“Hello. Is
this Dr. McDonald?”
(to which I
responded in the affirmative).
“This is
“Ms. Casey” at the nursing home. Your dad just experienced a fall. It’s not
good. We are transporting him to the hospital. He still has life signs, but…
(and)
just stay
where you are, and I’ll call you back when we know something conclusive.”
Well, it
goes without saying, I was real conducive to her suggestion.
“Uh. No
ma’am. That doesn’t work for me. I’m leaving right now for the hospital.”
(Which I
summarily proceeded to do; stopping by my mother’s house to retrieve her on the
way).
Having
arrived at our destination, my wife, mother and I walked into the hospital
lobby, and I made the triage nurse aware of our presence. “Ms. Miller”
immediately summoned the charge nurse, and as she walked out of the inside ER
doors, she glanced at us across the waiting room, and I heard her quietly ask
an orderly,
“Is that the
family?”
(And I
thought, “Well now, that sounds ominous.”)
It was then
I knew. I just knew, (though my wife and mother would say later that even given
the nurse’s words, at this point they didn’t suspect anything).
“Miss Marsh”
led us to a small room, invited us to sit down, and informed us that the doctor
would be right with us.
A couple of
minutes later the Belle of the Ball made her entrance.
Well, to be
fair she dressed the part of a physician, but that was as close as she came to
the stereotypical image of a doctor. You would have thought she was the guest
of honor at a presidential inauguration. Her hair fell around her shoulders in
loose curls, she wore bright red lipstick, her lashes were long and coated with
mascara, and a copious amount of makeup lined her nose and cheeks. (I could
have sworn I was viewing the reincarnation of a ticket taker who sat in the
booth at the local Ritz when I was a boy).
The doctor’s
bedside manner was as false as the image she seemed determined to portray.
No sooner
had this cartoonish composite of physician and showgirl stepped through the
doorway of the small room, she announced,
“Hello, I’m
Dr. Dinkins.”
(and)
“I’m sorry,
… He didn’t make it.”
While I was
totally prepared for the news, my mother jerked backwards in her chair like
someone had slapped her.
The doctor
had not only omitted my father’s name, but she had stated the case so matter of
factly that she might just as well have been talking about her preference in
pizza.
And then she
was outta there.
As quickly
as “Lady Dinkins” departed the premises, Miss Marsh reappeared in the hallway.
The demeanor of our doctor and nurse were as polar opposites as the literal
poles of our planet.
“Mrs.
McDonald, I am SO sorry for your
loss. We did all we could, but we just couldn’t sustain a heartbeat” (and)
“Please come with me and I will take you to his room.”
And as my
mother attempted to stand, the kind nurse helped her to her feet, embraced her,
took her hand, and led her to the next room. Jean and I followed closely
behind.
As we
entered the room, my father lay on the gurney with the endotracheal intubation
tube still in his mouth. His only apparent injury, a large bump on his
forehead. My mother bent over and kissed my dad on the cheek. And as long as I
have the opportunity to breathe in and out, I will never forget her next words.
“Henry, I
was supposed to go first.”
(and)
“Now you’ll
be able to meet your mother.” (The young mother who had passed away when her
son was still a toddler).
We had been
watching “The Green Mile” when we received the news. My Dad had been walking his
own Green Mile.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 17. Copyright Pending.
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