by Alton Gansky
After a moment of silence, Eva said, “Thanks.” Adam had never met her before, but he had met her husband once at a church softball game. Larry was the antithesis of David. Where David was tall and thin, Larry was squat and heavy with a dark beard that shadowed his face.
Michael was Ann and David’s only son. He appeared to Adam to be the spitting image of his father—blond hair, deep-set hazel eyes, and a preponderance of freckles.
“Ann tells me that the doctors have asked you to sign an agreement releasing the hospital from taking heroic efforts with David. Would you like to talk about it?”
“We haven’t signed anything yet,” Michael said. “The hospital chaplain explained everything to us, but we haven’t signed the papers.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” Larry said bitterly. “They’re asking us to sign David off—to simply give up.” Adam noticed tears in Larry’s eyes. “We’re not deciding whether to put a dog to sleep here; we’re talking about my brother—my only brother.”
Adam watched as the hard exterior of Larry broke. Times like these were often harder on men. They were ill-equipped to deal with pain and heartache. It was something that Adam blamed on society. Too many men grew up with John Wayne and Clint Eastwood as heroes—men who were too tough to cry. A lifetime of repressing strong emotions could be powerful and frightening.
“You are absolutely right, Larry.” Adam spoke softly, yet firmly. “However, it is a decision that must be made. Not making a decision is, in effect, making a decision. This hospital could take extraordinary means to sustain David’s life—even if there is no hope for life. Theoretically, they could artificially sustain David indefinitely. Once they do that, it becomes a very difficult thing to have David removed from life-support devices.”
“Are you suggesting we sign the papers?” Larry asked.
“No. But I’m not suggesting that you don’t either.”
“Then what do you suggest?” This time it was Eva who spoke.
“I’m suggesting that you, as a family, talk this through.”
A worker in the cafeteria moved past their table picking up empty cups. The group remained silent until she passed. Adam was thankful, for it gave them time to think.
Michael broke the silence. “I’m not very knowledgeable about religious matters, Pastor. Is there any reason why we should not sign the papers? I mean any reason from the Bible?”
Adam had wrestled with this question before. Yet, even though he had previously thought through all the arguments, he still felt a sense of confusion. It was never easy for a pastor to say, “Let him die.”
Adam began softly. “The Scriptures teach that all life is from God. They also teach that man is made in the image of God. By that I mean that man is a spiritual creature with a soul that exists eternally. Because of this and other reasons, life is always to be held sacred. But we must also understand what we mean by life and what we mean by death. There has been much discussion about when death occurs. Some say that a person has died when the heart can no longer beat. Others insist that death occurs when the brain no longer functions. It’s hard to be dogmatic, but I agree with the latter.”
Adam paused reflectively and then continued. “Michael, your father’s brain is shutting down. There will come a time when it will no longer be able to tell his lungs to breathe and his heart to beat. When that time comes, the doctors can artificially, through machines, do those functions for him. Then the question will be, ‘Is your father still alive?’ If there is hope that he might regain the use of those vital functions, the answer is obvious—keep him alive. But if there is no hope for recovery—if the brain is dead— then all the doctors can do is keep the shell alive.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Eva said.
“Let me see if I can make it clearer.” Adam leaned forward over the table. “You and I are not machines, but our bodies function somewhat like a machine. Just as a machine requires fuel, our bodies require food. Just as machines run down, our bodies run down. But we are also very different from machines. We have within us a spark of life. Actually, more than a spark; more like life itself. The Bible calls that immaterial aspect the soul. As a Christian minister, it is my belief that the body is really a structure that houses the soul. While the body may die, the soul continues to live. When a person dies, the body and soul are separated. That’s what death is—the separation of the material from the immaterial. What you have to decide is whether or not to let the doctors keep the house functioning when the tenant has gone.”
“That makes no sense!” Larry’s tone was sharp and angry.
“Larry!” Eva said.
“I’m sorry,” Larry continued with a softer tone, “but this is my brother we’re talking about here.”
“And my husband.” Ann’s voice was firm, but not angry. “And I know what the pastor is saying, and I believe it.”
“What’s your point, Pastor?” Michael asked.
“My point is that you have no need to feel guilty about asking the doctors not to take heroic methods. If they tell you there’s a chance for any degree of recovery, you would, of course, do all that you could. But, there comes a time when the best course of action is to let go. The decision is yours, of course, but please make sure that your decision is not made because of guilt. The solution is not easy. However, most doctors would tell you that life stops when the brain ceases to function.”
The family looked at each other. “Pastor,” Ann said, “I think we would like to talk it over.”
“I understand,” he replied, somewhat relieved to have an excuse to leave. “I want to check on David again. Before I go, let’s pray together.” They bowed their heads and Adam led them in a short prayer, asking for peace and wisdom for the family and comfort for David. Then, as was his custom, he asked that God would lay His “healing hands” on David. When he had finished, he looked up and saw tears in the eyes of each family member. “If you need me for anything,” Adam said softly, “I’ll be in ICU.”
Adam excused himself and made his way from the cafeteria through the pale green halls to the ICU. He wondered if he had advised the family correctly. In seminary his professors taught him to use nondirective counseling, a form of counseling that offered no opinions but sought to bring the counseled to a self-realized catharsis; but to Adam that approach seemed not to be counseling at all. His doubts were based in his knowledge that he was not a professional counselor.
When Adam came to the ICU, he entered without using the intercom to ask permission. Walking through the door, he entered the tiny cubicle that served as David’s room. What he saw made his heart pound.
“Hi, Pastor,” said a smiling David Lorayne. “Have you seen my wife?” He studied Adam’s face. “Are you all right, Pastor? You don’t look so good.”
“Blessed Jesus,” Adam said in prayerfully hushed tones. He was bent over, holding his stomach and panting, gasping for precious breath. A moment later he righted himself, looked at David, and said, “Oh, blessed Jesus,” bent over and started gasping for air again.
“You sure look pale, Pastor,” David said, concern evident in his words. “Should I call one of the nurses?”
Adam held up his hand, shook his head and said, “No, no.”
Adam laugh. He laughed, wheezed, laughed, gasped, laughed, and clutched at his stomach. He laughed, because of the irony: a man, who moments ago was on the verge of brain death, a man comatose with no hope of recovery, was asking if he should get a nurse for Adam. The incongruity was more than his shocked mind could take.
“Pastor?” David got out of bed and walked effortlessly to Adam. Adam’s eyes widened as if he had seen a specter from the grave. “Let me get you a chair.” A moment later Adam was seated in a large, high-backed, padded chair.
David went back to the bed and sat on it. He gazed with concern at his pastor and friend. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Adam nodded, finally caught his breath, and stared at David. A broad smile graced the face that had b
een so drawn minutes before. His rubicund complexion belied the physical ordeal he had endured over the past twenty days. His eyes were clear and bright, and Adam could swear that he had gained weight.
“David, uh, David . . .” Adam’s voice seemed unresponsive. “I don’t, uh . . . I mean to say—”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you speechless.”
“You’re a miracle.”
“Well, I like you too.”
“No, a genuine miracle.” Exasperated at his inability to communicate, Adam rose from the chair, walked to David, and hugged him. Confused, David returned the hug and patted Adam on the back.
They embraced for a long moment.
“What are you doing to him?” a loud voice said from the doorway. “He’s in no condition to be moved. How dare you— The nurse s words were cut off by the sight before her.
Adam stepped back and David turned, slightly embarrassed, to face the nurse. “Will my surgery be soon?” he asked her. She said nothing. She just leaned back against the metal door jamb and stared slack-jawed.
“Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” David was becoming exasperated. “Does anyone know where my wife is?”
Adam’s eyes widened. “Ann,” he nearly shouted. “I’ve got to tell Ann.” Adam bolted from the room, edging his way by the stunned and still staring nurse. A moment later he poked his head back in the ICU cubicle, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”
“Where would I go?” David replied, shrugging his shoulders. Not wanting to wait for the elevators, Adam raced down the stairwell, oblivious to his recently healed incision, and sprinted down the corridor that led to the cafeteria, slowed only to turn through the door, and slid on the highly polished flooring into the cafeteria. The Loraynes were still talking, Larry waving his hands about animatedly, Eva quietly covering her mouth with a handkerchief, while Michael sat close to his mother and held her hand. They didn’t see Adam’s explosive entry.
“Ann!” Adam said loudly as he moved quickly to their table. “Ann, come quick . . . the rest of you too.” They looked at Adam as if he’d lost his mind. “Something good. Come now. Come quick. Something great has happened.”
They rose in unison and dashed toward the elevators. “What’s happened?” Larry asked urgently.
“I’ll show you,” Adam said. “Just trust me.”
The elevator ride seemed interminably long and every eye was affixed to the overhead display that indicated the floors they were passing. When they arrived at David’s floor, Adam led the family into the ICU room. All the nurses were standing near David’s bed; one was crying, and all looked stunned.
Adam motioned them back. Ann, closely followed by Michael, Larry, and Eva, crept into the room, not knowing what to expect.
“There you are,” David said joyfully. “I thought you’d run off with a rich doctor.”
Ann noisily sucked in air and covered her mouth. She said nothing, but stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at her husband through unbelieving eyes.
“Why is everyone staring at me?” David asked, his voice tinted with irritation.
“Oh, Honey,” Ann said, stepping forward and embracing him. She hugged him tight, not wanting to let go. She wept, openly and unashamedly, as did everyone in the room.
Eleven
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 10:45 P.M.
DR. EVAN MORGAN LEANED back in his favorite easy chair and reflected on his love for Sundays. After years of keeping a doctor’s schedule, he now enjoyed having a regular work week. As an administrator, his workday was seldom longer than ten hours, and he almost never went to the office on weekends. Instead, he played golf with the doctors from his former practice. After the game he would come home to his luxury downtown condominium on the twenty-sixth floor of the Lyman Building. Once home, he would leisurely read through the Sunday editions of the Los Angeles Times and the San Diego Union. With his wife visiting her sister in Bakersfield, the condominium was especially quiet. For Morgan nothing could be better.
Actually, Evan was feeling a sense of euphoria. Things at the hospital had quieted since Lisa Hailey’s unusual event. Oh, there were still the crowds in the lobby, but he was sure that they would start thinning any day now. He looked around his home and felt a rush of pride and pleasure. The carpet was a rich, deep-blue pile that contrasted with the light hues of the wall coverings.
Unlike the contemporary decor of his office, his home was more sedate—a concession he made to his wife. If she had had her way, the entire house would be filled with antiques, but Morgan had no desire to live in a museum. The compromise resulted in a plush, traditional decor. His eyes paused on one of the many watercolors he had collected. It was a portrait of his daughter that he had commissioned. It hung in the most conspicuous place in the living room, over the mantle of the fireplace.
The remote telephone on the coffee table sounded its familiar beep. Morgan eyed it suspiciously before placing aside his strong desire to ignore the call.
“Doctor Morgan, this is Aretha Miller. I’m the head nurse in ICU. Something has happened here that I think you need to know about.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Switchboard dialed it, sir.”
“Okay, what’s the problem?”
The voice on the other end of the line hesitated and then blurted out the message, “There has been another incident similar to the one that happened to the girl in the burn ward and the man on the second floor.”
“I see,” Morgan said in a quiet voice that concealed his shock and dismay. Looking at his watch he saw that it was 10:45. That meant the swing shift nurse would be there for a few more hours. “Here’s what you must do.” Morgan’s voice was firm and decisive. “No one, and I mean no one but doctors and other essential personnel, is to enter ICU. Tell your nurses that they are to talk to no one and they are not to leave—not for lunches, not for breaks, not for any reason. I’ll be there shortly. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the nurse snapped back with military precision.
“Good. I want this contained.” He paused for a moment then continued, “One more thing. I want you to call Dr. Rachel Tremaine and tell her to meet me as soon as possible in ICU.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”
His voice softened. He could tell that the woman was upset by what she had seen. “Aretha,” he said gently, “you’ve done just the right thing. You are to be commended.”
After switching off the phone, he slammed it to the floor and gazed, silently at the plastic and electronic pieces scattered over the rug. This was not the way he wanted his Sunday to end.
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 10:55 P.M.
“SIR, I’LL HAVE TO ASK you to leave now.” Adam turned to see who was speaking. It was a short, stout nurse; her nametag read Aretha Miller.
“It’s all right, nurse; I’m the family’s minister.” Adam recognized her as the one who stood frozen with shock in the doorway when she first saw David.
“You’ll still have to leave.”
“Why?” Adam sensed that something wasn’t right. There was an indefinable quality in her manner that made Adam suspicious. He had been asked to step out of hospital rooms before, but only if a doctor or nurse were about to perform an examination or treat a patient. The minister’s access to ill members of his church had always been respected by the health care community and held sacrosanct.
“Rules, Reverend, rules.” The nurse was resolute. “Now if you don’t mind—”
“But I do mind.” It was not Adam’s intent to be obstinate or rude, but every one of his ministerial instincts warned him something was amiss. “I don’t wish to be difficult, but something unusual has happened here, and as this family’s minister, I believe I have a right to remain.”
David spoke for the first time. “It’s all right, Pastor. I feel great, and I’m not going anywhere right away. The truth is I’m a little tired. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”
“We do have other patients,
Reverend,” the nurse persisted. Then turning to the members of the family who had gathered in the small cubicle she said, “It would be best if you all left so that Mr. Lorayne could get some rest. The doctor will be here later, and I’m sure she’ll answer all your questions after she’s had a chance to run some tests.”
“Perhaps she’s right,” Adam said, despite his desire to stay. There was no use in pushing the issue. The nurse was clearly upset, and Adam sensed that she felt pressured by the sudden well-being of one of her patients. To push the issue would only lead to an argument and upset the family. If he needed to take the matter up with the hospital administrators later, he could. For now, retreat was the best choice. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you all. A good night’s rest would be good.”
David encouraged them all to go home to rest. Ann leaned over and kissed her husband; a kiss that said welcome back instead of goodbye. Her eyes were filled with tears again—tears of joy.
“Miracles are probably old hat to you, Pastor,” David said, “but isn’t this a hoot?”
“It certainly is. It certainly is.”
As Adam and the family left, he noticed that the other ICU nurses had huddled together and were whispering feverishly. No doubt they had a great deal to talk about.
Sunday, March 22, 1992; 11:15 P.M.
THIRTY MINUTES AFTER MORGAN had received the phone call, he was standing in ICU reading David Lorayne’s medical chart. Aretha stood next to him.
“Has his doctor been notified?” Morgan asked, his words short and explosive.
“Yes, sir,” Aretha replied. “His physician is Dr. Tremaine.” Morgan made no attempt to conceal his scowl, “Where’s Dr. Tremaine now?”
“I called her as you asked, and she’s on her way in. She lives in the Mission Valley area so she should be here soon.”
