GIVE ME THAT OLD TIME RELIGION

This piece was one of the first I wrote. It was written a day after the episode described. My wife had suffered cardiac arrest in the hospital and had stopped breathing. This story took place the afternoon after the arrest.

         Listen up, I must tell you this story. It really happened but will be denied by some who were there because, well, you will see.

         Your first indication the intensive care unit is different from the normal hospital comes when you note that the rooms have windows facing a nurse's station, behind which are TV monitors and all sorts of equipment. The windows have curtains and another curtain runs down the center of the room, separating the two patients in the bay. The rooms are unisex. Each patient seems to have their own nurse.

         My beloved patient is laying in bed, tubes coming from every possible part of her. To the right as I look at the bed is a respirator machine which occasionally emits a loud ring, startling the onlooker, but only warning the professionals that she is breathing too fast or hard. To the left are three IV stands, with three bags hooked to each, and seven of them seem to lead to her body. Her nose is covered with tape, and a tube is taped into her mouth, along with other tubes which seem to carry off saliva. Her wrists are wrapped and tied to the bed so she cannot pull anything loose.

         She is awake and knows who I am. She grasps my wrist with her fingers. Her mother is playing this Broody Hen role, jumping at each little noise, fluffing her pillows, rushing for a nurse at the least little cough. We are so happy to know some part of her mind is there.

         From behind the curtain, where the other patient is, a nurse emerges with a beaker of urine, to pour it in the toilet which is in the bathroom to the right of my patient's bed. They are bathing the gentleman next door, a black man with what appears to be pulmonary problems. His wife, a late middle-aged woman with gold blonde hair, has stepped out a minute, as has another family member.

         They return and the nurse leaves. Suddenly in this world of buzzers, beeps, and bells something is different. Loud voices can be heard outside. Another late middle-aged black woman and a white-shirted, suspendered black man wearing glasses approach. His voice booms out in greeting to our nurse and hugs are exchanged. They proceed into the room, heading for the other side of the curtain. I note the man's pocket contains pens and notebooks. Could he be selling insurance or is he a lawyer?

         A Voice rings out, a male voice deep and profound. The voice is talking to someone, but not someone of this earth. Thanks is given for the hospital. The workers are blessed, all patients are blessed, their family is blessed and their beloved cousin on the bed is blessed. Each blessing earns a refrain from a chorus of male and female voices. He winds the stem some more and at last lowers his tone and concludes, but without an 'amen'. There is silence for two seconds and then a female voice is heard, and the prayers are more personal. Such deep voices! They create almost an echo chamber, only broken by the hiss, hum and buzz of the machinery that is keeping the two patients on earth. She reaches a final amen, and they are spent.

         I find that I am spent, too. I have not known how to react but the words have centered my thoughts and brought this precious little ship to its port. Seeing my loved one had regained consciousness and knew who we were lifted this weight from my chest, and now these people have offered this moment of the sublime which could almost make one believe in something.

         Then that little engine that propels history onward speaks up: my mother-in-law motions me toward her and mutters "well, I hope they remove his body soon". I am stunned. Will I join my wife in cardiac arrest? What can she be thinking? I tell her that the patient is not dead and remind her that a beaker of urine was just carried through here by a one woman procession. She begins to insist, but I point out no doctor pronounced him dead. Luckily for her, the patient does not arise and confront her.

         We ride home together. She does not mention it again. I do not want to embarrass Miss Daisy. I tilt my cap a bit lower, pull in the driveway and open her door. I realize I went from sharing the sublime to joining in the ridiculous in a span of sixty seconds.

Valatie NY
Sept 16, 2000