It was a sunny day sometime in August, as I walked past you. She sitting in the

frontyard of a small, dirty-looking house, your brown long hair reflecting the sun, your eyes fixed on the paper in font of you. You were wearing a violet long sleeve shirt and beige long pants.

I can see it right before me. You nibbeling at the end of your pencil, looking up into the sky, as if the answer to the question that really seemed to bug you was written there. You must've been only 8 years by that time.You were lost in your own little world, like only children can. Although your world was a little bit more serious than the one of other little girls.

I remember watching you for seI remember the first time I saw you.

veral minutes, amazed by the innocent curiosity that surrounded you. I was torn between the desire to talk to you and the need to go home and feed my cats. Just then you noticed me staring. You turned your head just a little, looking at me with those dark, chocolate eyes, the serious expression in them making me

gasp.

I'll never forget the first time I met Sara Sidle.

Now, several years later, I am standing at the front desk of a Las Vegas hospital, trying for 30 minutes now, to convince the lady behind the glass wall that I'm not here to abuse the privacy of someone I don't know but need to see and old friend of mine, lying in one of those ICU beds fighting with death.

"Miss, I really understand that you can't let just anybody in to visit a patient whose face has been seen on the TV screen hundreds of times during the last week. But Sara really needs me right now."

Some people just make me sick. To my surprise, I see the clerk reaching under the table, pulling out some papers for me to fill out. I sigh my 'thank you' and go back to the plastic chairs in the waiting area.

You never needed to call for help on the really important things. Like your mother killing your father, or you being put under a red mustang and rescued after two long days, alive but in a coma. These things I read out of the newspaper.

Back when you were 8, I promised you that I'll be there whenever you need me and I won't break my promise now.

After having answered every question on my paper and being allowed to stay at the ICU, I stand now right before your room-door, the silver number 735 staring at me as if it was about to bite me. I take a deep breath and slowly open the door.

Everytime I've seen you lying in a hospital bed, usually as white as the sheets, the strong urge to hug you, locking you in my arms were you are safe, hits me right away. I can't stand seeing you suffer, that's just the way it is.

This time is worse. I barely can breathe when I first look at you, feeling tears filling my eyes. It's not the fact that the scratches on your face, although being treated, look unusual red on you pale skin or that your hair issn't shiny as normal. It's the intense air of victory that surrounded you. You won over that jerk that nearly killed you. You are still alive, barely, but alive. I can feel you fighting to live and that's what overwhelmes me.

You are the strongest woman I've ever seen. You are always beating the odds, alwys standing strong. Even struggeling with death, you, Sara Sidle symbolize strength.

I can feel the tears running down my cheeks as I sit down on the chair next to you and take your cold hand in mine. You will survive. If just to show everyone who ever doubted that you were born to live and not to die!You're a survivor...