Angels in the ER (9 page)

“I guess he’s all yours,” I told him. “We’ll have him ready to go in just a few minutes.”

It was then that the universally familiar rhythm at the beginning of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” wafted through the department.

“Good tune,” the officer remarked, his head rocking in time to the song.

Mr. Sightler must have heard the music as well. An unexpected movement down the hallway caught my attention and I looked in the direction of the doorway of the ortho room. Joe was out of the room and walking up the hallway. You couldn’t exactly call it walking. He was still in his hospital gown, barefooted. His hands were raised shoulder-high, palms facing forward, and he was doing a kind of shimmy motion. His eyes were closed and his head rocked from side to side.

“Ooooo, ooooo, I bet you’re wonderin’ how I knew…” he crooned. Actually, his pitch was pretty good.

Two radiology techs turned the corner behind him. They were pushing a wheelchair with an elderly woman in it. She had injured her ankle and we had sent her around for an X-ray. The three were met by the stately mayoral vision as he meandered up the hall. Only their view was a little different from ours. Joe’s gown was open in the back and untied. His underwear was hanging on a hook somewhere. And his behind was gloriously exposed to the whole world.

The woman in the wheelchair seemed to appreciate it. Though we heard a faint yelp and saw her cover her eyes, she continued to peek between her spread fingers. The radiology techs just smiled. They had seen quite a few hineys before. Heads began popping out from behind curtains and people got to see one of their elected officials up close and personal.

“Mm-hmm,” the officer murmured. “Would you look at that.”

I supposed the mayor would have kept on dancing right out of the department if we’d let him. But maybe not. When he neared the nurses’ station he stopped, opened one eye, looked in my direction, and winked.

The officers led him back down the hall and helped him get dressed. One leg at a time.

When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but
with humility comes wisdom.

—P
ROVERBS 11:2

 5 

The
Experience
of
Grief

Although the world is full of suffering, it is
also full of the overcoming of it.

—H
ELEN
K
ELLER
(1880–1968)

G
rief. We are told that as humans our handling of grief or loss can be logically and predictably chronicled through four distinct phases. First there is shock, followed by denial, then anger, and finally resolution.

All griefs and losses, major and minor, work the same way. We travel through the phases, backing up, retracing our steps, making progress again, relapsing, and on it goes. The ability to reach resolution and stay there is a gift, a thing for which we ought to be grateful.

For most of us, this final resolution is a rare occurrence. Our natural inclination is to travel in circles, not in a straight line. And these circles can be destructive. Shock, denial, anger. Shock, denial, anger. Never reaching resolution.

Every day in the ER we see people faced with small griefs, and many times with overwhelming losses. We watch as they come to grips with their emotions and deal with sudden and unexpected life-changing events. Sometimes we can help. Often, we can’t. I have found that you can frequently predict how people will respond in crisis. Over the years you gain a sense of who seems grounded and in control of their emotions. And who is not. You can usually identify that person who is only one word, one whisper, one sideways glance away from totally losing it. Many times you will be correct, but not always. Sometimes the actions and reactions of people will take you completely by surprise.

I had been working in the ER of Rock Hill General for a few years. On this particular Sunday morning about twenty years ago, one of my partners, Bill Blanchard, had been on duty in the department. It was a beautiful morning—springtime, quiet, nonthreatening. The ER was peaceful. At 9:30, Bill was having his second cup of coffee and was reading the local newspaper. There were only a handful of nonemergent patients remaining from a brief rush at sunrise and Virginia Granger, the charge nurse that day, was discharging one of them. She passed through the nurses’ station where Bill sat with his paper in one hand and his cup of coffee in the other. His feet were casually occupying the countertop.

As Virginia passed by she paused, looked over the top of her glasses at his shoes, and simply said, “Dr. Blanchard.”

He didn’t need a second warning.

“Oh, excuse me,” he responded, coming to an upright position in his chair with his feet firmly located on the floor. He kept his head in the newspaper, not looking up as he ceded this turf to Virginia. It was an act born out of respect more than out of intimidation, though Virginia had quite a menacing reputation in the hospital, especially among new physicians. She brooked no tomfoolery in her department.

But Bill was no intern, having completed his training in emergency medicine in a large urban medical center eight years earlier. He had been in this particular hospital for more than six years and was a seasoned ER doc. He was one of the favorites of the occasional medical student or intern who rotated through the department because he was always accessible for their many elementary questions. “What’s the dose of amoxicillin for a two-year-old?” “Does ‘TID’ mean twice a day or three times a day?” “I think this guy in room 5 has pink eye. What should I treat him with?”

I never saw him demonstrate any impatience, even when one
befuddled intern confronted him with, “Dr. Blanchard, I’ve got a guy here I think has appendicitis. Now, I know the appendix is on the right side, but is it
his
right or
my
right, and does it depend on which way I’m facing him?”

“Hmm,” Bill had calmly responded, with an air of appropriate but feigned seriousness so as not to embarrass this fledgling physician. “I suppose that would be
his
right, wouldn’t it?”

He was a steadying influence for each of us and shared freely of his practical and varied experience.

Yet he was about to teach all of us one of his most important lessons, though not by intent or design. And it was certainly not of his own choosing.

This particular morning Bill was the only physician in the ER. He moved on to the sports section of the paper, taking advantage of the rare respite.

Virginia had noted his reposturing, with both of his feet now firmly on the floor. She acknowledged her approval with a slight nod and proceeded toward her patient’s room. She was interrupted by the high-pitched squawk of the EMS radio.

“ER, this is Medic 1. Do you read me?”

Bill casually looked up from his paper as Virginia put down her chart and walked over to the radio. Having done this thousands of times, she matter-of-factly took out her pen, picked up the phone, and prepared to make notes on the pad of paper beside the radio.

“This is the General ER, Medic 1. Go ahead.”

There was silence and then a brief burst of static.

“ER, we’re out on the interstate with a 10-50 (auto accident). Two PIs (personal injuries), one dead at the scene. The other looks okay. Twenty-five-year-old male. We’re bringing him in on a backboard, full spinal protocol. Ten minutes away.”

“10-4, Medic 1. Minor trauma 3 on arrival,” Virginia instructed the paramedic. She finished her notations and picked up her chart, once more trying to discharge her patient.

Bill spoke over his newspaper to her. “Sounds like a bad accident. A little unusual for a Sunday morning.”

“Yeah,” Virginia answered. “But you never know. People do strange things.”

Ten minutes later, the ambulance entrance doors opened to admit a stretcher being pushed by one of the hospital’s paramedics. His partner EMT steadied the side of the gurney. Their patient was strapped securely to a backboard, head held firmly to it by Velcro straps.

From the nurses’ station Bill could get enough of a glimpse of the young man to determine he was in no immediate danger. The patient’s eyes darted to and fro and he kept asking, “Where is my wife? How is she?”

The EMT pushed the stretcher into minor trauma and the paramedic walked over to the nurses’ station, clipboard in hand. He approached Bill, leaned over, and quietly spoke. “Dr. Blanchard, this is really a tough one.” He tilted his head down the hallway toward this newest patient.

“Young couple, got married yesterday somewhere in Tennessee. Spent the night just north of town and were on their way to the beach for their honeymoon. An eighteen-wheeler changed lanes in front of them, and this guy swerved and lost control. Flipped over twice. The girl didn’t have a seat belt on and was thrown out of the car and down an embankment. Pretty bad head injury. Looked like she died on impact. He hardly has a scratch on him.”

The paramedic stood up straight, put his hands on the small of his back, and stretched.

“Does he have any idea what happened to his wife?” Bill asked him.

“No, not a clue. We didn’t say anything. And the highway patrolman wouldn’t tell him. I guess you get to,” he added sheepishly.

“Yeah, well, I guess so,” Bill conceded. He had been in this position too many times before.

Virginia worked efficiently, and within half an hour Bill had cleared
the young man, Mr. Jones, of any significant injury. In fact, he had no complaints and had only noticed a few scratches on his left hand. He continued to ask about his wife, and Bill deftly avoided any specific response. He was awaiting the arrival of the highway patrolman to confirm the story given him by the paramedic.

Bill walked past the young man’s room and noticed he was up and off the stretcher, standing by the gurney. His hands were in his pockets and he was quietly staring at the doorway. Virginia had just told him that as soon as they had definite news about his wife they would share that information with him.

When Bill reached the nurses’ station he said, “Virginia, why don’t you take him to the family room. Try to keep him calm, and I’ll be in there in a few minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” she answered. Bill knew that Mr. Jones would be in good hands with Virginia.

While he stood at the nurses’ station documenting the record of this young man, a highway patrol officer walked into the department and approached him.