Angels in the ER (19 page)

He paused and stared at the floor.

“You know, Dr. Lesslie, I believe in the power of prayer. I really do, and I’ve seen prayers answered. And I know the Lord can do anything. But when Theresa and I pray about this and put it in His hands, somehow…somehow…I know He can fix this, but I just can’t see it happening. It’s just so twisted and gnarly. We’ve tried everything, Theresa and I. And so has Phil. It’s…just a real mess. And now this, with Wylie. I’m just afraid something bad is going to happen.”

I assured him we would make every effort to keep Margaret and Phil apart, and to shield Wylie from any potential conflagration.

But it was not to be. As we stepped out into the hallway, I heard Mac moan behind me. “Oh, good Lord, we’re too late!”

I glanced toward the door of the cardiac room and saw the back of a middle-aged man as he stepped into the room. Mac didn’t have to tell me. I knew.

“It’s Phil,” he said. “Quick, I’ve got to get in there.”

Phil was closing the door behind him, but I stopped it with the palm of a hand. Pushing it open, I stepped into the room behind him, along with Mac.

Phil never turned around. He stopped at the foot of the stretcher and looked down at his father. Wylie was lying there, quietly resting, eyes closed. Jeff was standing at the head of the bed, adjusting the rate of the IV fluids. Unsuspecting, he glanced over at the new visitor. Margaret and Theresa stood on each side of the bed, each gently
stroking one of Wylie’s forearms. They had looked up as Phil had entered the room. Theresa stood frozen, her eyes widening and her lips soundlessly parting.

Margaret stood completely still, staring at her estranged son. Then she patted Wylie’s arm one more time and stepped toward the door. Mac and I were standing just behind Phil. I was blocking Margaret’s exit, so I shifted toward Mac to get out of her way. She had reached the foot of the stretcher, when she stopped right in front of Phil. Their eyes met, and they both just stood there, staring at each other. Then she reached out and took her boy in her arms. And he wrapped his large arms around her, squeezing her tight.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.

His chest was heaving, and he struggled to whisper, “I’m sorry too.”

And then there was silence, except for the
beep-beep-beep
of Wylie’s heart monitor. And then the crying, from all of them. Mac and Theresa had watched in amazement, and now they huddled around Margaret and Phil, all of them hugging and sobbing.

Jeff looked at me, confused over what had just happened. He had no idea of the significance of this moment. Later, I would tell him.

There it was—my miracle. Wylie was lying quietly on the stretcher, not moving. But now his eyes were open and he was smiling.

I stepped out into the hall, wiping my own eyes and thinking of something that Mac had said earlier. He had put this whole thing in God’s hands. But he had remained daunted by the enormity of the problem and its seemingly impossible resolution.
“The Lord can do all things, but…this one…I just don’t know.”

Now he understood, as did I, that there is nothing beyond the power of God. There is no wall too high for Him to tear down, no situation too twisted for Him to straighten. He stands there ready and wanting to help, capable of softening the hardest of hearts, of resolving the thorniest of problems.

This, then, was my miracle. What greater wonder is there than the changing of a human heart?

 9 

Let
the
Little
Children Come
to
Me

He took the children in his arms, put his
hands on them and blessed them.

—M
ARK 10:16, SPEAKING OF JESUS

I
started medical school in the fall of 1972. In the last thirty-some years there have been a lot of changes in the field of medicine, both in the things we now know, and in the things we are able to do. For instance, some of the commonly used drugs then are no longer available, and some of the drugs we take for granted today were not even dreamed of then.

Back then as well, some things were only barely discussed in medical school, vaguely mentioned but not seriously considered. They were passed on as something to be aware of but not to spend too much time on. It wasn’t that these weren’t important topics, it was just that not much was known about them. One of these areas was abuse. First it was child abuse, later it was spousal abuse, and most recently, elder abuse.

In the mid-70s we were just getting a handle on child abuse. In fact, we didn’t know how widespread the problem actually was, or the scope of things that were going on in our communities, both unseen and unheard. At first there was some confusion as to the nature of the problem, at least in the minds of some people. Was child abuse a disease, or was it a symptom of some larger disorder? Or was it a crime against a small, helpless human being? Those of us in the ER tended to see things as black-and-white. A six-month-old with two broken
thigh bones from being thrown against the wall. A one-year-old with cigarette burns covering her buttocks because “she wouldn’t use the potty.” A three-year-old sexually abused by an uncle. These things were black-and-white.

As the magnitude of the problem became more apparent and the devastating consequences of child abuse became more evident, the thinking swung toward the ER view. There has been a much more organized and aggressive effort to detect abuse, protect the children involved, and prosecute those who are the abusers. Though human responses and actions are complex and multifactored, our primary responsibility is to protect our children. Those of us in the ER see ourselves as a line of defense, possibly the last and best hope for these young ones. Though it’s true that the circumstances we encounter can sometimes be gray, they are too frequently black-and-white.

It was 10:30 on a Friday evening. Summertime, and the day had been especially hot. During the past few hours we had seen our usual seasonal complaints: a few really bad sunburns, a four-wheeler accident with a broken ankle, and a few minor boating injuries. I had just finished suturing the fingers of a seventeen-year-old who had badly cut them while slicing onions at a cookout on the lake.

Standing at the nurses’ station, I signed the teenager’s chart and handed it to Jeff. He was the nurse on duty this evening and would be working with me until 7 a.m.

“Jeff, would you put a bandage on this girl’s hand and remind her to come back in ten days for suture removal? I’ve talked to her about what to look for in case it gets infected, but you might want to go over that again. Thanks.”

He took the chart and was about to speak, when suddenly the ambulance entrance doors burst open. Into the department ran a young woman, carrying in her arms a limp and pale baby. Probably six month old. The child’s limbs flopped haphazardly as she ran.

“Help me, someone!” the young mother shrieked, stopping a few steps from where I stood. “Something’s wrong with my baby! Please, do something!”

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. She stood in front of us barefooted and dressed in a dirty white halter top and red short-shorts. Jeff was the closest to her and she thrust her baby in his direction.

“Here—please do something!”

Jeff put down the chart he was holding, took the baby in his arms, and headed immediately to the major trauma room. I was right behind him.

He put the baby on the trauma bed and put his hand on the child’s chest, checking for any cardiac activity. The baby was dusky and not breathing, and I immediately reached for our pediatric ambu bag. As I glanced in the direction of our crash cart, I noticed that the young mother had followed us. She was standing just inside the doorway, her arms folded tightly across her chest, biting her lip. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Behind her, not yet venturing into the room, stood a tall, slender young man, maybe in his early twenties but no older. He wore sandals, a pair of old blue jeans, and a T-shirt that read simply, “The Man.” He was impassive, and leaned against one side of the door opening, chewing slowly on a drinking straw.

I turned to the task at hand, positioned the baby’s head so we had better access to his airway, and began using the ambu bag to blow air into his lungs. I quickly checked to confirm his chest was moving up and down, indicating good air exchange.

When I touched the child’s face and head, I immediately looked up at Jeff. His huge hand was encircling half of the baby’s chest, and he was effortlessly compressing the heart between his fingers and thumb. Jeff’s eyes met mine and his eyebrows rose slightly. I nodded. The small body was cold—the baby had been dead for a while. We were not going to save him.

One of our techs had come into the room, and I asked her to put leads on the baby for the cardiac monitor and to check a rectal
temperature. This effort was futile, but I wanted the mother to know we were doing everything we could. And as cruel as it might seem, I wanted her to see the flat line of the heart monitor and understand her baby was gone.

The tech attached the leads and slipped the child’s diaper off to check his temperature. There was a brief glimpse of his buttocks, and I noted several bruises on each one. The marks were of different sizes and different ages.

“94 degrees,” the tech reported, placing the baby’s legs back on the bed. As she turned the switch on the heart monitor, the screen flickered and then became clear. A horizontal green line appeared. Flat. No electrical activity. I made sure the leads were connected to the baby’s chest and looked at the monitor again. Nothing.

“11:14,” Jeff quietly noted.

I nodded, and put the ambu bag on the bed beside the baby. Jeff removed his hand from the child’s chest and gently laid him back on the bed. I looked in the direction of the doorway.

“Ma’am,” I addressed the young woman. I didn’t even know her name. “I’m afraid your baby is dead. There is nothing we can do. I’m sorry.”

She turned pale and sank to the floor. The young man remained standing in the doorway, now more aggressively chewing the straw in his mouth. It was at that moment his eyes betrayed him. It was only a brief flicker, but he had glanced down the hallway as if determining his best avenue of escape.

The mother began to sob now, covering her face. Our tech helped her to her feet. Looking at me, she said, “I’ll take them to the family room, Dr. Lesslie. Is that okay?”

“Yes, please,” I answered. “I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”