Izzy’s Ice Cream

The hospital was busy. Its main floor lobby is filled with anxious family members, screaming babies, hardworking receptionists, and Joanne the custodian sweeping away dirt from the entrance doors. I said hello to Joanne, like I always did, nodded at the one receptionist who wasn’t trying to calm down a visitor, and headed to the 4th floor.

I was the only one in the elevator; which I liked. It gave me time to say a small prayer and control all the emotions inside my head. The music was the same. Some happy go lucky jazz jingle that I swear only plays inside this elevator. I had always wondered if the composer of this song knows that it plays over and over again inside an Adirondack town hospital.

My eyes open as the ‘ding’ of the elevator doors pierce my eardrums. Kissing the St. Michael pendant dangling from my neck, I take a deep breath, step into the hallway and head to room 416.

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Going for ice cream with Grandma was always a treat. She never said no to anything you wanted to order, even if the price was outrageous. She’d come pick up my sister Shelly and I in her black Buick Regal every Saturday night during the summer. After fighting for the front seat (Shelly would always win), Grandma drove down Fishers Lake Road so we could see the sun slowly set on another perfect Adirondack summer day.

“Izzy’s Ice Cream” was the best and busiest ice cream stand in the park. Located right next to Fisher Lake, it was a hot spot for ice cream and enjoying sunsets. Grandma always timed it right so the line wasn’t at its peak and the vibrant orange, yellow, and pinks still lit up the sky like the Memorial Day Fireworks show. My go to flavor was cookie dough ice cream. Two big scoops in a dish. Shelly got a Hot Fudge Sundae, while Grandma chose Rum Raspberry. We’d sit on the same park bench overlooking the water and eat our frozen treats.

This went on every summer for 13 years, then Grandma started to get older. Soon, I was the one picking her up to get ice cream. Then Shelly and I started bringing the treat back to her house to eat on the front porch. Finally, visits to Izzy’s stopped all together. Grandma had lost most of her mental capacity. The doctor diagnosed her with early onset Dementia. After that, Grandma’s body and mind faded away. She died later that fall at the age of 88 and for a while the Izzy tradition died with her.

The next two summers, Shelly and I couldn’t bring ourselves to visit the favorite ice cream spot and sit by the water. We had felt it wouldn’t be the same without Grandma.

Then on a cloudy, humid evening in July, going on year three after her death, Shelly and I were on the front porch of our parent’s house, scrolling through social media.

“Shelly, how about going to Izzy’s?” I asked, looking up from my phone.

“Yeah, that actually sounds like a good idea,” she replied.

“I’ll drive.”

Grabbing the keys from the counter and my rain jacket from the coat rack, I headed to my Honda CRV, where Shelly was already waiting. Soon, we were headed to Izzy’s just like old times. Fishers Lake Road was closed for repaving, so I had to take the less scenic, more jam-packed, longer Route 45 to get there.

Shelly and I talked about how we had missed the ice cream stand and Grandma would have wanted us to go. As we continued along, my phone began to buzz from inside my pocket. Sitting at a stop sign, I quickly grabbed it and looked to see who it was.

“It’s mom, her and dad want ice cream,” I said aloud.

The two way stop sign was at probably the worst intersection in the entire Adirondack Park. Four tall pine trees and some rocks obstructed anyone’s’ view of on-coming traffic. There were always accidents and people started a petition to get the trees taken down.

Glancing at the road and seeing nothing, I slowly nudged ahead, looking back down at my lap and began replying to mom.

“Robby!” Shelly exclaimed suddenly. Looking over to her, all I saw were a pair of headlights.

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“How’s it going Zach?” I asked as I entered 416. It was dimly lit; white paint had slowly began peeling off the walls. A chair placed in between the window overlooking the city of Anderson and the bed was the newest looking item in the whole room.

“Hey Rob, good to see you. I just finished up the IVs so I’ll leave you two alone.”

I patted Zach’s shoulder as he left and I looked at Shelly. The cuts on her forehead were beginning to heal. Her ventilator and heart monitor slowly hummed as I tried to find the right words to say.

“Looking good today Shell,” were the only words I could come up with. I sat down beside her and grabbed her hand. It was cold and clammy. Her bright blue nail polish had begun to peel off and her tan was almost gone.

It had been 4 weeks to the day since the accident. I had pulled in front of an oncoming truck and slammed into Shelly’s side of the car going 55 miles-per-hour. I only got minor cuts and bruises and somehow so did the truck driver. Shelly, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. On impact, her head jolted sideways and then bashed against the side door panel. The ER doctor told mom, dad, and I several hours later that Shelly had a brain bleed, swelling, and was put into a medically induced coma. He was hopeful, but expressed Shelly may never wake up again.

As the days went by and Shelly still laid there unresponsive, everyone started to think she wasn’t going to come out of this. We prayed, had a pastor come every Sunday to pray with her, but nothing seemed to be working. So, as I sat next to Shelly, holding her hand, I looked out the window at the orange sunset. The memories of Izzy’s Ice Cream raced back into my mind and I couldn’t help but smile.

Then, without warning, her heart monitor flatlined. I looked at her, then at the monitor, then back at her. The doctor came rushing in, along with Zach, and stared.

The tradition of Izzy’s Ice Cream had ended.