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Alan McKean
Twelve years ago, on April 2, 1989, 76-year old Marge was sitting at the bottom of a freeway ramp, waiting for the green. Coming up behind her, after driving all night returning home from bible camp, was a sixteen-year old boy. Asleep at the wheel. He rammed her from behind at 60 mph. Marge's passenger (and best friend) was killed instantly. Marge broke her neck and has been locked-in ever since. She spends her days in a hospital bed, completely paralyzed, unable to swallow voluntarily or speak, and blinded by optic nerve damage. She has all of her faculties but can't move or communicate other that by blinking her eyes to indicate "yes." Despite the doctors' prognosis that she wouldn't survive the night, she has survived the last twelve years.

Her husband was 83 at the time. Since that time, he has traveled the mile or so each day to her hospital room, leaving his house at 8 AM and staying by her side until 5 PM. Every day except for five days due to illness or snow. He sits by her side, alone with her, to keep her company and to attend to her. Scratching her nose when it itches, putting Vaseline on her lips when they are dry, and comforting her when she cries, and reminiscing. They are a wonder to me. If there has ever been a bond that lives on, it is theirs. Their plight is a terrible one, but they have something that few of us will ever have. It pains me greatly to see them suffer when they are such remarkable people. They are my parents and I love them very much.

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