Miracles in the ER (19 page)

That was the rare exception, but when she was on fire, we all knew to stand back and just let it happen. At all other times, Camille was a bright spot in what could be a stressful and trying environment. Her spirit was calming, and I frequently sought her out to help calm my own.

Such was the case one Tuesday morning. We hadn’t been that busy, but every patient who came in was very involved and complicated. I was getting frazzled and noticed Camille stepping into the medicine room. I followed, and walked up behind her as she was drawing up some medicine for one of our patients.

She looked up at me and shook her head. “Take a deep breath, Dr. Lesslie. We’re going to make it.” Camille cocked her head and gave me a two-fingered salute—her trademark.

She smiled and turned back to her work. That was all I had needed—just a moment with Camille and the quiet retreat of the medicine room.

I looked over her shoulder and out into the parking lot. Twenty or thirty yards from the window was a small natural area, in the middle of which stood a dogwood tree. It was January, and its leaves had long since fallen, leaving it bare and forlorn.

“See that tree out there? The dogwood?”

Camille looked up and leaned closer to the window. “Yes, the one over in the pine needles?” She was pointing to the natural area.

“That’s it. Now I want you to take a good look at that tree. See how bare it is? How lonely?”

“It’s bare alright, Dr. Lesslie. It’s the middle of winter. What’s gotten into you?” She turned around, still smiling, but her eyes squinted and she tilted her head.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” I was feeling philosophical and didn’t miss a beat. “This April or May, you and I are going to meet in this room and look at that tree again. It will be blossoming and putting on new leaves—totally different from the way it looks now.”

“I get it.” Her face relaxed and her eyes twinkled. “Like the circle of life—changes of season—that kind of stuff.”

“Right. That kind of stuff. Let’s see if we can remember to do that.”

“Hmm, hmm. Okay, let’s just see.” She picked up the medication syringe and walked out of the room.

We did remember, or at least Camille did. It was the end of April, and early one morning she motioned for me to come over to the medication room. She was standing near the window, hands on hips, and grinning. She nodded and I looked over her shoulder, out into the parking area.

There it was, in full glory. The dogwood tree was covered in white, cross-shaped blossoms, and its young, just-visible leaves promised a green and glorious spring.

“You were right, Dr. Lesslie. It’s come alive—been reborn. Isn’t it beautiful?”

We stood beside each other and silently looked at the dogwood. We were in the midst of a busy, bustling ER, but here was our reality. Here was a rare moment of peace.

The next time I looked at the dogwood tree, really contemplated it, was the following December. Its limbs were once again bare, desolate.

I stood alone in the medicine room, lost in my thoughts. Camille wouldn’t be joining me to mark the passing of another season, another dying to be followed by rebirth. Two weeks earlier, she had collapsed in her front yard, dead from a massive stroke. Camille, gone. How could that be?

The lifeless branches of the dogwood swayed erratically in the cold winter wind.

It was Amy Connors who pointed it out.

“You know who that is, don’t you?” She nodded toward a young woman walking out through the ambulance entrance. Tightly clutching her right hand was the three-year-old little girl I had just treated for an ear infection.

The doors closed behind them and I turned to Amy. “No, who are they?”

“That’s Camille Anderson’s daughter and granddaughter. I thought you knew.”

I
didn’t
know, and I dropped the chart in my hand and hurried out into the parking lot, trying to catch up with them.

“Ma’am.” I called after them, not remembering the mother’s name.

She stopped and turned around, the little girl staring up at me with large, dark eyes and a huge smile.

“Yes, did we forget something?”

“No, I just wanted to tell you—your mother, Camille, was a special lady. We’re all sorry about what happened, and we really miss her.”

She sighed and her chin dropped to her chest. But only for a moment. She looked up at me with a smile—one I had seen before on her mother’s face—and said, “She loved working in the ER, and she loved the staff here. And…we miss her too.”

She looked down at her daughter and sighed again. “Thanks.”

The little girl grinned, cocked her head, and gave me a two-fingered salute.

They turned and walked out into the parking lot. I watched for a moment, glad for the chance to talk with her, and headed back to the ER.

I stopped just outside the entrance and looked to my right.

The dogwood tree. It was covered in white blossoms and young green leaves.

Pokie

An October Friday night—10:47 p.m.
“Isn’t that Coach Jeffers?” Amy Connors nodded toward the back of the department, and I twisted around.

“Yeah, it is.” No one living in Rock Hill could miss the towering, muscular frame of one of the state’s leading football coaches, even with his back to us. He disappeared into the ortho room and I turned back to Amy. “What’s he doing here?”

“Jackson Alexander is here with an injured wrist.” Jeff Ryan walked over to the nurses’ station and put three empty clipboards on the countertop. “Took him back to ortho while you were in cardiac with the heart attack.”

“That’s right.” I suddenly remembered it was Friday night, and Coach Jeffers’s team had its first playoff game. Jackson Alexander was the star quarterback. Though only a sophomore, he was already being heavily recruited for college.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. The game should be over by now.

“How did it turn out?” I asked Jeff.

“Well, we won, but it was close. And mighty scary.” He leaned against the counter and propped an elbow on the laminate surface. “Jackson went down early in the fourth quarter with a hurt wrist and couldn’t go back in. He’s in X-ray now. If it’s broken, the chances of winning any more games are almost zero. That’s why Coach Jeffers is here, I’m sure. He’s checkin’ on him.”

Twenty minutes later, I was standing in front of the X-ray view box, studying the films of Jackson Alexander’s right wrist—his throwing hand.

Breathing down my neck—actually down on the top of my head—was Coach Jeffers. He was flanked by Jackson on one side and the boy’s parents on the other.

“What do you think, Doc? Everything okay?” The coach leaned close and put a huge hand on my shoulder.

I looked the X-rays over for the fifth time. Nothing. There was no fracture.

A loud
whoop
followed my announcement, and then a probable A-C separation when the coach pounded my shoulder.

We put Jackson’s wrist in a splint for a couple of days and sent the elated group home. He would be fine by next Friday night, ready to play.

“Now that’s one happy bunch of folks.” Amy leaned back in her chair and slapped her hands on the desk.

Jeff Ryan walked around the nurses’ station and sat down heavily in the chair beside Amy. “There’ll be a
bunch
of happy folks in Rock Hill when they find out he’s okay.”

I rubbed my shoulder and said, “I’m just glad nothing was
broken.
”

“Yep,” Amy grinned. “That was pure joy on their faces when they heard the news.”

Virginia Granger walked out of the medicine room and over to our small group.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘pure joy,’ Amy?” The heard nurse pulled a chair from under the desk, sat down, and studied her secretary.

“You know…They were…happy—real glad that he wasn’t hurt. Pure joy.”

Virginia removed her bifocals, took a small handkerchief from her dress pocket, and carefully cleaned them.

“Happy, for sure,” she said quietly. “Relieved too. But I’m not sure about the ‘joy’ part. I think that would be something different.”

I watched Virginia closely as she slowly fitted her glasses on her nose and looked over at Amy.
Where was she going with this?

“What’s the difference?” Amy hunched her shoulders and glanced at me. “Happy—glad—joyful. Aren’t they all the same?”

“There’s a difference, I think,” Virginia began. “Joy—true joy—is something special. Something rare. Lots of things can make us happy and glad. Many times, those things are superficial and not really important. Those emotions quickly pass. But joy, that’s something from way down deep, from somewhere in our hearts.”

She stopped and looked beyond us, down the hallway.

“
There’s
someone who knows the difference.”

We all turned and looked to the back of the department. Ansel Pardee, a sixty-four-year-old member of the hospital’s housekeeping department,
was walking toward us, mop in one hand and bucket in the other. His eyes met ours and a huge grin spread across his face.
When had I not seen this man without a huge grin?

Ansel gave us a nod and disappeared into minor trauma.

“Ansel’s a great guy,” Amy said, shifting in her seat and turning toward Virginia. “He’s always happy and ready to help—ready to do anything he can for us. I’ve never seen him upset about anything—always smilin’. But what do you mean? Why isn’t
that
having joy? What’s the difference?”

Virginia settled back in her chair. “You’ve seen his grandson before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Amy nodded. “Little Pokie.”

“That’s right—Little Pokie.”

Ansel Pardee had just buried his wife when their daughter, Jasmine, gave birth to his first and only grandchild. The boy was named after his father, Malcolm, but he was in prison when the child was born, and Ansel couldn’t—or wouldn’t—bring himself to use that name. He had never approved of his daughter seeing Malcolm, but she was headstrong and hadn’t been willing to listen to his concerns or her mother’s.

“Jasmine was a difficult child,” Virginia said in understatement. “Dropped out of high school when she was seventeen and started hanging out with the wrong crowd. That’s how she met Malcolm. Then she was pregnant, and her mother got sick. When she died, Jasmine went off the deep end. That was a difficult time for Ansel, as you can imagine. But you’d never know it. He had the same smile and peaceful nature then as he does now.”