“We are gathered here in prayer to say thank you, God,” the man says. He has a pleasing, humble voice that grows steadily in power. “We offer our blessings for the men who are here to help our sister.” He looks at Arthur and me, then bows his head again. “And for the doctors who will soon be helping her. You, Lord, who know all that has come, all that is now, and all that will be, we do not ask why. We do not know the condition or the diagnosis, only you do, but we know that you have your reasons. We thank you for giving us all this great life here, and we hope that we keep on serving you.”
“That’s right, brother!” the woman holding Arthur’s hand calls out.
“Your love for us is strong and we are working hard to be worthy of your kindness.”
“Amen!” another woman calls out.
Arthur and I look at each other, then back down at the carpet.
“We hope one day when our labors are done, we will all join you in heaven where every day will be Sunday.”
“Tell it, brother!”
“Where every day will be Sunday!”
“Yes, sir. Amen!”
“Praise God!”
“We going to keep on working. Going to keep on loving. Keep on striving.”
“Sing it out, Deacon!”
“Good God!”
I raise my eyes and take in this room, this sight, these people.
When the prayer is over, there is handshaking and hugging.
“A good prayer, Deacon,” the granddaughter says.
“They gone to take good care of her.” He nods to us.
“That was a nice prayer,” Arthur says. “Thank you.”
“God bless you, sister,” the deacon says to Mrs. Mays.
“You a good man,” she says.
We put her on the chair, wrap her in blankets, and carry her out into the chill, down the creaky gray stairs to where we have the stretcher set up. A kid on a bike with a Walkman on—a lookout—watches us as he circles at the end of the block. Another kid leans against the porch of the house across the street. A pair of sneakers dangle from the telephone wires overhead.
We lift her up on the stretcher. She is heavy, and I can see the strain in Arthur’s face, and feel the strain in my back, as we slide her in. I get in with her as Arthur closes the door. I hook her up to the heart monitor. Hers is beating at ninety-two beats a minute with an occasional premature beat, which causes a delay, but the heart waits it out and beats again and picks up its rhythm.
We take her to Saint Francis.
Reggie and Jill
Reggie Thomas is a regular, a frequent flyer. Nearly every night around eleven we get a call for an intoxicated party on Barber Street. He is either lying on the sidewalk, sitting against a building, or leaning up against a phone booth. He drinks and does heroin. If he is out cold and has pinpoint pupils, we give him Narcan and take him to the ER. If he is just drunk, we help him up into the back of the ambulance and sit him on the bench seat, or let him lie down on it. We take him to Saint Francis. If he is able to open an eye and breathe okay he goes into the crisis unit, where he is strapped down to a bed until he sobers up. If he is really not bad off, he goes into the waiting room, where he watches TV, bums cigarettes, and spends the night, sleeping in a chair, leaving at dawn.
We find him against a street pole. Out of it. Respiratory rate around eight. Pinpoint pupils. I do a sternal rub, and he comes around. “Reggie, buddy, your ride is here.”
He grunts, but we lift him up. He can barely put his feet under him. “Looks like a Narcan night,” I say to my partner.
“No!” Reggie screams. He swings his arms to break free. “Don’t give me that Narcan shit. Cuz! Cuz! They going to give me that Narcan. Help me, brother. I spent my last twenty dollars!”
“Easy, easy,” I say. “We’re just going to check you out first. If you can stay awake, we won’t give it to you.”
“No, man, not that shit.”
We get him in the back, and he starts nodding off. I nudge him awake. “Don’t give me that Narcan shit,” he says.
“Look, you’re breathing semi-okay. I’ll make a deal with you. You let me put an IV in your arm. I won’t give you the Narcan unless you completely go out on me. Okay?”
He grunts and sticks his arm out for me.
After I am done with the IV, he falls asleep. His vitals are okay. His respirations are about twelve. He just needs watching.
At Saint Francis, I explain the story. He’s been doing heroin, but I didn’t give him any Narcan. He is right on the edge. Needs watching but should be okay. They put him in the crisis unit.
When I come back with the paperwork, he is lying in bed, one eye open. He recognizes me, and says, “Come here, man.” He takes my hand. “You treat me all right. I love you, man.” He kisses my hand. “I love you.”
I pick him up again the next night. “I just have to check your pupils,” I say once we get him in the back. He lays his head down on the bench seat. His pupils are pinpoint.
“You been doing heroin again?”
“Every damn day,” he says.
“You been drinking?”
“Every damn day.”
“I don’t think you need any Narcan tonight.”
He sits up quickly. “Don’t give me that.”
“No, no, I’m not going to. I was just saying you didn’t need any Narcan.”
“Don’t say that word, man.” He puts his hands over his ears. “Don’t say that word.”
They put him in a wheelchair and park him across from the triage desk. He dozes off. “Watch this,” I say to Rachelle Mastroninizio, the triage nurse. I nod to my partner, Mark Rozyn, who goes behind Reggie and whispers in his ear. We wait. Five seconds pass. Ten seconds. Then suddenly, he shudders so hard the blanket falls off him. A nightmare passes and he drifts back to sleep.
“What did he say to him?” Rachelle asks.
“Narcan,” I say. “The word is like kryptonite to him.”
It’s the night of the NCAA basketball finals. Fifteen minutes to tipoff. I’m standing in the Saint Francis waiting room watching the pregame commentary. It’s been a slow night. I’m hoping I’ll be able to watch a good part of the game, but then the portable goes off. “Four-seven-one, Westland and Barber for an intoxicated party.”
When we get there Reggie is lying on the ground.
Over the PA, I say, “Reggie Thomas, your ride is here. Please stand, and move to the corner.”
I see him lift his head slightly, but he doesn’t get up.
I get out and stand over him. He gets up and smiles. “Hey, man,” he says. “Do I have alcohol on my breath?” He blows at me.
“A little bit,” I say.
“Take me to Saint Francis.”
“But of course.”
“Let me just grab my dinner.” He goes over to the pay phone where he has a Styrofoam food cartoon resting on the ground. “Let’s go,” he says.
In the ambulance, he is animated, more alert than I’ve seen him in weeks.
At Saint Francis he tells the triage nurse he’s okay, the waiting room will be fine tonight. He glances at my watch. “Can you get me some ginger ale?” he asks me. “I know you’re my buddy.”
I get him a small can from the kitchen. I find him parked under the TV, looking up at the screen. Just in time for the opening tip. “Kentucky all the way,” he says. His container, open on his lap, is filled with ribs and fries.
At four in the morning, I look in the waiting room, and see him slumped in a chair, sound asleep, his head resting on the head of another regular, who wears a Kentucky T-shirt over his dirty jacket. His head is on Reggie’s shoulder.
At five in the morning, Joe Stefano responds to a call for a drunk on Albany Avenue and discovers Reggie leaning against the phone. “Where the hell have you been and what the hell are you doing here?” Joe demands.
Reggie looks at him through his heroin-and-booze-glossed eyes like he is a crazy man. “What you talking about, man?”
&
nbsp; “You’re out of the neighborhood, and do you know what time it is?”
“Huh?”
“It’s five o’clock in the damn morning. Do you know how worried we have been? You were supposed to call at eleven. When you didn’t call by midnight, we started getting concerned, and you’ve had us worried to death for the last several hours wondering where the hell you are. For all we know you could have been dead.”
“Sorry, man, I didn’t know.”
“If you’re going to be out of the neighborhood and staying out to all hours, do us the courtesy and let us know.”
“Okay, man, sorry.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“I didn’t know you kept track.”
“I ought to give you some Narcan just to teach you a lesson.”
“No, no not that.”
“We have an understanding, then?”
“I’ll call next time.”
“Home to Saint Francis?”
“Home to Saint Francis,” he says. “You okay, man.”
Jill Abott is ten days older than me, and I think she wouldn’t be bad looking if she hadn’t spent the last ten years of her life on the street. I pick her up one day passed out in front of the Bradlees store off Park. She has vomit in her hair and her face is blue. She has an empty bottle of antiseptic by her side. At first I think she isn’t breathing. I reposition her airway, and put her on 100 percent oxygen. Her color improves, but she is completely unresponsive. Ammonia inhalants don’t work, sternal rubs. Nothing. I take her to Hartford Hospital, and six hours later I see her back out on the street walking into a liquor store.
I’m working a night shift. It’s past midnight when she comes up to the ambulance and flashes me one of her smiles.
“Jill,” I say. “I heard you were dead.”
She laughs. “No, not me. I got another birthday coming up. Though Jack Garza died last week. He was only twenty-eight. And Manny Gonzales is dead. I found him behind the liquor store on High Street and called the cops. I’m hoping to make my next birthday.”
“I’m sure you will,” I say.
“I’m not drinking no more,” she says. “Could you lend me some money so I can get some coffee? I’ve been being real good. I got to make that birthday. It’s hard, you know, it’s hard. I stay sober for a while, then I take a fall, but I’m going to do it, I’m working real hard this time. Please lend me some money so I can get a cup of coffee and maybe something to eat.”
I give her sixty-one cents, all the change in my pocket.
“Thanks, you’re great. I won’t forget your kindness.”
Ten minutes later I go into the Shell convenience market on Capitol and Broad, and Jill is standing at the counter with change spread out and a bottle of Listerine on the counter. “Hey, Peter,” she says. “Can you lend me forty cents so I can make a purchase?”
I look at the Listerine. “No, I’m not going to give it to you so you can drink the mouthwash, and I’ll have to pick you up later. I thought you said you’d quit.”
She smiles. “I got a sore throat. A real bad one.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I need to gargle.”
The cashier takes the Listerine off the counter.
“How about buying me a cup of coffee?” she says.
Four hours later, I see her at Hartford Hospital in the drunk station, where she is strapped into a wheelchair. “So you got your Listerine after all,” I say.
“It was for my throat,” she says. “I had a hankering for it.”
“Nice breath,” I say.
She laughs and smiles. She looks just like a little girl.
You Ain’t Fooling Me
The family has called because their great-grandmother is acting crazy and they want her taken away. She is close to ninety and sits in an armchair by the door with her walker in front of her. She isn’t budging. “Please don’t take me away,” she says. “I ain’t crazy. I ain’t crazy. Lord help me, I ain’t crazy.”
“She has a point,” Arthur says. “She knows where she is and there is nothing physically wrong with her. We can’t take her without papers.”
I have tried to persuade her but to no avail. “I been to a nursing home before,” she says, “when I broke my hip, and they nice people, real nice, but I ain’t going. You can’t make me.”
I confer with the family. “We really can’t take her. It would be kidnapping. If you want her put in a home, you’ll have to work with social services.”
“But they said that can take a month.”
“We can’t take her. Like I said, it would be kidnapping.”
I go out to the car to get a refusal for her to sign, but when she sees me coming with the paper, she gets up and starts moving away from me, a walker step at a time. “I ain’t signing that,” she says. “You ain’t fooling me. I may be old, but I’m no fool. I ain’t signing that. Lord help me. I ain’t signing that. You ain’t fooling me. You ain’t fooling me.”
I stand there with the refusal in my hand as she makes her slow escape.
There Must Be a Mistake
We’re taking a ninety-year-old woman to Saint Francis to have her hip looked at. Arthur is teching the call. “Why, there must be some mistake,” he says. “This paperwork says you were born in 1907, but that would make you ninety years old and you don’t look a day over seventy-five.”
“Oh, you are so kind,” the woman says, “but I’m ninety.”
“No,” Arthur says. He calls to me, “Peter, how old do you think this nice lady is?”
“Not a day over seventy-five,” I say.
“It says here, she’s ninety years old.”
“There must be some mistake,” I say. “That couldn’t be.”
“It must be a mistake,” Arthur says. “I don’t believe it. You’re much too young-looking.”
“Oh, you boys,” she says.
* * *
Arthur sits in back with a lady we’re returning to her nursing home after a two-week hospital stay. Arthur reads the discharge summary, which describes the woman as a “pleasantly confused eighty-year-old.”
“Pleasantly confused, a nice term,” he says.
“Where are you taking me?” the woman asks.
“Back to the nursing home.”
“Have I been there before?”
“Yes, you liked it very much.”
“How nice,” she says.
“And where are we going?” she asks later.
“To the nursing home.”
“Oh, very good. I’ve heard it’s very nice. Have I been there before?”
“Pleasantly confused,” Arthur says after we’ve left her. “That’s what I’d like to be.”
“You’re not far from it,” I say.
“What?”
“Hard of hearing, too.”
“There must be some mistake,” Arthur says to the eighty-eight-year-old lady riding in back with him as he reads her hospital discharge papers. “It says there, you were born in 1909. That would make you eighty-eight, when you can’t be a day over seventy-five.”
“Oh, yes, I’m eighty-eight.”
“I don’t believe it. Hey, Peter, how old do you think this lady is?”
“Not a day over seventy-five.”
“It says here she’s eighty-eight. It must be a typo.”
“Has to be a typo. She doesn’t look a day over seventy-five.”
“Must be a mistake,” Arthur says.
“No, I’m eighty-eight,” she says.
“I don’t believe it,” Arthur says.
On the way out of the nursing home, Arthur says he’s got to take a pee. He looks around for a restroom. “Take a right at the corner,” I say.
“How do you know?”
“It’s what the sign says right there.” I point to it.
He studies the sign a moment, then says, “I’ll be damned.”
I wheel the stretcher out by myself and am remaking it when he emerges.
“You kn
ow,” I say, “I was just thinking that one of these days we’re going to go in together, and I’m going to come out by myself.”
“Hey,” he says.
“Yup, we’ll get a call to go to the nursing home, but they won’t give us a name to pick up, and while they strap you to your wheelchair and give you a tray of macaroni and diced peaches, you’ll be crying, ‘There must be some mistake.’ I’ll be coming out by myself, wiping a solitary tear from my eye.”
“Well, if I’m pleasantly confused, then I guess it won’t matter.”
We lift the stretcher up together and throw it in back.
“The years, they do go by,” I say.
“Enough of that,” he says.
Right There
She is ninety-three years old. She lives in a small, well-ordered room in a residential development for the elderly. She weighs barely eighty pounds. Her face is deeply wrinkled. She says she used to be a dancer—that is her secret to living so long. She tells me how she met her husband at the bar where she worked, and how, on their fiftieth anniversary, she got up on the table and did a tap dance that brought the house down. She has an easy laugh and asks me about my own life, the ladies I have known.
She is going to the hospital because she has a pain in her side when she breathes. I ask her where it is exactly. She takes my hand, brings it around her back, moving it up her ribs, to feel the place. I can feel her delicate carriage. She presses my hand against the spot. Suddenly she arches her back and cries out in a quick gasp.
“Right there,” she says.
“Right there,” I say.
Her skin is warm. She keeps my hand against her back. I can feel her breathe. I can feel myself breathe. It is quiet. She smiles at me softly. In her eyes, I see her twenty-year-old self, sitting close to me in the evening. I see the eyes of all the women I have loved. I think growing old may not be all that bad.
Flirt
We are in triage at Mount Sinai with a forty-year-old woman who has been hearing voices most of her life. Jack and Diane are the ones talking to her today. “They always in my bidness,” she tells me. We picked her up at the community health center, where the doctor said she needed to get her medications stabilized. Though she is forty, she looks much younger, with a soft, freckled brown baby face. She has no teeth. I have told her that she looks familiar to me and I speculated that I may have picked her up before. She doesn’t remember me and the more I look at her, the more I think she looks like my friend Kevin Andrews, who has about ten brothers and sisters, and many more cousins.
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