Walking the Green Mile

Several years ago, my wife and I were watching “The Green Mile,” when suddenly my cell phone rang. 

“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.

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. 34. Copyright pending

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