Angels on the Night Shift

by Robert D. Lesslie, M. D.

  Virginia’s voice was trembling, and tears were forming in her eyes. But she continued.

  “I told her I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. And Emmy said, ‘They like you, Miss G.’ And Dr. Lesslie, I can’t explain it, but I had this feeling, it was the most peaceful…”

  She couldn’t go on, and I waited.

  Finally, she looked up at me. “And then that little girl smiled and said, ‘Miss G, they told me not to worry and that everything will be alright. They said Jesus knows my name. And he knows yours too.’ ”

  Once more she was silent, and I just looked at her. And then I wiped away the tears from my own eyes.

  Virginia sat up straighter, slapped her knees, and leaned closer to me.

  “Now, let me tell you about Jim Barkley and Frank Witherspoon, the two men in room 4.”

  “Ms. Granger, if it’s anything like what you just told me about Emmy, I’m going to need a box of Kleenex.”

  “Well, there’s some behind you on the counter,” she said, smiling. “But this is important, and I want to share it with you.”

  I settled on my stool, and Virginia told me about these two special men.

  Jim Barkley and Frank Witherspoon were both in their late seventies, and both were veterans of the Second World War. They had the common bond of having served in the U.S. Third Army under General George S. Patton, fighting in different units in northern Africa, Sicily, and finally in France. They didn’t actually meet until years later, when they each moved to Rock Hill with their wives. Jim taught English at Winthrop University, while Frank was a financial consultant with one of the large banks in Charlotte. They attended the same Presbyterian church, and that’s where they were first introduced to each other.

  It was their wives who first got them together. They were in the same women’s organization and quickly realized they had a lot in common. Jim and Frank realized they had a lot in common as well and soon became fast friends. The two couples spent a lot of time together, and when Jim’s wife became ill, Frank and Betty were there for her, and for him.

  When she died, the three of them became inseparable. And then Betty, Frank’s wife, got sick. None of the doctors could tell them where the cancer had started, but by the time it was diagnosed, it was too late. And the end came quickly.

  “Betty Witherspoon was a good friend of mine,” Virginia told me. “And she was a good woman. Right before she died, she talked with Jim and asked him to look after her husband. She knew he would be lost for a while and would need his friend. And Jim promised he would do just that. Funny how things work out, though. It turned out that Frank would be the one looking after Jim.”

  “You mean, after he had his stroke?” I asked her.

  “Well, it started before that. Jim has had a lot of medical problems the past couple of years, and the stroke was just the latest.”

  She told me how Frank had always been at Jim’s side, no matter what happened, no matter how difficult.

  “After his stroke, Jim couldn’t do anything for himself,” she told me. “But Frank was always there. Jim didn’t have anybody else, and Frank knew it, and he was the only one looking after him. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. At one point, some of us talked with him about finding a retirement home for Jim, but Frank wouldn’t hear of it. There are some good facilities here in Rock Hill, but he was determined to keep his friend at home and take care of him. A year or two ago that changed, and Jim moved into Westminster Towers. And you know what? Frank moved in right beside him. And he still takes care of him. You’re not going to see one without the other.”

  She stopped and looked over at me, and I thought her story was finished. I was wrong.

  “Dr. Lesslie, there are different kinds of angels in this world, and I believe the Lord puts them in our lives when we need them most, at just the right time and at just the right place. For Emmy, it was those two ladies standing at the foot of her stretcher. That’s what she needed right then. And for Jim…well, Frank is his angel. Don’t you see? He’s more than just a friend. I don’t know how Jim would have survived after his wife died. And you know, I’m not sure how Frank would have survived without Jim. It’s all more than I can understand, but I know it’s all real. And I do believe in angels, Dr. Lesslie. You just have to keep your eyes open. They’re out there and they’re with us. I know that for certain.”

  She looked at me, not saying anything. I wasn’t sure what to say to her—my mind was struggling with some of my own experiences, and with hearing this story of the men in room 4.

  Virginia stood up slowly, stretched, and headed for the door.

  “Come on, Dr. Lesslie. We have work to do.”

  “Ms. Granger,” I said hesitantly. “Wait a minute.”

  She stopped in the doorway and turned to face me.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I want to ask you something. No, I want to tell you something, and then ask you what you think about it.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” she replied, walking back into the room.

  I was still sitting on the stool, and I put my hands on my knees, leaned forward, and looked down at the tiled floor.

  Then, looking up at her, I said, “Several months ago we had a yard sale at the house. You know we’re moving, and we were trying to get rid of twenty-five years of stuff that was just taking up space. Anyway, we had things spread out all over the house and out in the driveway. And we had people everywhere. They were milling around the kitchen and dining room, and at one point you could barely move. Well, I was trying to stand out of the way, over in a corner, when this man walked up to me. I didn’t know him, had never seen him in my life. But he just walked up as if he knew me and started talking. He was sort of scruffy and hadn’t shaved in a while.”

  “This your place?” he asked me.

  “Yes, it is,” I told him. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  He just stood there and sort of cocked his head, staring at me. He acted like he knew me, but again, I had never seen him before.

  Then he said, “Tell me, what is your ministry?”

  I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly, and I said, “My ministry?”

  “Yes. What is your ministry?” he repeated.

  I stood there and thought about that for a minute. What was my ministry? Maybe I should tell him I was a doctor and that was my ministry. But somehow I knew that wasn’t what he was asking me. He wanted to know how I was serving and living out my faith. He wasn’t trying to put me on the spot. It was almost like he was letting me put myself on the spot.

  “Well,” I continued, “you can figure I got uncomfortable and was struggling for an answer.

  “And what did you tell him?” Virginia asked.

  “Barbara was calling for me and wanted a price on something in the living room. I told the man I would be right back, and I went over to help her, and when I got back, he was gone. I looked all over the house and out in the yard, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured. “And what did you make of that?”

  “Nothing at first,” I answered. “I was busy with the yard sale, and there was stuff going on. There’s always stuff going on, isn’t there? But the more I thought about that guy, the more I began to wonder about his question. What is my ministry? That’s become an important issue for me, and one that I’m struggling with.”

  I was silent, and looked up at her for a response.

  “And what question do you have of me?” she asked gently. “Do you want to know if I think that man was an angel? Was he placed in your life at exactly that moment to cause you to have these questions? Could that be the way the Lord sometimes works in our lives?”

  I thought about what she was saying and just sat there.

  “We both know the answer, don’t we?” she said, stepping closer and putting a hand on my shoulder. “You just have to keep your eyes and ears open. And your heart.”

  She turned and headed out of trauma,
stopping at the door and flipping off the light switch.

  “Come on,” she said to me, adjusting her cap and smoothing the front of her dress. “You need to take care of Jim Barkley in room 4.”

  To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary.

  —THOMAS AQUINAS (1225–1274)

  20

  Revelation

  The next morning, Virginia met with Bill Chalmers. I wasn’t coming in until that night, so she called me at home and told me about their conversation.

  “Bill’s initial response was exactly the same as yours and mine,” she told me. “He kept wondering what we could do for Amy. He really feels bad about that.”

  “He should,” I responded. “But I guess we all should. What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing, really. I just let him talk, and eventually he came to the right conclusion. He’s going to call her and apologize and ask her to come back to the hospital. I just hope she’ll listen to him.”

  I did too, but Amy had been deeply hurt by all that had happened. It would be a lot for her to put aside, and a lot for her to forgive. I wasn’t sure I would be able to do it.

  “And what did he say about the drug problem? We’re not going to see Walter Stevens nosing around the ER again, are we?” I asked her.

  “No, we don’t have to worry about that,” Virginia chuckled. “Bill knows he made a mistake there. He’s not any too happy about the information Walter gave him last time. He told me he was going to handle this personally. And I got the distinct sense that he’s going to be very cautious and make sure it’s handled correctly. He asked if I thought we should get DHEC involved.”

  She waited, giving me a chance to express my thoughts.

  “DHEC does need to know about this,” I told her. “I was surprised before when Stevens didn’t contact them. They should be able to give us some good advice and help Bill avoid any more mistakes.”

  “That’s exactly what I told him,” Virginia said. “Looks like I did a good job raisin’ you up after all.”

  “Huh,” I grunted, my mind having returned to Amy Connors and how we could best help her. “Do you think we ought to give Amy a call in a couple of days, after Bill has a chance to contact her?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said thoughtfully. “Let’s see what comes of his talk with her. Maybe it will work itself out, but maybe not. What I want you to be thinking about is how we should approach Darren Adler, or if we should just wait and let things play out.”

  I had already been thinking about that. With Bill Chalmers in charge now, it gave us an excuse to step back and let things unfold. But it wasn’t my nature to run from a problem, or to be patient. However, I knew patience was what was needed here.

  “Let me think about that and we’ll talk the next time I see you.”

  “Fine,” she told me. “And have a good night. The ER was busy when I left.”

  She hung up and I got ready to head to the hospital.

  6:55 p.m. As the ambulance entrance doors swung open, I immediately sensed that something unusual was going on. Susan Everett looked up at me wide-eyed from behind the nurses’ station. Then Lori Davidson burst out from behind the curtain of room 4, heading toward the medicine room. When she saw me, she quickly turned and hurried over to where I stood.

  “You need to go help Dr. Kennick in 4,” she said a little breathlessly. Then she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what’s going on. But please, see if you can help.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Susan and called out to the secretary, “We need lab over in 4—stat!” Then without saying anything else, she disappeared into the medicine room.

  I had never seen Lori like this. She was upset about something, and was distracted. I looked over at the closed curtain of room 4 and decided to talk with her before going over there.

  She was standing in front of the narcotics cabinet reaching for some vials of medication when I stepped up beside her.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked her. “What’s going on?”

  She had some syringes and needles in her hand and put these down on the counter. Then she turned to me and said, “There’s a man in 4 with back pain—a kidney stone, it looks like. And Dr. Kennick has been trying to get rid of his pain for over an hour. Nothing is helping. He’s had almost 30 mgs of morphine and no relief. Now I’m getting him some more. But something’s just not right.”

  That was a lot of morphine. But sometimes kidney stones took a lot of pain medicine.

  “What’s not right?” I asked her.

  She was flushed, and a confused look passed over her face.

  “It’s almost like we’re giving him saline IV and not morphine,” she answered. “It doesn’t seem to faze his pain. And he’s a reasonable guy, not a drug-seeker or one of our regulars.”

  She looked back up into the narcotics cabinet. “I just don’t understand it,” she sighed.

  “Is someone in there with Dr. Kennick?” I asked her.

  “Yeah, Darren Adler. But he’s been tied up with the patient, starting an IV and stuff. He hasn’t had a chance to leave the room. Dr. Kennick had to come in here and get most of the morphine herself. I was getting some medicine for a patient in OBS and I showed her where it was. But now she’s getting upset and frustrated. That’s why you need to go help her,” she insisted. “I don’t think she knows what to do.”

  “Okay,” I said, turning and walking behind the nurses’ station toward room 4. I was almost there, when the curtain suddenly opened and Darren stuck his head out.

  “Susan!” he called. Then he saw me standing in front of him he said, “Great! Dr. Lesslie, come on in here, we need some help!”

  “Susan!” he turned again to the secretary. “We need a portable X-ray in here stat!”

  I stepped around Darren and over to the stretcher. Liz Kennick was standing by the counter, making some notes on the patient’s chart. Looking up at me as I entered the room, she said, “Good, glad you’re here, Robert.” Then she looked back down at the clipboard.

  “Dan Perkins,” she said to me, her voice steady and businesslike. “Fifty-seven-year-old with left flank pain and blood in his urine. No history of kidney stones, but that’s what it looks like. I’m just trying to get his pain relieved.” She didn’t look up, but kept writing on his chart.

  I turned to the man on the stretcher and stepped closer to him.

  He looked up at me, his face pale and covered with sweat. There was obvious pain in his eyes, but also fear.

  His hands were desperately clutching the raised rails of the stretcher, and his arms were shaking a little.

  “Doc, I need some help,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “This pain is killing me.”

  I put my hand on his left arm. His skin was cool and clammy, and I asked Darren, “What’s his blood pressure?”

  “100 over 60, last time we checked,” he told me. “That was about twenty minutes ago. Want me to get another one?”

  “Not right now,” Liz answered without turning around.

  Darren looked at me questioningly. Without saying anything, I nodded once, and he leaned over to get the blood-pressure cuff out of its holder on the wall.

  “When did this pain start?” I asked Mr. Perkins.

  “About half an hour before I got here,” he answered, glancing up at the clock on the wall beside him. “That’d make it about two hours ago.”

  Two hours? What has Liz been doing all this time?

  “Have you had any relief from the pain?” I asked him.

  “No, not at all,” he said quietly. “It’s still killing me.”

  Darren moved beside him and said, “Let’s try to sit you up a little, Mr. Perkins. I’m going to check your blood pressure again.”

  When the nurse raised the head of the bed and Perkins tried to move, he let out a loud scream.

  “Aaghh! I can’t!”

  He clutched the rails of the bed even tighter and looked up at me, pleading.
>
  “Don’t make me move!” he begged. “I can’t stand it!”

  Liz spun around, saw Adler trying to take the man’s blood pressure, and demanded, “Darren, just what are you doing! I told you we didn’t need to do that now!”

  Then she looked at me with daggers flying and said, “Do you want to take over here?”

  Her eyes moved to the clock on the wall. “It’s time for me to go, anyway. So here, he’s all yours.”

  She was trying to hand me the man’s clipboard, but I just stood and stared at her. I had never seen her behave like this before.

  Then it hit me.

  I whirled around and looked down again at Mr. Perkins. He wasn’t moving at all. Instead, he was desperately trying to remain absolutely still.

  That’s what wasn’t making any sense! A person with a kidney stone can’t keep still. Their pain won’t let them. They will pace and squirm and move around, anything in an attempt to find some relief. This man wasn’t doing any of that. Instead, he was doing just the opposite. He was trying not to move.

  “80 over 60,” Darren told us, putting the blood-pressure cuff back up.

  “Probably just the morphine we’ve been giving him,” Liz muttered from behind me. “Here, take this. I’m outta here.” She pushed the clipboard into the small of my back.

  “Just a minute, Liz,” I said without turning around.

  Then I moved right beside the stretcher and reached out, gently placing my hand on Mr. Perkins’s abdomen.

  “Are you having any pain here?” I asked him, pressing down a little, palpating different areas of his belly. He was slender and easy to examine.

  “No, the pain is in my back,” he told me, his eyes searching mine. “Aaghh! That hurt!” he hollered, reaching down to move my hand away.

  “Liz,” I said. “Come over here and feel this.”

  “I’m off duty,” she replied curtly, turning to leave the room.

  “Liz, come over here and feel this.” This time my voice was low and firm, and there was no mistaking my intent.