For as long as she could recall, Amanda Scarpinati had a small collection of black-and-white photographs hidden away like a cherished secret. With every relocation and new residence, they accompanied her—slipped into drawers, nestled between the pages of books, and tucked inside boxes of mementos. The images were aged and slightly creased, yet one in particular held greater significance than all the rest.
In that photograph, she was merely an infant, her tiny head completely swathed in gauze. Her skin was bandaged, and her body lay limp from fatigue. A young nurse, no older than her early twenties, cradled her, gazing down at Amanda with a calm and nurturing expression. The nurse’s face radiated softness, almost tranquility, as her arms enveloped the injured baby, as if the world outside that hospital room had ceased to exist.
This moment was immortalized in 1977, in Albany, New York, following a tragic accident that altered the trajectory of Amanda’s life.
At just three months old, Amanda had rolled off a sofa and landed in a hot-steam humidifier positioned on the floor. The device toppled, and scalding steam and water seared her delicate skin. By the time she reached Albany Medical Center, she had sustained third-degree burns.
Amidst the glaring lights and unfamiliar hands, that young nurse was assigned to tend to her. While surgeons operated and doctors deliberated on treatment, the nurse performed the one act that cameras happened to capture: she simply held Amanda, steady and gentle, as if to reassure the suffering infant that she was safe.
Amanda was too young to recall the pain or the hospital experience. What she did remember, as she grew older, was the aftermath.
As a young girl, the scars from her burns were visible on various parts of her head and body, attracting attention wherever she went. At school, some children would whisper. Others were less discreet.
She faced ridicule, was pointed at, and called derogatory names. The cruelty manifested in numerous ways—questions posed with feigned interest, laughter behind her back, and blatant taunts that made her wish to vanish.
“Reflecting on my childhood, marked by burns, I experienced bullying and harassment, torment,” she later recounted.
On particularly difficult days, when the weight of the words felt more burdensome than the scars themselves, Amanda would return to that photograph.
She would sit quietly, holding it in her hands, tracing the contours of the nurse’s face, recalling how those arms embraced her with such tenderness. She envisioned the warmth of that hug, the gentle voice that must have comforted her, and the kind eyes that regarded her without flinching or turning away.
At times, she would converse with that woman, much like a child would with an imaginary friend.
“I would gaze at those images and speak to her, despite not knowing her name,” Amanda shared. “I found solace in looking at this woman who appeared genuinely concerned for me.”
Over the years, those photographs evolved into more than mere mementos from a hospital visit. They became a lifeline—a subtle reminder that once, during one of her most fragile moments, someone had cradled her as if she were significant.
As Amanda matured, she began to ponder the true identity of that nurse.
What was her name? Did she recall that day? Was she aware that the infant she held had grown up, endured, and carried her likeness as a shield through some of the most challenging times in her life?
For twenty years, Amanda sought to locate her.
She reached out, posed inquiries, and attempted to trace records. However, hospital personnel changed, records were archived, and memories faded. Every lead dissipated. It felt akin to searching for a phantom in a city filled with strangers.
Nevertheless, she preserved the photograph.
Ultimately, after two decades filled with near misses and obstacles, she resolved to attempt one final endeavor—something she lacked during her childhood: the influence of the internet.
In 2015, she positioned herself at her computer, digitized the photographs, and shared them on Facebook accompanied by a heartfelt request.
She recounted her narrative—the accident, the burns, the harassment, and the solace she discovered in the face of that unfamiliar nurse. She concluded with a plea that was both optimistic and delicate:
“I would be grateful to learn her name and perhaps have the opportunity to converse with her and meet her. Please share, as you never know who might see this.”
She clicked “Post.”
Then, the world did what it occasionally does in a miraculous way: it paid attention.
Her narrative began to circulate. Friends disseminated it, followed by strangers. The image of the young nurse and the bandaged infant extended far beyond Amanda’s immediate network, transcending states and time zones. Responses flooded in—messages of encouragement, compassion, and intrigue.
By the following day, the aspiration she had harbored for nearly her entire life started to take shape.
A woman named Angela came across the post.
She had served as a nurse at Albany Medical Center in 1977. The photograph stirred something within her memory, and after a brief moment of reflection, recognition dawned.
She did not recognize the baby. However, she was familiar with the nurse.
She reached out to Amanda with the name she had been longing to hear for decades: Susan Berger.
At the time of that photograph, Susan was merely 21 years old, freshly graduated from college, and just embarking on her nursing journey. Like Amanda, she too had never forgotten that infant.
She had also preserved the photographs.
When journalists later inquired of Susan if she recalled that day, her response came readily.
“I remember her,” she stated. “She was very serene. Typically, when infants emerge from surgery, they are either asleep or crying.