The night shift had finally ended. It was one of the worst nights I could
remember in 10 years. No matter what I had done, it didn't seem as if I had
accomplished anything of value. The hospital was unusually full, and the
patients especially needy. Eight hours weren't enough time to get all my tasks
completed, so I'd stayed an extra hour to finish. I drove home crying in
frustration, nerve fibers stretched to maximum exhaustion.
Too tired to walk into the house, I sat on the front porch well past the hour of
dawn's coolness and rocked in the wicker chair, oblivious to the weight-bearing
heat on my skin. Devoid of energy, there was nothing left for me to do but to
allow the sun's rays to warm me, wishing I was one of those people who didn't
get so emotionally involved with my patients. I gripped the rounded curves of
the oversized arms and pushed myself back and forth, chanting, "Why, why, why?"
With the creaking rhythm.
My heart had been torn to shreds by a gentle giant whose illness I couldn't
stop, whose pain I couldn't halt. Cancer had been invading his body cell by cell
and all the years of training and experience and all the magical pills and
potions couldn't stop it. Isaiah was dying. Nature was taking its course, and
man had no power to reverse it.
A look of wide-eyed surprise and stiffening of his body were the only clues that
he was suffering. He'd clutch his stomach and call out, "Lord, take it away.
Please, Lord, take it away." The prescribed medication wasn't touching the
racking pain rolling in waves through his system. Helplessly I gripped his hand
and prayed aloud with him until the bout of agony had ended. The night crept
along, second by second, as Isaiah waited for the next attack to render him
helpless, knowing that death lurked in the shadows, ever vigilant.
When I turned him to his side to make him more comfortable, swaddled with
pillows, he squeezed my fingers and repeated, "Oh, God is so good. God is so
good. Thank you, miss. Thank you."
When he had an episode of heavy bleeding from his wounds, he was bathed,
dressings were changed, and his linens were replaced, but still he didn't
complain. When asked what could be done for him, he replied, "I just want to sit
and talk to my Master. I need to talk to my Master right now." He lay back, eyes
closed, and murmured prayers of worship.
During brief interludes of respite we held hands, patient and nurse, the words
spilling over from my heart. My tears fell on my lap as I leaned over Isaiah to
fix yet another bleeding wound, reminded of someone else who had suffered over
2,000 years ago. Had the women of Jerusalem felt this same anguish? Had they
railed about their own impotence as did I?
I was the silent witness to Isaiah's Calvary. Nursing care could temporarily
beat back the discomfort, but he alone would walk the final walk with God. To be
in communion with his Creator in preparation for their meeting was a sacred rite
that couldn't be trespassed upon by mere mortals.
Before I left him to the care of the day shift, I tiptoed into his room and
kissed both his cheeks. Words were unnecessary, but I wanted to open my heart.
"You are one of the bravest people I know, Isaiah. You have every right to whine
to God about your situation, but, you pray for Him to be with you and to hold
you in His arms while you suffer. You have opened a window for me and through it
I have seen a glimpse of what it must have been like for Jesus. You are my
hero."
A tear rolled down his face and he gripped my hands. "I am looking forward to
seeing you in heaven." Nodding my head, I left his side.
Safe on my porch, I asked for forgiveness for all the times I had complained
about insignificant problems in my life, for my doubting and questioning. Then I
prayed for grace to walk my walk with the same dignity and faith as did Isaiah.
Rising from the chair, I felt the peace that comes when one has witnessed the
work of God, and I gave praise.
Irene Budzynski irene_budd@yahoo.com
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