Staring death in the face, literally, was not how I was
hoping to spend my Saturday evening. I thought after my intense {understatement}
last weekend that surely my quota had been filled and like the proverbial lightning
never striking twice I should be protected from any further unexpected deaths,
at least for a few weeks. I shook my
head at how sadly mistaken I was as I reached into the drawer at the nurses’
station that holds the blank death certificates and began filling out yet
another description of humanity’s ultimate end. From dust we are, and to dust we will return.
I went quickly to the hospital when the nurse practitioner
called me saying a patient was not breathing well. The mid-level providers are
really competent and handle a lot of the emergencies and admissions on their
own, so I knew there was likely something serious happening if she wanted me to
come evaluate the patient. When I got
there, the patient was leaning forward in bed, gasping, sweating, with eyes
wide in fear. She felt like she couldn’t catch her breath and we struggled to
get a measurement of her oxygen saturation. Within minutes of my arrival, her
eyes got even wider; she stared straight ahead, then slumped back onto the bed unconscious.
We immediately started CPR and I was impressed with how the team of nurses and
staff came together and quickly and competently began resuscitation. Thanks be to God.
Despite our efforts, the woman never recovered. She died
most likely of a pulmonary embolism, something that can be fatal even in the
U.S. though there are more ‘heroics’ that we are able to go through in intensive
care settings there. As I sat writing
the death summary, her relatives came into the room wailing, sobbing, and
pawing at her body, with visceral demonstrations of their grief. In a place
where life is lived out loud these demonstrations seem appropriate, and indeed
if they were missing it would feel unsettled. Later in the day I went for a
walk in the surrounding countryside with a friend and we came upon a group of
young adults doubled over in laughter. It seemed like it was probably over
something fairly trifling- a bag falling off someone’s head, or a mannerism of
one of the group- but their response was immediate, exuberant, and infectious. When I told a patient she could go home, her
bright smile lit up the room and she laughed out loud (delayed of course by
about 15 seconds as the nurse translated for me). At church last week, as people
brought their offerings to the front they filled the aisles with swaying,
dancing, clapping, and singing. This ebullient
approach to life warms my heart and makes me feel alive. From the depths of despair to the thrilling
heights of joy and celebration, life is full and rich. Come
Holy Spirit.
