ICU. By the time I got
downstairs, she had the information I needed and told me who to check in with
once I got to ICU. A few minutes later, I was at the bedside of Margaret
Underwood.
I knew immediately
why her husband had not been allowed to see her.
An unbidden
thought rushed to mind— she looks like a corpse. So frail and tiny in
that bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors and the constant beep-beep-beep of
the machines. Her face was horribly bruised, her head wrapped in gauze with
wisps of white hair sticking out here and there. Her arm was in a cast, held in
a sling against her chest. And she was clearly out of it. The attending nurse
told me she’d been in and out of consciousness and completely incoherent,
though her recovery from surgery had gone well. I tried to decide what to do.
Finally, I wrote a note on the back of my card and left it on her bedside
table.
What on earth
would I tell Mr. Underwood?
“Shelby, it’s not
your responsibility to share the details of Mrs. Underwood’s physical condition
with her husband,” Mrs. Baker told me when I returned to the office. “Still, it
sounds like he could use some reassurance. Here’s what I would suggest . . .”
Half an hour
later, I was about to leave Mr. Underwood’s room. I had told him his wife was
sleeping when I’d stopped by and that the doctors and nurses were taking good
care of her. He seemed relieved just to know someone had checked on her for
him, and he was especially happy to hear I’d left a note conveying his love. We
talked briefly, then I told him to call anytime he needed me.
As I gently closed
the door behind me, I finally let out a long breath. I still didn’t feel
totally confident in what I was doing yet, but I had to admit it felt good
knowing I was there for someone in their time of need. As I knocked on the door
of the new patient in 931, I wondered what kind of ministry opportunity I might
find next.
“Hello, my name is
Shelby Colter. I’m your hostess—”
“It’s about *#%! time
you got here,” growled the disheveled middle-aged woman in the bed, flashing a
couple of dollar bills at me. “The nurse told me you could go get me some
cigarettes. I want a pack of Marlboro’s.”
Reality check.
From Florence Nightingale to cigarette girl in mere moments.
Chapter 7
By 2:00 that afternoon,
I’d finished my rounds and was trying to decide if I wanted to go get a Tab. As
I stepped off the elevator, I ran into Tucker.
“Moonpie! I was
beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth. How’s it going?”
We stepped off
to the side of the hall, allowing the other passengers to exit the elevator. I
knew I’d eventually run into him again, but I had no clue what to say.
“Good. It’s
good. Just getting acclimated around here. How are you?”
He tugged at my
sleeve, pulling me along. “Come have coffee with me. I need to ask you
something.”
Whoa.
He turned to
look at me. “Oh, c’mon. You have time. It’ll only take a few minutes. You’re
allowed a break now and then, you know.”
“I know,” I
answered a little too defensively.
We entered the
café at the far west end of the first floor on Madison. It was more of an
oversized snack bar than café, but there were a dozen or so small tables for
seating. We got our drinks and found a table in the corner.
I stuck my straw
into my fountain drink. “So how many cups of coffee does a resident drink
during any given 24-hour period?”
“You don’t even
want to know. But I’d never make it without it. The hours are brutal.”
“Yeah, I’ve
always heard that. How’s it going?”
He ran his hand
through his hair and shook his head. “It’s tough. I keep asking myself why I
thought I wanted to go into medicine. Course, then I work with patients, see a
few miracles, and it all comes back to me. I just need to handle my off-hours
better. Maximize my sleep time. That sort of thing. But enough about me.”
I took a sip of
my diet drink
downstairs, she had the information I needed and told me who to check in with
once I got to ICU. A few minutes later, I was at the bedside of Margaret
Underwood.
I knew immediately
why her husband had not been allowed to see her.
An unbidden
thought rushed to mind— she looks like a corpse. So frail and tiny in
that bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors and the constant beep-beep-beep of
the machines. Her face was horribly bruised, her head wrapped in gauze with
wisps of white hair sticking out here and there. Her arm was in a cast, held in
a sling against her chest. And she was clearly out of it. The attending nurse
told me she’d been in and out of consciousness and completely incoherent,
though her recovery from surgery had gone well. I tried to decide what to do.
Finally, I wrote a note on the back of my card and left it on her bedside
table.
What on earth
would I tell Mr. Underwood?
“Shelby, it’s not
your responsibility to share the details of Mrs. Underwood’s physical condition
with her husband,” Mrs. Baker told me when I returned to the office. “Still, it
sounds like he could use some reassurance. Here’s what I would suggest . . .”
Half an hour
later, I was about to leave Mr. Underwood’s room. I had told him his wife was
sleeping when I’d stopped by and that the doctors and nurses were taking good
care of her. He seemed relieved just to know someone had checked on her for
him, and he was especially happy to hear I’d left a note conveying his love. We
talked briefly, then I told him to call anytime he needed me.
As I gently closed
the door behind me, I finally let out a long breath. I still didn’t feel
totally confident in what I was doing yet, but I had to admit it felt good
knowing I was there for someone in their time of need. As I knocked on the door
of the new patient in 931, I wondered what kind of ministry opportunity I might
find next.
“Hello, my name is
Shelby Colter. I’m your hostess—”
“It’s about *#%! time
you got here,” growled the disheveled middle-aged woman in the bed, flashing a
couple of dollar bills at me. “The nurse told me you could go get me some
cigarettes. I want a pack of Marlboro’s.”
Reality check.
From Florence Nightingale to cigarette girl in mere moments.
Chapter 7
By 2:00 that afternoon,
I’d finished my rounds and was trying to decide if I wanted to go get a Tab. As
I stepped off the elevator, I ran into Tucker.
“Moonpie! I was
beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth. How’s it going?”
We stepped off
to the side of the hall, allowing the other passengers to exit the elevator. I
knew I’d eventually run into him again, but I had no clue what to say.
“Good. It’s
good. Just getting acclimated around here. How are you?”
He tugged at my
sleeve, pulling me along. “Come have coffee with me. I need to ask you
something.”
Whoa.
He turned to
look at me. “Oh, c’mon. You have time. It’ll only take a few minutes. You’re
allowed a break now and then, you know.”
“I know,” I
answered a little too defensively.
We entered the
café at the far west end of the first floor on Madison. It was more of an
oversized snack bar than café, but there were a dozen or so small tables for
seating. We got our drinks and found a table in the corner.
I stuck my straw
into my fountain drink. “So how many cups of coffee does a resident drink
during any given 24-hour period?”
“You don’t even
want to know. But I’d never make it without it. The hours are brutal.”
“Yeah, I’ve
always heard that. How’s it going?”
He ran his hand
through his hair and shook his head. “It’s tough. I keep asking myself why I
thought I wanted to go into medicine. Course, then I work with patients, see a
few miracles, and it all comes back to me. I just need to handle my off-hours
better. Maximize my sleep time. That sort of thing. But enough about me.”
I took a sip of
my diet drink
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