A Glimpse from the Bedside

A friend posted a video on Facebook recently of medical personnel garbed in surgical clothing standing quietly in a circle with heads bowed listening to the worship song, “Still.”  While announcements play over the loudspeaker in a place where no one stands still, this circle stands solemnly together amidst the music as words rise…

Hide me now under your wings.  Cover me within your mighty hand.  When the oceans rise and thunders roar, I will soar with you above the storm.  Father, you are king over the flood.  I will be still and know you are God.  Find rest my soul in Christ alone.  Know his power in quietness and trust.  When the oceans rise and thunders roar, I will soar with you above the storm.  Father, you are king over the flood.  I will be still and know you are God.

In these recent days, we focus on those who care for the sick and the suffering…those who go to the edge of life and look deeply into the face of death at the bedside of those who so vulnerably fight for their lives. 

I know these people.  I recognized them in the video.  One of them came to get Rob and me from the waiting room late one night in a hurried fashion.  With an upbeat demeanor and a skip in her step, we followed her down winding hallways scurrying to keep up as she walked briskly and talked fast, telling us we were going to the operating room to see Erin before surgery. They were going to attempt a total redo of her 4^th heart surgery.  She couldn’t come off the ECMO machine. Her doctors didn’t know why.

The nurse helped us into paper pants, gowns, hats, masks, gloves, and slippers before taking us right to her.  Many others dressed like us backed away from the table leaving us alone in the room with her.  We stroked her arms and held her hands.  We leaned over the table and kissed her face.  We sang to her.  We prayed aloud for her.  We told her she was strong and begged her to fight.  We told her again and again how much we loved her.  I remember raising my eyes to the lights and equipment above the table.  I saw the microphone just above our heads.  I looked to the left at the window in the wall near the door of the operating room and saw the hallway filled with the masked surgical team standing quietly…watching us through the window.  Next to them I saw the speaker and felt the love pouring from their eyes as I realized they had been listening and watching while waiting to re-enter.  We knew why we were there.  We knew what it meant.  I will never forget the presence of that team standing still as we stopped to face them…reaching out our arms toward them as we left Erin in their hands… asking them to take good care of her and thanking them for trying to save our girl.

I got a glimpse of these people from the bedside.  Faces changed but not their focus on and dedication to Erin.  I watched them all day as they cared for her, listened to stories about her, and learned all about our lives with her.  They learned her code words and phrases and how to joke with her when she was awake.  When they induced sleep to sustain her, they preserved her dignity in every movement or task…verbally cueing her into all they were doing with reassurance whether she was aware or not…telling her she was safe.  They sat at the foot of her bed all night watching her machines to be sure she stayed with us and assuring me I could drift off to sleep.  I’d wake up abruptly in the darkly-lit room and jolt up saying, “Is she ok?” only to see the doctor at the door and the nurse by the bedside watching her.  I’d hear, “We’ve got her” before taking a long breath and falling back down on the bench in exhaustion. They encouraged our family to stay close to her and climbed over us as we hovered around her. They squeezed between us to adjust her, give meds, work on her tubing, while joining in conversations with jovial talk amongst us. They guided my hands and with their words instructed me on how to care for her at home on dialysis in their absence.  They entered my home in the middle of the night or early in the morning over the phone or in person to assess a need and suggest a course of action…whether to stay at home or call the rescue squad.  And on the night Erin left us back in that familiar glassed room, one of them put her arms around our waists, pulled us close to her, and drew us to the bedside without letting go.

When the oceans rise and thunders roar, I will soar with you above the storm.

It wasn’t talking about faith that struck me in the midst of those dark days.  It was realizing we were enveloped within it in a place where all inhibitions are removed and all layers are peeled back exposing the raw realities of the fragility of life…in a place where death lingers and waits.  In this place and in the presence of these people at the bedside, I stopped doing.  I was led to a place of realizing I could do nothing but watch them intervene.  In my powerlessness to control or fix anything at all, I stood still…and quiet…stepping back amongst a flurry of skilled hands…getting out of the way.  I am reminded today of the keen awareness of stepping back into God’s arms at these times of total desperation.  Having no other recourse but to trust. Finding that place of safety in the storm and hanging on…knowing circumstances may or may not change.  Finding a place within myself to hide…and finding Him there with me holding me close.

I pray for those people who are standing by the bedside in sterile clothing caring for the sick and suffering as they are holding cell phones as lifelines between loved ones, voicing messages of hope and comfort to families.  I pray they are safe and are covered within Christ’s mighty hand.  I pray they will sense God with them in moments of stillness and quiet, however brief.  I pray they will find rest, strength, and sustenance within the storm.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”  Psalm 46:10

I’ll never forget the message I received on my phone at 10:29 PM on February 13^th, 2017, the night we lost Erin, from one of those people who is now on the front lines with patients at the bedside…a message I will keep forever that said, “Love you Aunt Karen,”

“Love you, Scott Feathers.”