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Family's anguish in a hospital waiting room

Imagine a young mother walking home late after work. An SUV slams into her. Then relatives gather, and wait.

By ERIN SULLIVAN
Published December 2, 2006

INTENSIVE CARE UNIT, BAYFRONT MEDICAL CENTER - This is not their Eva. This can't be happening. She's their doll, shiny dark hair, warm eyes, full, rosy lips. She's tiny, 4 feet 81/2 inches and weighs just over 100 pounds. She's 19 years old, wears clothes from the kids' department, but is so mature. She doesn't party, drink or smoke.

Eva Alicea lives for her sons, Evan, 2 and Alan, 1. All she does is work and spend time with them. She just got a raise at her job cleaning at Heather Hill Nursing Home in New Port Richey. She's prayed so long and hard for this, some independence. Six months ago she and the boys moved from her mother's house to a one-bedroom apartment. She bought a Christmas tree for $25 and decorated it and got gifts for the boys.

She worked on Thanksgiving, and the family waited for her before they ate. She worked the day after, Friday, Nov. 24. She left work at 7 p.m. and walked home, in her navy scrubs. It's less than half a mile. She was across the street from her apartment on Massachusetts Avenue. She crossed there, instead of at the crosswalk. An SUV hit her.

The driver told police she ran in front of him. The Florida Highway Patrol said there is no evidence the driver did anything wrong.

Someone said Eva's body did three flips before hitting a lamp post.

Doctors say there is little hope for her.

But Eva's family, which is large and close, refuses to believe that. Their Eva is strong. Their Eva is too good to die like this. Their Eva will make it.

* * *

The family does not know what day it is. The calendar says it is Wednesday, Nov. 29. It is night. They've been living at Bayfront Medical Center since it happened.

Eva's sister, Jenice Romero, rocks at her side, her arms crossed. She looks at her sister and shakes her head. This is not Eva. Jenice moans, low, quiet:

"No, no, no, no, no."

Someone molded Eva's fingers around a Bible and draped ruby rosary beads over her wrist. Ugly stitches run the length of her face, which is attached to tubes which are attached to a machine which is breathing for her.

Eva's mother stands at the foot of the bed, her face blank. Margaret Alicea tries to be strong in front of her daughter, even though Eva probably doesn't know she's there. Margaret goes to Eva's side and soothingly brushes hair from her forehead. Then she turns and strides fast toward the exit and when her hand hits the door a loud, harsh sob breaks the quiet. She staggers to the hallway and sinks, her hand covering her face.

Jenice leans against the other side of the hall, eyes lowered, crying. She goes to her mother:

"Come on, Ma," she says. "Come on."

Margaret can't.

Jenice walks back to the waiting room. Margaret pulls herself up by a rail.

"I'm not giving up," she says so quietly, it's almost a whisper. "I can't leave her."

Whole family present

Eva's family has taken over the waiting room. Aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins. Eva's father, Jorge Alicea, is there from New York. Her mother's long-term boyfriend, Henry Martinez, is there.

"I feel like I haven't slept in days," Henry says to no one and no one answers.

The family naps on chairs, using jackets as pillows. Children, including Eva's boys, romp. Jorge and Henry make them paper airplanes. The family eats from vending machines. Change diapers on chairs. Take turns talking, crying, staring into space.

"We will never be the same again," Jenice says. "We don't know how to live life without her in it."

Margaret tries to control what she can. She folds clothes and sheets. Pushes suitcases neatly in a corner. Picks up crumbs from the floor. Washes bottles. Both of Eva's boys are in diapers. The family says Eva and the boys' father have been in an off-and-on relationship. He was not there Wednesday night.

Evan is the more sensitive son and likes to be held. He has full cheeks and dimples, like Eva. His dark, curly hair is long. He has asked for his mother.

Margaret tries to teach Alan to walk.

"Come on, come on."

He too has full cheeks and dimples. He has dark hair with one tidal-wave curl at the forehead. Margaret's arms are outstretched. Alan stands, wiggles his rump, laughs, wags his chubby fingers and then falls.

"Come on," Margaret says, standing him up again. "You can do it."

Margaret is not angry at what happened. She feels nothing, other than a deep longing for Eva to be okay.

"She'll be 20 soon," Margaret says and makes the sign of the cross and kisses her hand, "and everything will be all right"

Wait is over

Thursday night, at 10:30, the family gathers around Eva's bed. The doctors have done more tests. Without doubt, they say, Eva left them when she was hit by the car. Her brain is dead. They need to turn off the machine.

Margaret kisses her face.

"I don't want to let her go," Margaret thinks. "I can't."

She kisses her again.

"I love you," she says. "I will never forget you."

A nurse turns off the machine.

Eva does not breathe on her own. Soon she is gone.

Margaret and the family go home, but Margaret does not sleep. She cannot sleep. She just sobs because she wants her Eva back. And now more than ever, she does not know what to do. With waiting there had been hope.

This is the first in an occasional series focusing on moments in life: the pivotal, the seemingly mundane; everyday snapshots and life-changing crises. The things we remember. The things that comfort us. The things we want to forget. If you have a moment you would like to share, please contact Erin Sullivan.

She can be reached at esullivan@sptimes.com or 813 909-4609.

[Last modified December 1, 2006, 23:28:22]