Cranberry Girls

It was a terrible shift, really. One of the worst I've ever had.

There were two Codes on the same patient; he didn't respond to the second one.

There were five traumas, one of which was a man about whom the paramedic said, "Be very careful with his shoes. They cost a thousand dollars." For those of us in the trauma bay not yet directly working with the patient, our attention was instantly diverted to the floor.

Ugh.

There were a couple cardiac arrests. Neither patient responded. There was a death of a very sick man whose surviving sister's main response was that she did not have the money to pay for his funeral. A visit to a patient whose husband and daughter hated each other and didn't try to hide it.

And the worst was at the very end of the shift. Another cardiac arrest, this one for a man in his twenties. And someone had mistakenly brought the patient's siblings back to his cubicle without the doctor's having met with them first, to let them know he had died.

It was a blur of horror, the ultimate awful, awful shift.

Except.

As a hospital chaplain, one doesn't receive very many happy calls. But on this dreadful day there was one. And it was truly wonderful.

It was a nurse from one of the intensive care units. It seemed that her patient's daughter's wedding had been scheduled for that day. And the patient was still in an ICU and unable to go to the church, much less the reception. And so the dear bride unselfishly knew what to do. The nurse wanted me to tell her that it was okay to have a wedding in the waiting area outside the ICU; they would bring the patient from her room for the ceremony. I said that of course it was all right, but was she sure that was the right place? I suggested an alternate venue: the hospital chapel, a beautiful setting on the ground floor. Would the patient be able to be brought there for a 20-minute ceremony? Yes, she would. I told the nurse to let the nursing supervisor know what was going on and made a note to wander downstairs around two o'clock.

Shortly after one o'clock, there was a bit of a commotion in the lobby. Men in tuxedos, little girls in fairy princess flower girl dresses, a half dozen bridesmaids wearing cranberry dresses, and the bride, resplendent in her sparkling gem-studded dress, all shaking off snowflakes and providing their own flurry of activity had arrived and were heading up to visit the mother of the bride. They paused here and there for photos. And I was called away for another situation.

With a few minutes to spare, the latest awfulness was resolved, and I made my way to the chapel. The nursing supervisor was there, helping the bride and groom make the room their own. Photos were made of the couple at the altar with the snow falling in the window behind. "How can I help?" was my immediate question. The supervisor sent me up to the ICU to escort the wedding party to the ground floor. It took two elevators to hold all of us. Everyone was settled in place and soon the guest of honor arrived in her wheelchair with an oxygen pack and a nurse or two. And then it was time. Somehow the little organ began playing "Here Comes the Bride," and the four little flower girls and the ring bearer escorted the bride and her older brother into the chapel. I closed the door and became the self-appointed guard so that no one would disturb this magical moment.

So, the worst shift ever ultimately came to an end, as they all do. It will be a shift that will stay with me for a while. I'll forget the deaths, the impoverished sister, the traumas (but maybe not the shoes), the cardiac arrests and the codes. What I'll remember is the bride -- beautiful inside as well as out -- and those lovely young girls, tall and proud in their cranberry gowns, doing the right thing.