I spent seven hours in the emergency room with my husband today.  He has multiple sclerosis, and has been experiencing unbearable pain on the left side of his back, shoulder, chest, and arm.  His muscles are weak and his hand is almost completely numb.  The doctor suspects brachial plexitis, a rare and severe nerve inflammation, but had to rule out the possibility of heart attack as the pain is located on his left side.  This was day one of our interactions with hospitals; tomorrow we go in for an MRI and an electromyogram. 

As bad as my husband’s pain was, his was certainly not the most severe problem in the ER today.  The small room at St. Paul’s held at least 40 people hunched over in various poses of discomfort, trying to watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire on the flickering overhead television or leaning against the beige cinderblock wall trying to sleep.  One preschool-age child huddled against her mother, her flimsy white t-shirt stretched over her dark legs.  In another chair, a woman tethered to an IV pole rocked back and forth moaning and crying, arms pulled into her sweatshirt.  106 degrees outside, and it must have been around 60 degrees or colder in that waiting room.  As the hours passed, my husband leaned over and whispered, “I’m starting to think they keep it this cold to preserve the bodies of people who die while they wait.” 

My husband, aided by hydrocodone, dropped off into a light sleep.  I tried to read, but kept feeling intensely bothered by both the young child, huddled against her mom for warmth, and the IV woman, who kept crying softly.  The women at the desk who checked our insurance ignored all of us while they gossiped, made copies, and typed.  The triage nurse sat safely behind a locked door; you saw him by slipping a piece of paper with your name through a small metal slot.   

I wanted the baby girl to have a blanket.  I wanted that crying woman to know someone cared.  So ignoring the potential for rejection and embarrassment, I took action.  I took one of the slips of paper by the triage door and penned this message:  “The waiting room is freezing cold, and at least two of the patients out here seem really uncomfortable.  I know you’re busy, but could we trouble you for some blankets?”  I slipped the note into the slot and waited for the triage nurse’s reaction. 

I’ll pause my story on this little moment of waiting and talk a bit about gifts and graces.  Reverend Monte Canfield wrote a lovely essay today called, “Where Everyone is ‘Above Average,’” saying, “All gifts, all talents that we have, according to Paul, are gifts of the Spirit, which is, I think, nice to know, because it means that we don’t have to try to create our own gifts.  They are already there, gifts from God, to us.  Our job is to discover what they are, and have the courage to put them into use.” 

I once heard our own minister explain how we might recognize our gifts.  He said that we would often feel natural, joyous, “in the zone,” when we were using our spirit-given gifts.  He said we would feel at home. 

And when the triage nurse opened the door to hand out a stack of warm sheets, I indeed felt very much at home.  “Does your baby girl need a blanket?” I asked the mom, and she gratefully unfolded the sheet and covered her little girl, who sighed, curled up, and drifted into a fevered sleep. 

I then turned my attention to the IV girl, still rocking and crying.  “They gave out blankets.  Would you like one?”   

She turned her teary face up to me and said, “Yes, you’re so kind.  Thank you so much.”  I spread the sheet across her shoulders, then took another and wrapped it around her legs.  I was in the zone.  I have always known this is one of the things I feel called to do: offer spontaneous, heartfelt comfort and concern.  If you’re my friend, I will likely not remember your birthday.  I’m disorganized and forgetful and I may neglect to call you for days at a time.  But if you find yourself sick or in trouble, just pick up the phone and I will dedicate my entire afternoon to you.  I will cook for you, clean your house, pick up your children from school.  I will listen to you cry and bring you hot tea and cold rags for your forehead.  And all of this help will be pretty much selfish because I will be feeling such joy and peace of mind at this clarity of purpose. 

IV girl was still crying softly as I tucked the blanket around her legs. “Does this help?”  I asked. 

“A little,” she said.  I think I would feel so much better if I could just lay down.”   

“What if we move two chairs together?” I asked.  I pulled another chair beside her, and arranged the sheet into a pillow.  Moaning, she tried to prop her head on the armrest.  She reached out and I gently squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry,” I said.  “The only thing more uncomfortable than a hospital waiting room is an airport.” 

She choked and laughed a little.  “I just came here from the airport!” 

“You’re kidding,” I said.  “What happened?  Did you faint in the security line or something?” 

“No, they wouldn’t let me on the plane.  They said I had 'flu-like symptoms.'  They made me leave in an ambulance.  God, I hurt everywhere.   You don’t think I really have swine flu, do you?”  

I’ll pause this story again as the good Samaritan, the blanket angel of the waiting room, tries to be as subtle as possible about backing into the restroom and scrubbing her hands and arms like a pre-op surgeon with rampaging OCD. 

(More soap... scrub under those fingernails... Did I wipe my itchy nose after holding her hand?  Does she really have swine flu?  Shouldn't there be an isolation area for this kind of thing - if only to protect kamikaze do-gooders from themselves?)

Have I mentioned that one of my other natural gifts seems to be that my best intentions often turn into a spastic, rather unholy fiasco?

Children's coloring page at top courtesy of www.reallife.co.za.