My daughter’s smile widened. 

“He’s leaving Vallee!” I knew he had caught this teenager’s attention. 

“Say good-bye!” I encouraged her.

He turned to join the others in the hall. 

“Vallee, you’ll never see him again! Say good-bye!” 

“ByE!” came her hoarse screech. 

From deep inside her teenage crush God pushed her to do what no one expected, except me. The doctors, all full of their knowledge and me full of a mother’s intuition and determination. Blind hopefulness? Maybe. They did nothing to encourage me, yet I was full of hope in God’s power. “She’ll never talk.” But doctors, she did. To say “fare well” to a handsome med student who may remember that God is present has the power to heal where there seems no hope.