Faith (part 1)

I want to share a story that ripped me to shreds when I first read it. It still moves me.

At 10:27 P.M. the phone rang. "That's my new admit," I said without looking up from Mr. Keiller's chart.
It was not a Jeane Dixon moment, only that we had not had an admission for almost six hours. This was too good a deal; it stood to reason our dues would be an end-of-shift admit.
Sandy answered, listened for a second, glanced at me, and raised her eyebrows. I signed off on the chart and automatically headed for room 11/12, which had recently been vacated due to Sandy's and Risen's excellent turfing efforts.
After making sure the room was set up for admission, I went back to get an abbreviated rundown on the new admit from Sandy.
"The patient is on his way up from ER," Sandy said, her eyes still fixed on her charting. She was in a hurry to finish before night shift report was due. "He's a twenty-five-year old endocarditis patient of Dr. Cramer's. He has a two-year history of IV drug abuse and goes by the name of Charlie. Temp is 101.6. ER started an IV. They're running in his first dose of penicillin as we speak. He's in sinus tach at a hundred, BP is one-ten over sixty, and-"
The double doors opened and a float nurse came into the unit pushing a wheelchair. At first glance, the person propped up in the chair looked like a scared twelve-year-old boy. His haunted, tired expression left no doubt in my mind that Dr. Cramer had already told him that endocarditis, a bacterial infection of the inner lining of the heart, was fatal unless treated quickly with antibiotics.
While the nurse wheeled him back to his bed, I looked over Joe's orders and then went back to room 11/12. I found Charlie half sitting, half-slumped on the side of the bed. He was still wearing his jeans and socks.
"Why didn't you get into bed?"
"Didn't want to get your clean sheets messed up," he whispered without opening his eyes. "Haven't had a bath with soap for"-he sighed-"two months. Been too sick. No money."
"Can you sit up so I can help you off with your clothes?" I gently pulled at the perspiration-soaked patient gown that covered his upper body.
Charlie attempted to move, but he was too weak to pull himself up. "So thirsty. If I could have some water, maybe I…"
I poured a glass of ice water and put the straw to his lips. He pulled at the straw. The effort was just enough to bring up a mouthful of water. He caught his breath, then pulled again, this time with more strength. When the glass was drained, he opened his eyes. "Thank you. Haven't been able to get much to eat or drink."
"Do you think that you could sit up now?"
Charlie nodded. Little by little, with my arm slipped under him, we managed to get him into an upright position. In my arms, he felt like a small sleepy child. The flimsy blue gown fell off his shoulders. Underneath, his emaciated body was streaked with dirt. His arms and the back of his hands were dotted with purple-and-red needle tracks-not as bad as some as I had seen but in a few years he would be as scarred as the worst of them.
Only the area around his IV had been wiped clean, leaving the white patch of skin contrasting sharply with the gray.
He turned his eyes towards the bathroom, where the shower door stood open. The sparkling white tiles of the stall were an invitation to cleanliness.
"Christ," he croaked, "I'd do anything for a shower."
His expression was that of one making a last wish.
It took about a second to weigh the pros and cons: He was on bed rest orders, and he was too debilitated to possibly stand in the shower for more than a few seconds. Yet…if I gave him a bed bath, it wouldn't be half as satisfying or relaxing to him, plus I wouldn't be able to wash his hair, and he wanted a shower so very badly…
Two months?
Well, if I got it together quickly…
Leaning him back on the bed, I ran to the station and picked up some one-pint cartons of orange juice, asked Nealy to call the supervisor and tell her to being up a dinner for my patient, dodged Sandy's questions as to why Charlie wasn't on monitor yet, got more towels and bath soap, loaded them into one of our small wheelchairs, and ran back to the room.
After boosting his energy level with a couple glasses of orange juice, Charlie was able to stand long enough for me to slip off his pants and transfer him into the wheelchair. With a towel draped over his lap for the sake of modesty, I filled his pockets with packages of shampoo and soap, washcloths, and two razors, then wheeled him into the shower, IV and all.
At first I tried to help out with the scrubbing by reaching around the shower door, but that was pretty awkward, besides the fact that I was getting soaked. I finally figured what the hell, took off my shoes and socks, threw on a shower cap, and stepped into the shower with him.
I washed him down, starting at the top of his head, working the soap over the skeletal shoulders. He was so skinny, it was pathetic. I saw that he was nothing but bones and, once the dirt was off, pale as paper.
He was terribly weak, so that I had to lift his arms and legs to clean in the hidden places. In an abstract way, he reminded me of a sick deer, or some large starving animal, and it made me more tender and stronger at the same time. This could be my son, I thought, and perhaps if my son were ever to be in need this way, someone would provide a similar amount of comfort for him.
At first Charlie literally groaned with pleasure at the warm water and the smell of soap and shampoo; then he started to giggle. Had someone entered the room, seen my shoes and socks, and heard the sounds coming from the shower, there would have been raised eyebrows and wild rumors, I'm sure.
Finally he began to bawl.
As he cried, I looked at the needle tracks and bones, and I listened to the scared sobs about how he didn't want to die, and that he was so sorry….
"You aren't going to die, Charlie." I washed out the infected spaces between his toes as gently as I could. "You'll feel pretty good in a few days. What I'm worried about is that you'll forget how bad you felt today." I stared into eyes that were filled with pain. "I'm afraid that you won't remember not wanting to die."
"No," he said quietly, "I'll never forget this. I'm not going to that life ever again. I won't. I promise to God, I won't."
I toweled him dry, put him into a clean gown, retaped his IV, got him into bed, hooked him up to the monitor, than toweled myself off as best I could. I'd have to borrow a dry scrub dress from labor and delivery.
As I was finishing Charlie's physical assessment, Risen came in bearing a tray loaded down with food. Except as the tray passed, I could see and smell that the food was definitely not from the Redwoods kitchen; this food looked and smelled edible.
I recognized a steaming helping of Nealy's homemade pasta primavera, next to that was a small bowl of chicken soup that Sandy had been saving all shift. The huge piece of angel food cake with peach glaze was unmistakably from Pia's dinner.
Risen set down the tray and from his shirt pocket pulled out a banana. As tired as I could see he was, he patiently began to spoon soup into Charlie's mouth.
Between bites of pasta and soup, Charlie started to cry again.
"Why are you people doing this?" he asked. "Why are you so good to me?"
"Because," answered Risen, "we have faith in the living."

-- From Condition Critical : The Story of a Nurse Continues by Echo Huron

To be continued….