Here I am again, looking over another impossible moment. Unfortunately, hospitals, particularly the ER and ICUs, are familiar places to me. I find myself here whenever there is reason to give up hope, and today is one such day.
Mary Matthews was in a terrible accident. She had just gotten off the commuter train after working all day. She was walking to the bus stop when a car ran the red light and hit her.
Mary’s family lives several miles away and can’t be with her, but her fiancé, Tom, is standing by her bedside. Through his tears and distress, I’m listening to him recollect what happened. She was thrown onto the windshield of the car, her body crushed, and then she landed on the ground. The blow fractured her skull and broke her pelvis. Right now, she is in a coma and is clinging to life.
The doctor tries her best to give Tom a cautiously realistic report of Mary’s condition. She says Mary needs surgery right away. Tom hears the doctor’s words but can’t digest them. Softly, he calls to his darling Mary and expresses his love for her.
I had just finished my work with a critical-care patient in the ICU when I sensed Tom needed my service in the ER. My name is “the Glimmer,” and I am a superhero. I am small in structure, usually nondescript, and at times invisible. My power comes from transformations of tragedy and despair into optimism and hope. I am more visible when tears dry up and when there is brightness and positive energy in the air. I am the smallest percentage of goodness appearing at the darkest moments. I am that particle of life that remains encouraged and confident during and after all tragedies.
But enough about me. Let’s go back to Mary and Tom’s tragic situation. He seems to be almost inconsolable and extremely distraught, not unlike most folks I need to assist. Ah, here comes someone in a flowery shirt, picking at his nose and carrying a bottle of Gatorade. Tom seems to recognize him. Besides his goofy appearance, he looks scared and shocked. I think he is a good candidate for me to infuse. Here I go.
Tom turns to him: “Thanks for coming, Bro. I need all the help I can get right now.”
After taking a gulp of the Gatorade and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he says, “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. What do ya’ need, and how’s Mary?”
“They’re taking her up to surgery in a few minutes. The doctor says that if she gets through the surgery, it will be several hours before we will really know anything about her condition or her recovery. Oh, Eddie…I just don’t know what to think. This is so hard, and I don’t know what to do. I love her so much. I can’t think about not having her…”
“Hey, Hey, Hey, let’s not go there just yet. Let’s just take this one step at a time. Mary’s strong. She’s got lots of things going for her, like good health, eating right, and exercising. She’s young. Whatever comes her way, she’ll get through it.”
I see Tom still tearfully looking for more reassurance from Eddie. He’s still not entirely buying into my powers.
Eddie continues to compassionately encourage: “She’s a fighter, man. She’s got tenacity. Why…remember her up at old Uncle Kelly’s turnip farm. Remember Tom? Remember when we raced to see who could pull up the most turnips? She was hella’ fast.” Taking a swig of his Gatorade, he adds, “Remember? She even had the dog helping her…”
Both Tom and Eddie begin to laugh a little, and TA-DAH! “the Glimmer” is transferred and shared. I know, just then, the feeling of despair is dissipating, and the anticipation of hope is taking its place. I begin to brighten, shimmer, and finally shine.
At that time, the surgery transport team came to take Mary. Holding back tears, Tom bends down and whispers something to her.
“How about we get out of here for a little while?” Eddie says, putting his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “We could walk down to the La Petite Cake Bakery down the street… And for me, a bathroom break wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”