Great Expectations

This week’s weather forecast had predicted sunny, beautiful weather in New Orleans at least through Friday, which excited me – especially since I have Friday off (compensation for working overnight on Saturday). Here I thought it’d be beautiful all week, I could eat my lunch out in front of the hospital near the fountain while I people watched, and ride my bike to work. I was surprised to see storm clouds gather late this morning; surely I was mistaken? Nope. The rain started pouring just before I left work, necessitating my leaving my bike locked to the bike rack and riding the bus home. I hate it when things like that happen; when you expect something completely different and you get a big, fat slap in the face instead.

This morning I was checking intubated patients in my ICU, and came upon Wilbur, who is 80 years old and has been hospitalized for two weeks now. His wife called on Saturday morning & left a message asking to speak with the priest. When I got the message, I called her home and had to tell her voicemail that he wouldn’t be available until this morning. On my way by Wilbur’s room, I noticed a woman sitting on the window seat, chatting on a cell phone. She looked too young to be Wilbur’s wife, but confirmed for me when asked that she was indeed the lady who had called on Saturday. She’d sounded a little frantic on the phone, which concerned me. In person she explained that our staff priest had made a connection with her husband the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since she was a child, being educated by the nuns of Notre Dame. Apologetically, she told me that for years she’d experienced priests who seemed to pray by rote rather than emotion, so when our priest made such a big impact she wanted very much to feel it again. I agreed with her that Father is a very humble man, said I was glad that she’d found that connection and expressed my happiness that her husband’s numbers are looking better. At that point, her face crumpled and she began to cry. Looking at me woefully, she said, “I keep telling myself that he’s 80 already….I knew it would come eventually. But age doesn’t matter. It still hurts so much.” It was so painfully real to hear her grief, but unlike so many times in my past, I didn’t run from it. Instead, we spoke about love, which of course is what makes it hurt so much. She said that the opposite, indifference, would be far worse and that she’d never have preferred that over this, no matter how bad the pain gets.

Thirty minutes later, in the internal medicine unit to which I’m assigned, I met Michael, who requested a chaplain visit this morning. He’s a very tiny man, sitting with his legs drawn up against his chest, constantly rocking on the bed – not in nervousness, I surmised, but because he had a need to feel some motion. It was obvious to me that he’d had a stroke; his first few utterances were uh-uh-uh-uh-uh before he began speaking. At 57, he has never had long term employment (due to problems he clearly stated are his own doing), and feels in some way that he has failed his family and society. It’s heartbreaking to hear the hopelessness in some people’s words, especially because it was clear to me that this man’s intelligence level is near genius. He spoke of being stuck in a trap from which he couldn’t escape, and is frightened that this stroke means that God is punishing him for something. I told him that in the nine months I’ve been at this hospital, I’ve seen eight patients under age 60 who had strokes. For the first time, I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes – really? It’s not unheard of? Maybe it was a wake-up call, not a punishment? The physical prognosis for Michael is excellent, according to his nurse. As for his emotional well-being, I am learning to work within my boundaries. I can’t fix the problems for him, only shed some light into the dark corners of his thoughts. Maybe what he considered a scary detour will turn out to be something good in the end.

That’s something I was told by a patient last Thursday morning during our first meeting. James had explained to me that he has difficulty taking pills ever since he was diagnosed with diabetes, because the disease takes away full control of the mouth’s muscles. That sounded scary to me, but he shrugged with the nonchalance that so many patients with cardiac problems demonstrate. It’s just one more thing you learn to deal with and live with, he said. Can’t let yourself get sidetracked to a standstill. Before our visit could end, the team of doctors came in to speak with him and I gave the family some privacy, saying I’d be back later. As it turned out, I wasn’t able to because I was asked to spend the afternoon visiting the Spanish-speaking patients in the transplant unit. Pedro was so grateful to speak in his native tongue that it had him in tears. His transplant was successful, as he had hoped, but he’s had a setback in the form of an infection in his leg. He’s missed the wedding of his daughter, and the birth of his son’s first child, because he’s been hospitalized here for nearly 3 months. It was humbling to see how a simple visit from someone who could listen – and understand – was so uplifting to him. When I finally went back to visit James today, I literally said no more than two sentences before a Code Blue was called. As attendant chaplain on-call, I had to excuse myself a second time and thus spent the next 90 minutes with Wilma’s family.

Wilma has a road map of heart problems, and a heart attack put her in the hospital last week. What caused the code, the cardiologists simply are not certain, but it didn’t matter to her family. Her granddaughter correctly guessed that her mother and aunt (Wilma’s two daughters) would be hysterical upon learning the news. Indeed they were; her eldest daughter literally collapsed to the floor outside the ICU and we had to rush for a wheelchair. She spent nearly 30 minutes hyperventilating, begging Jesus not to take her mommy when she could actually get a breath to speak. It was the most dramatic expression of grief I have ever witnessed. I asked one of the ICU nurses, who has been here 3 years, if he’s ever seen someone in a state like this, and he said that though he’s seen many people terribly grief-stricken, this was a first for him. He was very respectful of it, grabbing a can of Sprite and some ice for the daughter, and getting a few other things to help, though he was still taking care of two patients. The attendant who got the wheelchair, on the other hand, was unimpressed, and muttered under her breath, “they’re nuts!”

Initially, I was quite offended by her crass remark, but as I reflected later, I realized that it’s indicative of her lack of experience. It’s naïve – and remarkably sad, too. She’ll learn the hard way, as I did, as Wilbur’s wife has, as Michael has, as James has, as Pedro has, and as Wilma’s family now is: we can have all the great expectations we want. We can expect sunshine every day. But the bottom line is, life simply isn’t like that. There are no guarantees, and as I told Michael, who so badly wants a second chance, every day you wake up with breath in your body you’re given a second chance. What you do with it is up to you, but this much is a given: you can hope for great things, but they won’t always happen. The real test of who you are as a person is how you respond in the face of the setbacks.