The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and
still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the
seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M. I threw a stethoscope
around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a
new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about
As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his
eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over
his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to
hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a
few hours earlier. He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would
you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to
ask me a question, but changed his mind. I touched his hand, waiting.
He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had
a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only
family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up. I turned his nasal
oxygen up to eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said,
studying his face. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face
tense with urgency.
"Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing
fast - too fast. "I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his
shoulder. I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes
in his 50 - year - old face. Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light
under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant
to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were
cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?" I dug a scrap
of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I walked
back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone.
Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her
number from information and dialed.
Her soft voice answered. "Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at
the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a
slight heart attack and - ""No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me.
"He's not dying is he?"
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound
convincing. Silence. I bit my lip.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling
that my hand trembled on the phone. "He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken since
my 21st birthday, we had a fight over my boyfriend. I ran out of the
house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for
forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat,
listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each
other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so
long since I had said, "I love you." As Janie struggled to control her tears,
I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She
had hung up. I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I
couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried
down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door. Mr. Williams lay unmoving.
I reached for his pulse. There was none. "Code 99, Room 712. Code 99.
Stat." The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I
called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed.
Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest. With lightning speed I leveled the
bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I
positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried
to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I
could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and
breathed. He could not die! "O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming.
Don't let it end this way." The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured
into the room pushing emergency equipment.
A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was
inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine
into the intravenous tubing.
I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart
pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred.
His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."
"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical
shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we
tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead. A nurse unplugged
the oxygen. The gurgling stopped.
One by one they left, grim and silent. How could this happen? How? I
stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes
with snow. Outside - everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark.
How could I face his daughter? When I left the room, I saw her against a wall
by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before
stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow.
Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall. Such pathetic
hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had
told her that her father was gone. I took her hand and led her into the
nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She
stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost
"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate. "I never
hated him, you know. I loved him," she said. God, please help her, I
thought. Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will
only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked
slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand,
wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the
door. We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison.
Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to
look at her at this sad, sad good-bye.
I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow
paper. I picked it up. It read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you.
I pray you will also forgive me.
I know that you love me.
I love you too.
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it
once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten
in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast. "Thank You, God," I
whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the
blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Life
seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that
relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again -
but there is not a moment to spare.
I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father.
I would say, "I love you."