Car idling, Tammy paused in the near-empty ER parking lot to prepare her heart for what she was about to encounter—family members facing quite possibly the darkest moment in their lives.
Lord, give me the words, the patience, this donor family needs. But more than that, give me the opportunity to speak words of life. To show that there is hope even in death. Please watch over my kids while I’m gone. And thank You, Lord, for Vanessa.
She slid out of the car and a cool, moist breeze swept over her. Dark shadows of the night pressed in on the streetlights dotting the pavement, a blanket of storm clouds swallowing the stars. The faint scent of motor oil wafted from the asphalt.
Loaded down with her computer tote, donor forms, and rolling medicine bag, she strode across the lot, into the hospital, and straight for the ICU. A couple, perhaps in their midforties, sat in a small lobby to the right. The woman hunched forward with her head in her hands, torso trembling. The man bent over her, rubbing her back. He glanced up, bloodshot eyes locking on Tammy’s, holding her gaze.
Turning away, she approached the double doors and pushed the intercom button. “Tammy Kuhn with Heartland Donation Services.”
A loud buzz sounded, followed by the click of a lock releasing. The scent of antiseptic swept over her as she entered the unit. Down the hall an orderly pushed an empty hospital bed. A pack of doctors passed by, talking about March Madness. Dr. Tailor was among them.
Keeping her gaze lowered to avoid his snaky eyes, Tammy strode down the hall to the nurses’ station to drop off her things.
A tall nurse with black hair sat behind one of the computers.
“Hello.” Tammy smiled. “I’m Tammy Kuhn with Heartland Donation Services.” She indicated her name badge. “May I please speak with the charge nurse?”
“That’s me, Hillary Green.” Standing, she extended her hand.
“I’m here for Emily Compton. Can you take a moment to go over her information with me?”
“Yeah, sure.” She sat, indicting for Tammy to take the chair beside her. Swiveling to face the computer screen, she shifted her head from one shoulder to the next, a loud crack sounding each time. “She came in two days ago with head trauma.”
After relaying all pertinent patient information and answering Tammy’s questions, the woman flicked her head toward the hallway. “Room 437. The patient’s mother is with her now. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to her mom.”
“Thank you.”
They continued down the hall, the soft scud of Tammy’s shoes loud despite the peripheral noise. She paused outside Emily’s door, the steady beeping of the heart monitor matching the pace of her pulse.
Tammy lingered in the doorway, watching the patient’s mother sitting beside the bed. The poor woman. Tammy couldn’t take the woman’s pain away, but she could help her find hope. This was her calling, the reason she’d been created. She loved her kids, too, but she couldn’t keep pushing them off on Vanessa.
Lord, please don’t make me choose.
Nick paced the private waiting room, eyes burning. Friends and family filled the cushioned chairs. Some stared at their hands. A couple huddled in prayer. Others sat on the edge of their seats watching the door. Nick’s stepdad stood against the far wall, ankles crossed, cell phone in hand. The man wasn’t thrilled to be here. Nick’s mom must have urged him to make the three-hour drive.
Nick looked at Jeremy, enveloped in his grandmother’s arms. The child stared back with wide eyes, chin puckered.
Nick grabbed his phone. He needed to call Marianne, tell her. A wave of nausea swept over him, nearly doubling him over.
No, Lord. Don’t take my son.
Her voicemail answered.
“It’s Nick. There’s been a . . .” He swallowed. “There’s been an accident. Call me.” He hung up and sent her a text and an email, then turned to his mom. “I’ve got some papers at home with Marianne’s cruise information. Think you could . . . ?”
She jumped up, her gaze shooting to her husband before returning to Nick. “Absolutely.” She turned to Jeremy who remained in his seat, face downcast. “How about we take you home, get you to bed?”
“No!” He balled his fists. “I want my brother.”
“Shh . . .” Nick reached for his son when the door clicked open. He whirled around, locking eyes with the nurse. “How is he?”
The woman’s gaze swept the room before returning to him. “We’re going to do a CT scan to look for internal injuries. They’re going to check his brain, spinal cord, chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“After we perform the tests, someone will talk to you about what comes next.”
“But he’s going to be all right?”
“They’re trying to stabilize him.” Her eyes softened as she looked at Jeremy. She turned to Nick. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
His fingers dug into the cushioned armrest. “Just take care of my son. Please.”
She held his gaze for a moment, nodded, and slipped out.
Nick resumed pacing. His focus shifted from the closed door in front of him to his watch, then back to the door.
What’s taking so long? What if Payton doesn’t make it? My buddy! Lord God, don’t take him from me.
Images flashed through his mind in rapid succession—of Payton as a toddler, his first day of school, his first T-ball game. Of the day Marianne stood in the hall, suitcases stacked by the door, young Jeremy in her arms, Payton hunched beside her.
Trembling hands lay limp at his sides.
A Bible sat on an end table. He picked it up and flipped it open, but his raging mind refused to focus. He closed the book and set it down.
Forty-five minutes later, the door opened again and a tall man with round glasses emerged.
Nick lunged from his seat. “How is he?”
“I’m Dr. Shefsky. Your son’s scan showed signs of increased intracranial pressure.” The doctor’s Adam’s apple bobbed down then up. “I need consent for a craniotomy and to possibly evacuate any bleeding in the brain. While he’s in the OR, Dr. Fryar will repair his orthopedic injuries.”
Nick swallowed, his throat dry. “What are his chances?”
“I really can’t give you any indication at this point.” Compassion filled his eyes. “It will depend how he does after the surgery, but we’re hopeful.”
That’s not an answer.
The others gathered around, standing like a protective shield. Someone touched Nick’s shoulder, and the faint scent of his mother’s perfume filled his nose.
The doctor glanced around before returning Nick’s gaze. “Although we are optimistic, cerebral herniation could lead to brain death or irreversible coma.” He glanced from one face to the next. “We will keep you informed.” He left, easing the door closed behind him.
Nick’s mom came toward him, arms outstretched. “Honey—”
He stepped back, hands raised, palms out.
Jeremy stood, staring at Nick with wide, teary eyes. “He’s going to be fine, isn’t he, Dad?”
Nick touched the boy’s head, tried to draw him close, but Jeremy resisted. “God’s bigger than this. You believe that, don’t you?”
Jeremy’s brow furrowed.
Someone offered prayer, and Nick had a vague awareness of people gathering close, of hands on his shoulders, of someone reaching out to his son. But their voices were muffled in his fogged mind.
Why’d I leave? If only I had stayed, told the boys to go inside. Why?
As the night wore on, his friends thinned. Rhonda left first, then Howie, until only family remained. Jeremy sat on Nick’s lap, cheek resting against Nick’s chest.
His mom stood and touched Nick’s shoulder. “How about I go get those papers now?”
He looked up. “What papers?”
“The contact number for the cruise line. And I’ll take Jeremy home, let him get some rest.”
Breathing deep, Nick nodded. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you when I know something.”
Tammy glanced at Mrs. Compton one last time before slipping from the private room. Peace settled into her heavy heart as she headed for the nurses’ station. The death of a loved one was painful, but at least donation allowed families to find hope during their time of loss. To see life come out of death. And like she’d told Mrs. Compton when they’d prayed together, because Emily trusted in Jesus, the good-bye was really an “until we meet again.”
If only she could say the same for all her donors.
Melissa, a petite nurse with short, spiral curls, closed her file and swiveled her chair to face Tammy. “How’d it go?”
“Okay. It’s amazing how cathartic the donor questions can be. They give family members a chance to talk about their loved ones. It helps them grieve.”
“It’s so sad, losing her only child like that.”
“I can’t even imagine what that would feel like. But she did seem comforted to know good will come out of her daughter’s tragic death.”
“Speaking of kids, how are yours?”
“Sleeping.” Tammy smiled. “You?”
Melissa shrugged. “You know how it is with teenagers. I’m the big, bad prison warden who takes extreme pleasure in ruining my children’s lives.” She laughed.
“It’s our job, right?” She tried to fight a yawn but failed. One of these nights she needed to catch a full eight hours of sleep. Or twelve with an extended midday nap.
She turned to Melissa who was entering information into the computer system. “Have a great night.”
“You’re heading home, then?”
“After I hit the cafeteria for some brain-jolting caffeine. Can I get you anything?”
“A day off?” Melissa gave a crooked smile. “No, I’m good. Enjoy.” She glanced down the hallway. “Although, I have a feeling you’ll be back. You heard about the hit-and-run victim, right?”
Tammy shook her head.
“A thirteen-year-old male ran into the street to get a football. He’s in critical condition. The dad’s pretty broken up.”
“Very sad.” Tammy glanced at the monitor and the long list of patients, many her children’s age. Some would return to live normal lives, others would soon breathe their last.
She thought again of her kids, asleep at home. “I better go.” She rose, stretched. “See ya.”
The bold colors, neon lights, and geometric shapes of the hospital cafeteria gave it a Pablo-Picasso-meets-the-twenty-fifth-century feel.
Two women, one older, maybe seventy, with silver hair, and the other who appeared to be in her mid-thirties, sat along the far wall beneath a green-framed television set. A dark-haired man with broad shoulders occupied the far corner.
The rich aroma of roasted coffee filled her nostrils.
Java or chocolate?
Both.
Brody always berated her for drinking coffee late at night. Why he cared, she never understood.
Obviously, he hadn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have been sleeping around.
Swallowing a familiar surge of bitterness, she closed her gritty eyes and rubbed her face. After three years, it shouldn’t bother her anymore. But it did, no matter how hard she fought against it.
Forcing her muscles to uncoil, she approached the drink station. She purchased a tall mocha and breathed in the soothing steam.
She sat near the doorway, wrapped both hands around her cup. Lord, don’t let my anger get in the way of Your love flowing through me. Help me to be sensitive to the needs and pain all around me.
Chair legs screeched on the linoleum, and she glanced up. A familiar pair of blue eyes stared back at her.
The air left her lungs as she tried to make sense of the image of the man standing a few tables away.
“Nick?” She stood.
Gray speckled his black hair, and faint lines fanned from his eyes. His features had hardened, giving him a strong, rugged look. “Tammy.” He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“You here for someone?”
“My son.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, staring past her for a few seconds before making eye contact once again. “You work here?” He glanced at the name badge attached to her belt. “Organ Procurement Coordinator?”
She nodded, studied his face. “You want to talk?”
His eyes flooded with tears, and he shook his head. “I better get back. My son needs me.”
He turned to leave, but she touched his arm. “Wait. Can I call you? To see how you’re doing? How he’s doing?”
After a long moment, he offered a slow nod and fished his wallet from his back pocket. He dug out a business card and handed it over. The Flaming Mesquite was printed across the top in maroon letters.
His grandpa’s old place? Was Nick the owner now?
She rummaged through her tote bag and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my number. Call me. If you need anything.”
He studied it, a tendon in his jaw twitching, before tucking it into his back pocket. “Thank you.”
Then he walked away, just like he had twenty years ago.