Blue Like Elvis by Diane Moody

stop by and see the gentleman
in 936, and bought some Sour Tarts for the guy in 950.
    I only had two more new patient visits to make, then I planned to take a
break. I tapped gently on the door of 922. “Good morning, Mr. Underwood, I’m
Shelby Colter, your hostess, and I just wanted to stop by and say—”
    I stopped. The tears on the face of the elderly gentleman staring back at
me broke my train of thought. He was sitting up in bed under the soft glow from
the light above him. “Mr. Underwood?”
    He quickly rubbed
his face as if he could hide his tears, then pulled a tissue from the box on the
bedside table and blew his nose.
    I approached the
side of his bed, unsure what I should say or do. “Are you okay?” I asked
quietly.
    He took a deep
breath and let it out. “Oh, well, I . . . who are you again?”
    I handed him my
card. “Shelby Colter. I’m your hostess. I’m here to run errands for you, make
contacts for you—that sort of thing.” I smiled at him. “Is there something I
can do for you, Mr. Underwood?”
    He stared at my
card then dropped his head back against his pillow, stifling a sob. “I’m just
so worried about my wife . . .”
    I pulled up the
chair beside his bed and took a seat. “What’s wrong with your wife?”
    He wiped his nose
again. “We’re in here . . . in this hospital because of me. I
was driving and I . . . apparently I blacked out. They said I
had a mild heart attack. I don’t know. I don’t remember . . . but
my wife . . . she wasn’t wearing her seat belt and she—” He
stopped, breaking down again.
    I waited, giving
him time to compose himself. This was a first for me. None of the patients I’d
visited with Pamela had responded anything like this. But she told me of
several experiences she’d had with distraught patients. Sometimes they just
need a listening ear. Don’t feel like you have to fill the silences with chatter.
Let them talk.
    And so I waited.
And prayed for wisdom.
    “She’s in
intensive care. She was thrown from the car . . . they told me
she had a ruptured kidney. They had to operate . . . she also
had a concussion and broke her arm. She’s really banged up.”
    “I’m so sorry, Mr.
Underwood. Have you been able to see her yet?”
    “No, not yet. I
think my doctor’s afraid my heart can’t take it.” He looked down at the line of
red, raised skin stapled together down the center of his chest, disappearing beneath
his hospital-issued gown. His eyes welled up again. “It must be really bad if
they won’t let me see her. Don’t you think?”
    Careful,
Shelby. “I’m sure they just want to make sure you’re okay first. You had
surgery too. I’m sure your doctor doesn’t want you to exert yourself or risk
something else happening to you.”
    “But she must be
so scared. We’re from Arkansas. We were on a trip to see our children in North
Carolina. We don’t know anyone here, and now we don’t have a car, and—”
    “Has anyone
notified your kids yet?”
    “I talked to my
son this morning. He’s trying to make arrangements to get here. But it could be
a day or two . . . he can’t just up and leave. He’s got people
depending on him at work and . . .” He stopped again, unable to
continue.
    “Mr. Underwood,
would you like me to check in on your wife for you? See what I can find out?”
Even as the words came out, I wasn’t sure what the protocol for this type of
thing might be. Would they even allow me into ICU?
    “Would you?” he
asked, his bushy eyebrows lifted with hope. “If you could just tell her I’m
okay, tell her I love her . . .”
    We talked a while
longer and I jotted down some notes to find out exactly what he wanted me to say
to his wife. By the time I left, his expression was visibly relieved. Now, if I
could just deliver on my promise.
    I called Mrs.
Baker and told her about the situation. She told me to come to the office and
in the meantime, she would make a quick call to