Beyond Heaven and Earth

by Steven H. Propp

  “It’s about time that someone got here!” came a weak, but angry voice from inside the room.

  As he entered the room, Jobran said apologetically, “I’m sorry, Mr. Phillips, the nurses are all occupied right now; but I can help you with any non-medical needs you have.” The patient was sitting alone in a room, with various tubes running (and out) of him.

  “You need to rearrange these pillows behind me; my back is breaking,” Mr. Phillips said. “I’ve been ringing for almost five minutes; did I interrupt your coffee break, or what?” Then he gave Jobran a quick look, and said, “I recognize you; I’ve seen you before.”

  “That’s right, sir,” Jobran said, pleased to be recognized, and trying to rearrange the pillows behind his patient. “I’ve been volunteering here at the hospice for almost a month; I’ve waited on you several times.”

  “Well, I’ve waited on you a hell of a lot more!” Mr. Phillips said, angrily. “I have to wait on all of you, every time I need something; you’re all so busy yakyak-yakking in the halls, sleeping, and God knows what else, that you ignore those of us who are in pain, and who are paying your salaries!”

  Jobran was tempted to reply, I’m a volunteer; no one—including you—pays me a salary, but he restrained himself. “Remember,” they told his group of volunteers during one of their training sessions, “All of the patients here—and we prefer to call them ‘clients,’ rather ‘patients’—have terminal illnesses. We are therefore seeing them during the most difficult time of their lives: a time when they are afraid, lonely, and very vulnerable. If they want to vent their feelings on you, if they want to blame you for their hardships, let them. The clients we deal with here are almost all those whose physical needs are so great that they can’t be cared for at home—which is usually preferable to being in this “hospital” environment—so they feel they are trapped here, like prisoners. Most of our clients have cancer, but others have AIDS, or some other terrible illness, so their treatment programs are exhausting, and they may be in considerable discomfort or pain, although we make every effort possible to alleviate that. We are here to offer them unconditional warmth, and a caring and supportive environment. Even though the person is dying, we want them to realize that they are still a valued and respected part of the community, and that they still have family, friends, and others who care deeply about them. In short, we want to show them that they still matter, and they have not been forgotten or abandoned.”

  “Ouch!” Mr. Phillips screeched, waking Jobran up from his reverie. “You’re got them too low—I need them to be fluffed up more, and moved up higher.”

  Jobran rearranged the pillows again, and asked, “How’s that?”

  “No, that’s too much! Can’t you do anything right?” He pressed the button to call for the nurse again, and held the button down.

  “Sir, if you’ll just let me try…” Jobran began, but he was immediately cut off by Mr. Phillips, who grabbed a handful of flowers from a lovely bouquet that someone had placed by his bed, and threw them at Jobran, hitting him in the face. “Get out of here, and send in someone that knows what they’re doing!” he raged, and Jobran exited hastily, wiping the water from his face.

  Since he had already stayed almost two hours past the end of his volunteer shift, Jobran went back to the Nurse’s Station, to check out. Arriving there, he recognized Etta, the nurse that he had met when he brought the baby to the Emergency Room the previous month.

  He walked and stood in front of her, and said, “Excuse me; you wouldn’t remember me, but…”

  Her eyes lit up immediately, and she said joyfully, “Not remember you? You bring in a baby to me on New Year’s Eve, and you think I won’t remember you?” She came around the counter and gave Jobran a hug. “But actually, I have forgotten your name. Wasn’t it ‘Job,’ or something like that?”

  “Actually, most people do call me ‘Jobe,’” he replied, “But my full name’s Jobran Winter. And you’re Etta, but I don’t remember your last name.”

  “Strange,” she said. “My last name, I mean—not the fact that you can’t remember it. In fact, I’m impressed that you remember me at all.”

  “Actually, you were the one that motivated me to volunteer here; I come in four days a week,” Jobran replied.

  “That’s great,” she said, with genuine enthusiasm. “How do you like it so far?”

  “You were right; it’s been a very meaningful, and inspirational experience,” Jobran said. Then he stopped, pointing at Mr. Phillips’ room, and said, “Well…almost all of it.”

  The nurse next to Etta laughed, and said, “Oh, you must mean Mr. Phillips; he’s our pride and joy.”

  “Gave you a hard time, did he?” Etta asked Jobran.

  Jobran shrugged. “No more than usual.”

  “He’s in the final stages of terminal cancer,” Etta said. “Probably doesn’t have more than a few weeks to live.”

  “Oh—well, no wonder he seems so cranky,” Jobran said, “I guess that experience would make anyone difficult to get along with.”

  The other nurse laughed again, and said, “Believe me, he was just as crabby three months ago, when we admitted him; and he was feeling a lot better physically then.” She shook her head slowly, and said, “I think he’s just one of those individuals who’s going to remain cranky and stubborn to the end.” She thought for a moment, then said, “When he first came here, and I saw the way he was, I decided to make a kind of ‘project’ out of him—I like to believe that I can get anyone to open up, and come out of their shell—and I’ve always been successful with cranky and difficult people, in the past.” She shook her head in discouragement, and said, “But I may have to admit that Mr. Phillips could be my first failure.”

  “And if Monisha can’t get you to open up,” Etta said, putting her hand on the other nurse’s shoulder, “No one can!” and they all laughed. “With Mr. Phillips’ kind of attitude, he’s lucky that he has such a top-level Extended Care health program, that fully covers even hospice treatment,” Etta said, “Because he sure wouldn’t have anyone else taking care of him!” She laughed, good-naturedly.

  “Didn’t he have any family? Friends?” Jobran asked. “Visitors? Co-workers? Anybody?”

  Monisha shook her head. “He has one daughter, back in Ohio, but he asked us not to contact her until after he was dead—which I thought was kind of peculiar. But since trying to involve the family and friends is such an important part of hospice care, I called her anyway, figuring who knows? Sometimes even people that have been estranged for decades become willing to let bygones be bygones when one of them is facing death.” She shrugged her shoulders, and said, “But she didn’t want to see or talk to him, either, even knowing that he was dying. She said that she was his only next-of-kin, and that if we needed anything signed, or approval for anything, she would be glad to arrange it—but she never wanted to see him again.” Monisha raised her finger, and quickly added, “Before you think anything bad about her, just know that I talked to her for about half an hour, and she’s really a nice person—makes you wonder how she managed that, growing with a father like hers. Anyway, she’s a grade school teacher, has a husband, three kids and two grandkids, is active in her church and community, and just seems really nice. But she said that she’d tried to reconcile with him too many times before—when her kids were born, and when the grandkids started to come along, for example—and it always ended up even worse than before.”

  “In the months he’s been here, he’s never had a single visitor, or phone call, or even a ‘Get Well’ card,” Etta said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “It makes you wonder what ever happened to him in life?” Jobran said. “What kind of person was he?”

  Monisha laughed, and said, “Probably a rather disagreeable one, judging by the way he acts with the staff around here, and the attitude of his daughter.”

 
; “I mean, you wonder if that’s just the way he always was, or whether he became that way after some of the experiences that life handed to him?” Jobran clarified.

  “Probably some of both,” Etta replied, “But I doubt that he was ever the ‘popular’ type, in any circumstance. Usually, even if you have alienated your family, you find a few friends—or at least like-minded people—that care whether or not you live or die. Shoot, even street winos have a few drinking buddies, most of them.” She shook her head sadly, and concluded, “But this man seemingly has no one.”

  “It’s strange, too,” Monisha said. “Here is this man in the hospital—courtesy of his health plan, Medi-Cal, and whatever—and in the Hospice unit, being given the most compassionate care we can possibly give him, yet he’s never expressed a single bit of gratitude; not even a simple ‘thank you’ to the people that are trying to help him.”

  Etta said, “I also think it’s ironic that this man is taking up a hospital bed and receiving the best of treatment, whereas many people are unable to afford such care, even for people that they care greatly about—people that have families and friends who would be in the hospital day and night, doing anything they could to comfort the person. And yet because they can’t afford it, and he can, Mr. Phillips gets the care, and they don’t; why is that?”

  A buzzer rang, and Monisha looked at a computer screen, and said, “I’ve got to take this one; see you later, Etta,” and she waved as she disappeared down the hall.

  “I’ve got to be going, too,” Etta said. “I just stopped by to pick up my schedule for next week. How long is your shift?”

  “Actually, it was over two hours ago,” Jobran said. Then, an idea occurred to him, and he said, “Say, can I treat you to lunch or dinner, to thank you for giving me the idea to volunteer here?”

  Etta smiled and said, “As long as you don’t mind eating at the Cafeteria.”

  “Fine with me,” Jobran said, and Etta led the way to the Cafeteria.

  After they were seated with their trays of food, Etta took up the conversation where they had left off, and said, “We need to, as a society, make some decisions with regard to care for the elderly. Medical care is so expensive these days—and the care we are giving to the elderly could just as easily be given to someone that is young and in the prime of life, with their whole lives ahead of them. The money and effort we’re giving to extend the life of a 75-year for a few weeks or months might just as easily extend the life of an underprivileged child by decades.”

  “I agree with you in principle,” Jobran said, nodding his head. “Still, it’s a lot harder to feel that way when it is one of your own loved ones that is being spoken about.” He paused, then added, “In the case of my wife, even giving her just a few more weeks or even days of life would have been worth any amount to me.”

  “That’s understandable,” Etta said. “But she was also very young, right? Did you know she was in danger of dying?” Jobran shook his head. “Then, too, I suppose it also depends on your religion. Do you believe in life after death?” she asked.

  “I think so,” Jobran said. “But I’m still kind of working on it.”

  “I’m a Christian, so I absolutely believe in it,” Etta said. “To me, if you believe in life after death, then it seems strange to me when people want to fervently to preserve your own life at any cost. If you’ve settled your personal affairs, and you’ve made your peace with God, why wouldn’t you want to hurry up and get to Heaven?” She looked around the room, as if dismissing it all, and said, “I mean, what’s so great about life here?”

  Jobran nodded, then said, “I’ve researched a lot of religions since my wife died, and it seems to me that although a lot of people say they believe their professed religion—including what it teaches about life after death—in practical reality they have a lot of ‘doubts’; and thus, they would prefer to hold on to life as long as they possibly can.” Jobran held up his fork and knife against each other, then said, “A lot of us have a considerable amount of tension between what we say we believe, and what our actual actions indicate. For example, compare the number of Americans that say they believe in their religion, with the percentage that actually attend a church, synagogue, or mosque in a given week: either there’s a tremendous occurrence of hypocrisy, or the actions of people are indicating that they don’t really believe what they claim to believe.”

  “Well, I’m not one of those people,” Etta said firmly, shaking her head. “Maybe it’s because I’m black, but the Church has always been an essential part of my life; I was raised in the Church, and I’ll die in the Church.” Pointing at Jobran, she added, “And I feel sorry for people that don’t have any religion. For example, one of our clients told me that she had ‘lost the will to live.’ Now, even though we’re strictly forbidden here on staff from talking to anyone about religion, I tried to get her interested in reading the Bible, especially the Psalms, but she wasn’t having none of that. She said, ‘I don’t believe any of that superstitious Bible nonsense, and I have only contempt for people who make ‘deathbed conversions.’” Etta shook her head in bewilderment, and said, “I can understand someone who doesn’t believe in religion fighting and struggling to stay alive; and I can understand someone who knows God wanting to ‘go home,’ but I have a lot of trouble understanding someone that does-n’t believe in God and yet wants to die.”

  Jobran shrugged, and said, “Maybe they feel that if this is what life is like, they’ve had enough of it.” Then, with genuine curiosity, he asked, “Do you really think that people with religious beliefs find it easier to die? From my limited observation, it seems as if religious people are as eager as anyone else to put off dying as long as possible.”

  Etta thought for a moment, then replied, “Like I said earlier, I don’t understand that attitude either. But I think that maybe some people just want to make sure that they’ve got everything done here on earth first, before they go to Heaven.” Then, with growing enthusiasm, she said, “Personally, in my church, when a saint passes on, it’s cause for celebration! When you’re a church member, you get a little taste of what Heaven will be like!”

  Jobran smiled and said, “For a lot of Christians, church is more like their idea of Hell.”

  “Then they haven’t gone to my church!” she shot back, laughing.

  Jobran laughed along with her, and said, “Maybe your church needs to have an outreach ministry right here at the hospital.”

  Etta looked serious, and said, “If they’d let us, we’d be here in an instant!”

  Jobran was genuinely interested, and asked, “Why don’t they let you?”

  Etta threw up her hands, and said, “Well, you know—the whole ‘Separation of Church and State’ thing, since a lot of the hospital’s money is coming from the government.” She sipped her milk, then said thoughtfully, “And I don’t know; maybe in some respects, that’s for the best. If it were allowed, I think some people would probably try and go overboard with it; they’d be really preachin’ at people, trying to get them to ‘repent or go to Hell,’ and most people don’t want to hear that sort of thing, even if they need it.” She looked sad as she added, “So because some people would complain, now hardly anyone has the chance to hear the Word, unless they have their own pastor come in, or they ask to see the hospital chaplain—and he’s so liberal that he hardly believes in anything at all!”

  “So you can’t express your personal beliefs at all, while you’re on the job?” Jobran asked. “Even though you’re working in an area that is, well, understandably concerned about life-and-death issues?”

  Etta flicked her fingers dismissively, and said, “Well, I try to be a witness in a small way: I’ll read the Bible to people if they ask me, or talk to them about Jesus a little bit, if they mention Him first. But I have to be real careful, because you can get fired for that kind of stuff.” She looked at him directly, and said,
“But since I’m on my lunch hour now…are you a Christian?”

  “I was brought up a liberal Protestant, but I’m now a Catholic,” Jobran said. Apologetically, he added, “You probably think that being Catholic isn’t really…”

  She cut him off, saying, “No, I’m cool with most Catholics,” before adding, “It’s better than ‘liberal Protestant’ anyway.” With interest in her voice, she asked, “Are you a pentecostal Catholic?”

  Jobran shook his head, and said, “No, but I know there’s a pentecostal group—’charismatic,’ they call it—that meets for prayer and Bible Study in the church that I attend Mass at, though.”

  Etta nodded, and said, “You should check it out sometime; there’s a lot of Spirit-filled Catholics around these days.”

  Jobran said, “Even though I’m ostensibly a Catholic, in a lot of respects I’m kind of a ‘secular’ person myself, when it comes to social issues. Still, I sometimes wonder what it is that we think we’re preserving by ‘protecting’ people from religion and religious beliefs. Maybe it’s that some people—like that lady you just mentioned that lost her ‘will to live’—have such a strongly negative reaction against religion, that it would be contrary to their health to hear anything about it.” He shrugged, and added, “And as for other people…maybe they just don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Maybe they need to be disturbed,” Etta said, with a sly smile, which Jobran returned.

  “Maybe so,” Jobran said. “And maybe people are just too used to living with professed ‘certainty’ about too many things. If someone—whether it be a Mormon Missionary, or a Jehovah’s Witness—presents them with a different religious option, it bothers them not to know enough to be able to refute them, and so they end up just saying, ‘That’s not what I believe’—but they can’t say why they believe it, or don’t believe it.”

  “At my church, we have classes in witnessing—’Apostolic Training,’ we call it—so that we’re ready to tell anyone who asks what we believe, and why,” Etta interjected.