from JAMA
Read a simple and beautiful article in JAMA:
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"Matthew, I'm going to take your temperature now. Matthew, I'm going to listen to your breathing." Whenever they touch him, they talk to him first, calling him by name. I am moved by their respect, though the whole point of today is that he cannot hear them. I don't notice if there is a time when they stop doing this.
The transplant nurse, Lindsay, gives us ceramic hearts. She takes matching hearts and efficiently - reverently - ties them around Matthew's wrist. He will wear them into the surgery; then, if we do not reclaim them, into his grave.
Lindsay amazes me. She worked with us yesterday afternoon, explaining the medical facts of Matthew's condition, then started making telephone calls. She was still at the hospital when we left last night. She was there before us the next morning - we wonder if she ever left. She divides her attention among two phones and a computer. She occasionally focuses on Matthew - and, when we need her, on us - but he is still primarily the job of the ICU nurses. When we got to the hospital this morning, Lindsay told us she had found a recipient for his liver. Our joy at this news was almost pathetic. There is no longer anything to worry about on Matthew's behalf, but anxiety requires a focus. We allow ourselves to worry about which organs will be viable.
We say goodbye,one by one, taking turns. Matthew's sister washes his face. We reassemble - parents, siblings, in-laws like me, Matthew's fiancee, her parents, her siblings. Some of us have never met before tonight - the wedding was still 2 months away. We touch his hands, arms, face. I marvel at how hot his skin feels. We surround his bed. We bow our heads. We pray. My prayer is silent, my hand on his shoulder. I want to keep my hand on his skin, to feel the warmth of life for as long as possible.
Lindsay comes back, and others drift in behind her. Jen, the nurse who took care of Matthew when he was first admitted four nights ago, arrives. She is not scheduled to work tonight, but she has requested permission to go to the operating room with him.
They prepare Matthew for his last trip, down the hall, down in the elevator, into the operating room, into his final death. I think of Matthew's utterly morbid sense of humor, and how he might be amused by the complexity of his death. Friends ask, "When did he die?" and I will never have a simple answer. It was partly Monday night when the sudden, tragic event took place; partly Wednesday night, when he was declared brain dead; and finally tonight, when his death gives life to three strangers.
Matthew's oxygen levels drop. Lindsay pages an anesthesiologist. She will not leave the room until he gets there. Too soon, he arrives. We fall in line behind Matthew, physicians, nurses, technicians, family bringing up the rear. His entourage. Instead of a wedding procession, Matthew has this awful walk, which lasts forever but is too brief.
It is the longest walk, and the saddest. I wonder if we are terrifying the other families we pass, who must realize what we are doing. We get to the elevators and Lindsay tells us we need to say goodbye. One by one we touch him, tell him we love him, mumble good-bye, say nothing at all. I pull my hand from his shoulder and the family embraces as the elevators swallow him up. I marvel at Jen and Lindsay and their colleagues, starting a long surgery late at night after 2 days of intense work.
We walk back to his empty, empty room. We mill around, aimlessly, trying to look busy, not wanting to leave this last place we shared with him. We gather our coats, and collect the balloons that exhorted him to "Get Well Soon."
Finally we walk to the surgery waiting area. We sit, staring at each other, making aimless conversation. Jen calls us from the OR to tell us Matthew's liver is viable. This news gives us the energy to stand up, leave the hospital, move forward into the new reality of life without him.
Matthew's death - sudden, shocking, far too early - will never make sense. There is some solace in knowing that his organ donation helped others. And I am forever grateful to those who called him by his name when it might not have seemed to matter.
The Clinical Years..
I haven't updated this in a while. In fact, I just wrote a whole spiel on "gifts" which I just deleted.
In the end, I turn to this blog mostly to remind myself of the strength and faithfulness of God in my times of great weakness and doubt. In the midst of my struggles, I write and receive His sweet mercies - mercies that altogether at once tell me He understands, He forgives, He consoles and He refines.
I've spent the last 5 weeks in my inpatient medicine service. Many days have been long - waking up at 4:30am and coming home occasionally at 9pm, barely enough time to eat before sleeping to begin the day anew. Insidiously over those 5 weeks, I adopted a spirit of dissatisfaction, deep discontentment that has fed increasing irritation and exhaustion. A combination of physical & mental exhaustion, perpetual hunger from skipping meals, and constant anxiety over my future has threatened to twist me into a cynical student simply awaiting the end of my current rotation.
Tonight, I took just a few minutes...only a few minutes to sit in silence and pray. And those few minutes have made all the difference. Strength enough for this one step - and a continual heart of prayer for every step afterwards. Thank you Father - you remind me of why I am here. There is a great harvest.
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