Some
places seem built to house stories and emotion. Like airports, churches, and bars.
School classrooms for sure. Neighborhoods where kids play and tease and grow
into the adults they become. Tree houses. Beaches.
And
hospitals. I have spent time in these. Not considerable time, but important
time. My father’s own death in 1989 was in a hospital room. He was surrounded
by my mom, and siblings and the caring nursing staff. The very last time I saw my
dad was in that hospital room. Tears, sadness, worry about our mom, loneliness.
Another
time, many years later, was when my mom had made up her mind that she would
have just one more blood transfusion, just one more burst of energy to get her from her home in western North Carolina to New Mexico and my sister Ruthie and her final days.
And
during that stay when my mom was saying goodbye to her home, her friends, her
belongings, her life – Heidi and our sons said their last goodbyes to my mom. Some dear friends who hadn’t said goodbye yet, happened
upon us while we were waiting for that blood transfusion. They invited more
dear friends to come. There was a brief, spontaneous send-off party while my
mom was sitting in a fairly comfortable lay-back chair receiving her last pint
of blood; her last pint of life. It was a sad parting with many farewells as
well as tears of joy at having known each other; at having shared life paths
for a little while. No one lied
and said, “You’ll get better,” or, “You’ll be back,” or, “You can beat this.” I
appreciated their honesty. They all had too much integrity for that. Their
friendships were deep and honest. They all knew that their farewells were
final. I felt humbled to be there
in that little group of best friends.
Heidi’s
brain tumor, three years ago, a life affirming event – where my love for this
good woman grew beyond any bounds I’d known. Where, at Johns Hopkins, on a
single elevator trip, I shared the good news of a young dad who found out that
his child would be all right. I
also shared moments with a woman who just received the news that her husband
did not have much time left.
Heidi’s
mom died in a hospital room just over a year ago, with her loving husband of
close to 60 years, her kids, grandkids, all holding hands and wiping eyes, and
singing hymns – singing her home.
It was a privilege to be there for her final hours.
Two-and-a-half
weeks ago, Heidi once again, had serious surgery. We were in the hospital for
four days. Those four days sort of took on a feeling that went way beyond the
actual time we spent there. Even from this distance. It's only been two weeks since we
left the hospital and it already seems like it was part of a much longer dream.
Calling
friends and family with the good news
that everything would be fine. That, true to form, Heidi is strong and
beautiful and recovering even faster than even her doc thought was possible. That
time we spent in the hospital was almost pure emotion.
I
did a lot of running around while Heidi was in the hospital bed. Out of the
room to make calls while Heidi snoozed, down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat
or a cup of coffee. Down the road for a chocolate shake when Heidi felt like
her stomach could handle it.
During
those comings and goings there were so many emotional scenes playing out in
front of me. One gray haired, stubble faced man, with his door constantly open,
never had a single visitor. He was there when we arrived, and still there
recovering from some kind of surgery when we left. He always seemed so sad, so
miserable, so alone.
In
the room next to ours there was an Indian man – or rather his whole
family. His wife and children and
grandchildren were constantly coming and going. The patient’s wife and grandson
were often riding the elevators up and down playfully passing the time. She was
so beautiful with her rich brown skin, her silver white hair and her sari. She
had that beautiful red mark on her forehead – a bindi. Her little grandson, or it may have
been her great-grandson, laughed that joyful, holy, toddler laugh every time
the elevator descended.
Once,
quite late at night, maybe 2 AM, I went out to seek a nurse because Heidi’s IV
bag had emptied and the machine was beeping out its little alarm. While I was
out in the hallway, I noticed a woman, probably in her 80’s, wandering alone
wheeling the IV set-up next to her. Later, when I went to get some ice water, I
saw the same gray haired woman walking slowly with a young nurse’s aide. Gray
hair could easily have been four times the age of the young woman with the high
blond ponytail. They were speaking together, leaning into each other, talking
quietly, seriously. They walked arm in arm.
Maybe
an hour later I walked by the old one’s room and she was lying down, IV pole on
the far side of the bed, the young blondie on the near side. Old one was
crying. Not loudly or theatrically, but softly. I could see her chest and
shoulders heaving. That young one held her hands and had her pretty face right
next to old one’s face. She was whispering something I couldn’t hear. Soft.
Purposeful. Gentle.
I
was so moved. While I couldn’t hear the words exchanged, I could feel the
caring and heartfelt emotions. That young woman, working that late shift, in
the middle of that dark night, was a lifeline for the old one. I could feel the
intimacy and intensity of those moments. Something special passed between them.
Something sacred.
That
young woman and I crossed paths the next day in that same hall while I was on some
errand. I tried not to seem too weird, but I wanted to talk to her, to let her
know that I had seen her tenderness. TAYLOR, her nametag read. “It was so beautiful
what you did last night,” I said. “That woman needed someone. You were there
for her. I don’t know you, Taylor,” I stammered, “but you were made for this
work.”
Tears
filled her bright blue eyes. “She just found out that she has terminal cancer,”
she whispered in response to my awkward compliment. “We walked around for
while. When I finally got her to lay down I prayed with her.”
Taylor was the one to wheel us down to the bottom
floor and the waiting van when Heidi was discharged. I am glad that she saw us
off. She told us that she had been the primary caregiver for her own
grandmother as she lay dying of cancer.
I
am so in awe of that young woman. That kid, who is so wise, so nurturing, so
pure in spirit.
It’s
interesting and exciting when lessons of the power of life and love unfold
before us. It probably happens all the time. But I am grateful that my eyes
were open that dark, late, December night, when those two people came together
and that child (just months out of high school) demonstrated such loving
compassion for someone she had just met.
I
pray that when I grow up I can be just like her.
