My Name Is John
Shut out all of your past except that which will help you weather your tomorrows.
Sir William Osler
“Hello. My name is John . . . and I’m an alcoholic.” That’s the first thing they taught us in rehab—to admit it. But here I am, after being dry for over a year, in the hospital. My relapse was bad.
I watched a guy in scrubs pass my door. He’d gone down the hallway a couple of times already. He was always smiling and had a certain bounce to his step. Finally, my courage built, I waited for him to pass again.
“Pssst. Pssst,” I tried to get his attention. He peeked his head into my doorway.
“Yes sir?” he offered. “John?”
“Yeah man, it’s me,” I answered hoarsely.
“John?” He quizzed again, as the truth was sinking in.
He stood at the foot of my bed, the reality hitting him in the face.
It hit me too as I looked at this man dressed in scrubs. He was clean, healthy, and a sparkle decorated his eyes. He stood taller and more confidently than when I first met him.
He had been in the rehab group I lead.
Together, we had encouraged the guys in our group—to be strong, to face our problems, with God and not the bottle. We had helped other friends when they were close to relapsing. We talked them through the pain—emotionally and physically. One time, a friend had lost his wife and family and was missing them so terribly he was going to hit the bottle again. We stayed by his side all day and into the evening, playing Frisbee at the park, riding bikes, bowling, drinking coffee. We stayed with him until the sorrow passed.
The two of us had found purpose for our lives again.
There in that hospital bed, with tubes hooked up to me, fighting to breathe through the pain in my body, I realized I had lost my purpose.
And here before me was a man who radiated his.
“John,” he said again. “Man, I’ve been thinking about you. What’s been going on?” He pulled up a chair close to me and unlike most men, this friend took my hand in his.
Tears trickled down my face, wetting the pillow. What did he have that I didn’t? Or did I have it and lose it?
My friend kept talking—about things in our past and things in his life now. He explained that he was in school and striving to become an R.N. He had passion about his life. I wanted what he had but I didn’t know if I would live to ever have it. My liver had shut down. I was in bad shape.
He knew. I knew it. “John, you look awful.”
I had to laugh. He was always a straight shooter. None of us ever wondered where we were with him. If he was mad, he told us, got it over with, and moved on. He was fair.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Live the lessons, John. You had a relapse but that’s not the end, you know. But man, you gotta do it for yourself— not your wife, your kids, your family—but yourself. Let me help you.“
I knew he would, too. He had become a man of his word.
We talked that week I was in the hospital. We talked a lot. He shared how he hadn’t always been true to his word. He told me about those he had hurt in the process— those he had lost. I liked this man—he was vulnerable and shared openly. He wasn’t afraid of what I might think.
During that week I realized so many of my insecurities. I faced my emotional pain and it was hell. But my friend was there for me. He visited during his rounds and he stayed after his shift. We laughed together and cried together.
And one more time, for one more day, because of the man in the scrubs, I am dry.
John
as told to Kelly Martindale
New Life
Hope is tomorrow’s veneer over today’s disappointment.
Evan Esar
“A baby was born last night!”
The nurse, a fellow relief worker, shared this amazing news with a look of pure joy on her face. We rarely heard good news in Banda Aceh, Indonesia, during the weeks following the December 2004 earthquake and tsunami, so her announcement was greeted with smiles all around.We all agreed to go to the local hospital together to visit the new family.
Along with my fellow relief workers, I looked forward to a scene of joy within the walls of a hospital. Thus far hospitals were only reminders of how much was lost, because for every person saved and recovering in a bed, there were multiple stories of heartache for their family members swept away by the waves.
I had traveled to the island of Sumatra, Indonesia, from my home in Phoenix, Arizona, in February 2005 to train relief workers on trauma and to help survivors. As a mental health therapist, I had seen firsthand how worn thin the relief workers were by the constant grief and loss surrounding them. After being in Indonesia for several weeks, I was feeling a little worn myself. We all needed an uplifting moment of hope.
We made our way to the hospital, walking toward the nondescript building with excitement. Pausing before entering, my eyes lingered on the wall before me and I stopped.
Stretched across the entire length of the hospital wall were signs, each one displaying the word dicari, which means “looking for” in Indonesian. Underneath that phrase was the face, name, and description of a missing family member. Some signs had just one photograph and description, but far too many showed a couple, several very young children, or even an entire family. Some signs were black and white, old and faded by the elements and hanging on by just a corner. Others looked professionally printed, the colors still bright, the sign still firmly affixed to the wall.
As I looked at that wall, I grieved for the hope on display. The hope the people who created and hung those signs held for finding their loved ones. Week by week, it had become increasingly clear how unlikely a happy ending would be in this tragic situation.
Standing there, I felt the weight of my experience thus far. The stories the survivors shared with me echoed in my ears. The father who told me, “I lost my wife and four children to the water and I have never found their bodies.” The disbelieving mother who cried, “My baby, only a few months old, was torn from my grip when I was in the tsunami.” The priest who lamented, “I did not do more to save those around me. I forgot that waves follow earthquakes. How could I forget?” I grieved with them all.
Shaking off the memories for now, I continued past the grim reminder of hope and loss, looking forward to a more hopeful scene inside. Then, walking into the hospital, we heard the word. The baby had died. I never learned the reason, but saw the tiny bundle in the corner of the room. Wrapped in a blue blanket with a pattern of hearts and teddy bears, the small form served as another reminder of how closely death lingered even six weeks after the disaster. I felt the urge to leave the hospital with its stories of sadness and the evidence of loss papering the front. But where would I go? Sadness and destruction were everywhere in Banda Aceh.
Then, an Indonesian nurse dressed in a crisp white uniform approached us. She wore a white scarf covering her hair, as is traditional for Muslim Indonesian women. Her smile warmed my heart. Despite the tragedy that surrounded her and having to walk by the wall of missing people every day, she still radiated joy in serving others. With her bright smile, she brought us into a room and showed us twin newborn infants swaddled in matching blankets.
Laying side by side, only their tiny red faces peeked out. I noticed that the blankets had the same pattern of hearts and teddy bears as the other infant’s swaddling. These children, born to a survivor of the tsunami that very day, showed all of us how hope endures in the midst of tragedy. One young life lost, but two lives started that day in the hospital. Gazing down on them, I felt renewed by such a strong reminder that life does indeed go on.
“Congratulations,” I said to the family gathered around. The exhausted mother only smiled, but her mother, the proud grandmother of the babies, told us, “The nurses made the babies live.” In a time and place with very limited medical resources and many potential complications of childbirth, the nurses had ushered in new life against great odds.
Then my friend offered to take my photograph with three of the nurses working that day. In the photo, initially you see only our differences. I am a Christian, American man. They are Muslim, Indonesian women. My height towers over their small frames. Looking closer, though, you see that what unifies us is our smiles. Initially brought together because of disaster, we now celebrated new life together.
Their smiles and joy remind me to this day that hope lives, even in the midst of tragedy.
Thomas Winkel
[EDITORS’ NOTE: To learn more about supporting tsunami relief, go to www.WordPointPublishing.com. ]
Sustained Me
You will sustain him on his sickbed.
Psalm 41:3
You were present at my son’s birth. Cheering me on.
Telling me not to give up. Refusing to take a break.
Certain that my baby would be here any minute.
Your badge, “Registered Nurse,” was pinned fittingly
over your heart.
A few hours later . . .
Still, you were there.
Things had taken a turn for the worse . . .
Vacuum extractor . . . forceps . . .
You held one of my hands while my husband held the
other.
Our baby was born blue, deprived of oxygen.
How I longed to hear him make a sound.
A team of twenty-five assembled in the birthing room,
there to give life to our child.
APGAR—one—not good.
I knew this, but refused to let it register.
Hot tears stung my face, but my baby had yet to cry.
Suctioning . . . establishing an airway.
How could one so tiny require the care of so many?
The team worked feverishly as our baby teetered
precariously between life and death.
Finally . . . that first glorious cry! A sound I shall never
forget.
“Take a quick peek,” they said as they wheeled him off to
the NICU.
“He’s in good hands,” you promised.
I knew it was all you could say.
It was the only thing you were sure of.
You comforted me while my husband accompanied our
firstborn son to the nursery.
Several hours later, I caught my first glimpse of him . . .
big, rosy, and beautiful
All nine pounds, six ounces of him stuffed into his
Isolette.
Attached to wires and tubes and needles.
There you were again, different in your appearance,
Yet somehow the same.
A different name on your badge, but the words
“Registered Nurse,” positioned like your colleague’s,
suitably over your heart.
You tended to his every need. You even tended to mine.
I held my baby for the first time . . . dressed in scrubs
and gloves.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I choked back tears,
grateful that I could hold him.
A million thoughts ran through my head. What lies ahead for this child? Will there be learning disabilities, visual problems . . . or worse?
The “what-ifs” were too much to bear. But it didn’t matter. I loved him with a fierceness I could not describe.
“Get some rest,” you told me. “We’ll take good care of him here. We’ll ring your room if there are any problems.”
You snapped a Polaroid picture of him for me, his tiny fingers grasping my gloved hand.
I clung to that picture.
I fell asleep, clutching it to my heart.
Medical specialists and machines sustained my son’s life.
You sustained my spirit.
How, I wondered, does nursing school ever prepare someone for these things?
Then I realized that nursing school, despite everything it teaches you, could never really train you for this.
For this is truly the work of angels on earth.
Wendy Young
Optimistic Light
Let your light shine. Shine within you so that it can shine on someone else. Let your light shine.
Oprah Winfrey
I survived a brain stem stroke and my future dwells in dark shadows. I am a ventilator-dependent quadriplegic. All I can do is lay here. I wish for death . . . complete darkness.
I hear two nurses talking in hushed tones. An alarm buzzes. “It’s just room number 120. He’s always pushing his call button.”
The younger nurse asks, “Should I go check on him?”
“No, he’s fine. He probably just wants to gripe about something. He’s just a difficult patient.”
“If you’re sure . . . ” she says doubtfully.
The disturbing conversation stops as my family walks into the room. In the past three weeks, I had been diagnosed with spinal meningitis, had a cardiac and respiratory arrest, stroked at the brain stem, and been deemed brain-dead. The ravages of worry are stamped on their pale faces.
The nurses’ words lurk in my head, and I hear them again and again when my family leaves to get lunch. I’m alone. I am terrified, but cannot speak and have no way to tell anyone. I don’t think I’m a difficult patient, as they defined that other man. I hope the nurse responds to my ventilator alarms. What happens if my ventilator hose pops off?Will someone come running? They ignored another’s alarms, will they ignore mine?
Alone . . . all alone. The ventilator is my sole companion. I count the seconds between each breath. One, two, three, four, five, six, air in, air out. One, two, three, four, five, six, air in, air out . . . over and over I count. It took longer to get a breath! No, I just don’t always count at the same rate. Panic stirs in my chest. What happens if the machine doesn’t supply a burst of air? Another breath eases my trepidation.
A new nurse, Mary, takes care of me all week. The anxiety builds each day as the sun sinks lower in the sky. Will that other nurse, who thinks I’m a pest, be on duty tomorrow? At night I lay awake and agonize. Each day as Mary greets me, I breathe a mental sigh of relief.
Tomorrow arrives and Mary ushers in a new day. She talks to me even though I can’t talk back. She is five-foot nothing, if that, with a bouncy, upbeat personality that makes people instantly like her the minute she bebops into the room. Just watching her check my blood pressure, temperature, and arrange my pillows lightens my spirits.
If only I could tell her about the conversation I overheard.
After a week of virtual isolation, Mary introduces me and my family to an alphabet chart. She knows I can’t move or talk and empathizes with how lonely, boring, and frustrating it is for me—lying by as conversation flies around me.
Mary teases me, “Your days of daydreaming are over. Your family may enjoy your silence, but today that is all over. By blinking your eyes you can start telling them what to do and how.” She winks conspiratorially.
Mary explains the method to help me communicate with the chart. “Someone holds up the chart and points to each letter.” She demonstrates as she instructs. “To say, ‘Hi,’ they point to A, B, C, D, E, F, G, and at H, you’ll blink. They follow the same process for the letter I—A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, and at I, you’ll blink. Anytime you want to say a word, just use the board. If someone asks you a yes or no question, you answer with one blink for yes and two blinks for no. Any questions?”
Now, I can tell someone my fear.
I blink once to indicate yes, I have a question.
“Ask away.”
I spell out. “Can I ask not to get a nurse?”
“Sure.” Mary raises her bushy eyebrows. “Why?”
Painstakingly, I recount the conversation between that horrible nurse and the trainee.
“I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry. You know most nurses don’t feel that way or act like that.” Mary’s right. I never experience any such instances with any other nurses.
The sha
dow of despair recedes under the light of Mary’s competent and kind ministrations. I don’t have to face each day with apprehension or wonder if I will get that nurse or anyone like her again.
I spell words and construct sentences in this fashion all during the day when my family’s around. They stick close to me after I share that story, except when visitors come. They can stretch their legs and take a breather during those times or anytime Mary is on duty.
Mary is my most frequent visitor. Each day she works, she perches on my bed and chats with me on her breaks, because she wants my company. I think I get far more from these conversations than she does. The time given freely makes me feel normal. I am more than something to be pitied. I’m not just a patient. I am her friend. She gets two fifteen-minute breaks a day and she spends them with me. Most days she comes and talks during part of her lunch with me, too. Mary stays with me days and encourages others to use the board, but the nights leave me in silence.
Mary stays late after her shift and teaches the night shift how to use the board. I miss Mary at night, but another nurse watches me closely and talks to me in her downtime. Hours elapse. My family is at home. With the free time on my hands, in the darkness I think about what my future holds.
Before Mary’s morning break, I ask my mother about my condition and she explains it the best she can. “You have locked-in syndrome.”
I spell, “What does that mean?”
The color drains from her face. Her features crumple and tears spill down her cheeks. She fortifies herself with a deep breath and spews out the answer. “It means you will never move anything but your eyes, nor breathe without a ventilator, nor eat by mouth, nor speak.”
Mary pops into my room while Mom explains this to me. “Sounds pretty hopeless, doesn’t it? Well it isn’t. I’ve researched what they can do at the rehabs. They’re going to teach you a bunch. You can control all kinds of things with your eyes, like a computer, your television, radio, and all kinds of other stuff. You won’t walk and talk, but you can still do a lot of things. We just need to get you well enough to go to the rehab. You’re going to be a busy lady.”