Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Grace Triumphant 023
March 21 2005
Beauchamp warned me, years ago, that time is a river without banks. There's no holding on. You can only move forward.
He'd been gone only two weeks, and things were getting more dismal at Simpsons Department store as the winter gave way to spring. And one afternoon I got a call on my office phone from David, the openly queer theater manager who was one of Hillary's best friends.
"This is David Fringe. Is this Grace Jovian?" he asked in his precise voice.
"Yes it is," I said in my cordial office voice.
"Ms. Jovian, Hilary has asked me to call you. I'm at the hospital on Forest Street. Do you know where that is?"
I straightened up. "Yes. What's wrong?"
"Hillary is being admitted. You should come at once. Is that possible?"
"Yes," I said.
"I'll meet you on the oncology floor," he said.
"All right." I forgot to thank him, hung up, grabbed my hat and coat, and ran for my car.
The hospital lobby was quiet in the middle of a weekday. But once past the lobby, I entered the time and world of the hospital itself, a world unto itself.
The nurse's station on the Oncology floor was just opposite the elevator doors, and as the doors opened, I saw a tall, very thin man with a soul patch on his chin. He had short, neat, slicked back hair, artificially darkened to black with chestnut highlights. But his grasp when he shook my hand was as firm as I could have asked.
"Miss Jovian, I'm a dear friend of Hillary's," he said. "She's waiting to see you, but perhaps we should talk first."
"What's happened?" I asked. "What's the Oncology floor for?"
He quieted his voice. "Oncology is the cancer ward." He still had hold of my hand.
"What's happened to her?"
"The doctors believe she has cancer---"
"Where?"
"In her lungs. She's scheduled for surgery first thing in the morning-"
"So quickly?"
Like Hillary, he was far older than I, but he lived in that world where youth mattered more than anything, so I couldn't determine if he was in his mid thirties or mid fifties. But he had a firm grip of my hand, and for all his cosmetic good looks and overly groomed manner, there was something fatherly in him. Or at least calming, like a man who has been through something like this before and knows exactly what must be done.
"I want you to understand that it's serious," he told me. "That's why surgery has to be so quick. Her lungs have filled with fluid, and the doctors are draining it out. And as soon as they're clear enough for surgery, the surgeon is going to remove at least part of one lung. He's hoping she'll be ready by tomorrow morning."
I stared up at him. He still had me by the hand. "Hillary is afraid," he said to me. "And she's in pain. She tells me that you have a lot of faith. If you can help raise her spirits for tomorrow, please try."
"Is she awake?" I asked him.
"In and out, from the morphine they gave her to help ease the distress from the respiratory trouble. You know she was a drug addict?"
"Yes, pills," I said.
"She's worried that the morphine will make her go back to that. She's been asking the nurses about that---" He caught himself and looked me in the eye. "Can you help her?"
I calmed down as he looked at me. We both had to be calm. "I can try to help her," I said. "I want to."
He nodded and let me go. "It's this way. We'll enter quietly. She's been sleeping the last few minutes."
My Hillary, the one I knew so well, who was young and lively and filled with sudden outbursts of poetry, corny jokes, puns, ironic commentary, and enthusiastic hugs, disappeared that day. The new version of her, gray roots showing under the colored hair, haggard eyes, and fearful expression, came in her place. Every now and then in the months to come, I would see the old Hillary appear at her eyes like an elvish shadow at a window, looking out again for a brief moment before fading away.
But both versions, as Beauchamp would have said, were mere parts of the whole: faces that the outside world saw, part illusion, part concession, part outright deception. Only God Himself first of all, and then Hillary, knew the real Hillary. According to Beauchamp, you spent your life going through version after version, either trying to get closer to the real person or trying to get away from it. And sometimes, in situations like these, the divine hand pushed you in the proper direction. And that divine hand could be pretty ruthless. Truth is ruthless. Cutting cancer out of a person is ruthless. But it has to be done.
When Hillary slowly roused from the drug-induced stupor, she tried to grasp my hand, and I helped her.
"I've taken drugs today," she whispered. "I said I never would again."
"You had no choice," I told her. "You probably didn't even know they were doing it."
"No, God. I never knew. They just did it. Will you forgive me if I didn't know?"
"Hillary dear," Dave said gently from the other side of the bed. "It's not God talking to you. It's your friend, Grace."
"Grace is here," she said. Her fingers tightened on mine. "They made me high on drugs. I'm still high, and I'm sorry, I apologize. Ask God to forgive me."
"God forgives you," David said.
"All right Hillary," I told her. "I'm going to ask God right now. But God sent me to you. You know that, don't you? God sent me."
She paused. "No," I didn't know that," she said.
"Well He did. Hold onto my hand, and I'll ask Him." I didn't know if David would be embarrassed or if he would walk out of the room, but he stayed there and looked down as I prayed for her with quiet clear words. Her eyes would start to close, so I would wait until she came back, and then I would pick up the prayer. When I had finished, I said to her, "God has commanded that everybody who puts their faith in Jesus Christ will have all their sins forgiven. Do you believe that, Hillary?"
"Yes," she said. "I did ask Jesus to save me. Years ago. After an AA meeting."
"Yes, but then you became a Buddhist," I told her.
"They make the best doughnuts," she replied sleepily, not knowing what we were talking about.
"Oh Hillary," I rested my hand on her head.
"Jesus, would you forgive me if I didn't understand?" she asked. "Don't go away."
"Hillary, I'm not Jesus. I'm just Grace," I said gently.
"Help me breathe, so I don't need so much morphine," she asked. "Just do that, please. I don't want to be a drug addict. I'm sorry about all of that. Please don't let it get me again."
"Jesus sent me to help you. I'm Grace," I told her. "Your friend Grace."
"Grace hold on." She tightened her hold on my hand again as her eyes closed. "I'll get us through this one, and then you get the next."
|
Beauchamp warned me, years ago, that time is a river without banks. There's no holding on. You can only move forward.
He'd been gone only two weeks, and things were getting more dismal at Simpsons Department store as the winter gave way to spring. And one afternoon I got a call on my office phone from David, the openly queer theater manager who was one of Hillary's best friends.
"This is David Fringe. Is this Grace Jovian?" he asked in his precise voice.
"Yes it is," I said in my cordial office voice.
"Ms. Jovian, Hilary has asked me to call you. I'm at the hospital on Forest Street. Do you know where that is?"
I straightened up. "Yes. What's wrong?"
"Hillary is being admitted. You should come at once. Is that possible?"
"Yes," I said.
"I'll meet you on the oncology floor," he said.
"All right." I forgot to thank him, hung up, grabbed my hat and coat, and ran for my car.
The hospital lobby was quiet in the middle of a weekday. But once past the lobby, I entered the time and world of the hospital itself, a world unto itself.
The nurse's station on the Oncology floor was just opposite the elevator doors, and as the doors opened, I saw a tall, very thin man with a soul patch on his chin. He had short, neat, slicked back hair, artificially darkened to black with chestnut highlights. But his grasp when he shook my hand was as firm as I could have asked.
"Miss Jovian, I'm a dear friend of Hillary's," he said. "She's waiting to see you, but perhaps we should talk first."
"What's happened?" I asked. "What's the Oncology floor for?"
He quieted his voice. "Oncology is the cancer ward." He still had hold of my hand.
"What's happened to her?"
"The doctors believe she has cancer---"
"Where?"
"In her lungs. She's scheduled for surgery first thing in the morning-"
"So quickly?"
Like Hillary, he was far older than I, but he lived in that world where youth mattered more than anything, so I couldn't determine if he was in his mid thirties or mid fifties. But he had a firm grip of my hand, and for all his cosmetic good looks and overly groomed manner, there was something fatherly in him. Or at least calming, like a man who has been through something like this before and knows exactly what must be done.
"I want you to understand that it's serious," he told me. "That's why surgery has to be so quick. Her lungs have filled with fluid, and the doctors are draining it out. And as soon as they're clear enough for surgery, the surgeon is going to remove at least part of one lung. He's hoping she'll be ready by tomorrow morning."
I stared up at him. He still had me by the hand. "Hillary is afraid," he said to me. "And she's in pain. She tells me that you have a lot of faith. If you can help raise her spirits for tomorrow, please try."
"Is she awake?" I asked him.
"In and out, from the morphine they gave her to help ease the distress from the respiratory trouble. You know she was a drug addict?"
"Yes, pills," I said.
"She's worried that the morphine will make her go back to that. She's been asking the nurses about that---" He caught himself and looked me in the eye. "Can you help her?"
I calmed down as he looked at me. We both had to be calm. "I can try to help her," I said. "I want to."
He nodded and let me go. "It's this way. We'll enter quietly. She's been sleeping the last few minutes."
My Hillary, the one I knew so well, who was young and lively and filled with sudden outbursts of poetry, corny jokes, puns, ironic commentary, and enthusiastic hugs, disappeared that day. The new version of her, gray roots showing under the colored hair, haggard eyes, and fearful expression, came in her place. Every now and then in the months to come, I would see the old Hillary appear at her eyes like an elvish shadow at a window, looking out again for a brief moment before fading away.
But both versions, as Beauchamp would have said, were mere parts of the whole: faces that the outside world saw, part illusion, part concession, part outright deception. Only God Himself first of all, and then Hillary, knew the real Hillary. According to Beauchamp, you spent your life going through version after version, either trying to get closer to the real person or trying to get away from it. And sometimes, in situations like these, the divine hand pushed you in the proper direction. And that divine hand could be pretty ruthless. Truth is ruthless. Cutting cancer out of a person is ruthless. But it has to be done.
When Hillary slowly roused from the drug-induced stupor, she tried to grasp my hand, and I helped her.
"I've taken drugs today," she whispered. "I said I never would again."
"You had no choice," I told her. "You probably didn't even know they were doing it."
"No, God. I never knew. They just did it. Will you forgive me if I didn't know?"
"Hillary dear," Dave said gently from the other side of the bed. "It's not God talking to you. It's your friend, Grace."
"Grace is here," she said. Her fingers tightened on mine. "They made me high on drugs. I'm still high, and I'm sorry, I apologize. Ask God to forgive me."
"God forgives you," David said.
"All right Hillary," I told her. "I'm going to ask God right now. But God sent me to you. You know that, don't you? God sent me."
She paused. "No," I didn't know that," she said.
"Well He did. Hold onto my hand, and I'll ask Him." I didn't know if David would be embarrassed or if he would walk out of the room, but he stayed there and looked down as I prayed for her with quiet clear words. Her eyes would start to close, so I would wait until she came back, and then I would pick up the prayer. When I had finished, I said to her, "God has commanded that everybody who puts their faith in Jesus Christ will have all their sins forgiven. Do you believe that, Hillary?"
"Yes," she said. "I did ask Jesus to save me. Years ago. After an AA meeting."
"Yes, but then you became a Buddhist," I told her.
"They make the best doughnuts," she replied sleepily, not knowing what we were talking about.
"Oh Hillary," I rested my hand on her head.
"Jesus, would you forgive me if I didn't understand?" she asked. "Don't go away."
"Hillary, I'm not Jesus. I'm just Grace," I said gently.
"Help me breathe, so I don't need so much morphine," she asked. "Just do that, please. I don't want to be a drug addict. I'm sorry about all of that. Please don't let it get me again."
"Jesus sent me to help you. I'm Grace," I told her. "Your friend Grace."
"Grace hold on." She tightened her hold on my hand again as her eyes closed. "I'll get us through this one, and then you get the next."
