Shortly
before the completion of this book, I walked into the dialyses unit of the
children’s hospital, where I volunteer.
Each week, I must decide what kid to work with and if we should paint,
play games, or just talk. On this
particular day, I knew exactly who to work with, as I saw a giggling, naked,
three-year-old boy being chased by a nurse.
This boy always seemed to be full of joy, even when he was confined to a
crib and hooked up to machines for hours at a time. In the next few months, his joy drew
compassion from nurses, social workers, administrators, doctors, technicians,
therapists, specialists, janitors, and volunteers. No one could walk by him without giving him
some love. Yet always right there for
him was his mother. She also was always
“right there” on the donor list, hoping that her son would receive a kidney.
I
remember one day I came to the hospital, and his mother was wiped out. She turned to me and said, “Paul, they
admitted him to do some more tests. I’d
like to go home to pick up a few things. Will you be here while I’m gone?” So without a doubt, her son and I had a
wonderful time coloring and acting silly.
Soon, the nurse came over to hook him up to the machine. She took a look at his catheter. (Catheter=the port that allows blood to exit
and enter so it can be cleansed.) She sensed something was not right and
asked a doctor to take a look at it. The
nurse continued to express concern, so the doctor requested an x-ray. As it turned out, this nurse was “right on”
with her feeling, because when they tried to do an x-ray, the catheter totally
detached from his body. Although this
presented a problem, if they had gone ahead with treatment, the health of this boy
would have been at a much greater risk.
Time
and tension was felt, as the medical complications heated up, yet all seemed to
be cooled off by everyone’s compassion towards this boy. When his mother arrived, she was informed
that her son could not be dialyzed, and they would have to do surgery again,
giving him a new catheter. But this
time, the catheter was only going to be temporary… WHY??? Because.
The results from the mother’s recent blood test confirmed that she would
be able the give her son her own kidney.
At
the same time that this was all going on, I found out that my Uncle Charlie had
cancer. The days that followed were
interesting, because every time I made an effort to visit my uncle, I would
feel the need to go to the hospital. I
wondered how many times my uncle, a doctor for 60 years, as well many others
who work in hospitals, must ask the question, “Shall I give my love at the
hospital or at home?” Ironically, for
this boy and his mother, it was both.
When the day came in the “hospital,” her 31-year-old kidney was perfectly
transplanted into her three-year-old son, and they could finally go
“home.”
The
next day, I grabbed some old records, my small wooden record player, and headed
off to see my uncle. When I got there,
the smiles between us never seemed to stop.
We listened to Louie Armstrong and Frank Sinatra and talked. Even though he was very weak and in pain, he
seemed at peace. I then packed up my
stuff, said some goodbyes, and began to leave.
Suddenly, I heard his deep, calming voice: “The most important thing…” I stepped back over to his bedside; he then
nodded off. He struggled to stay awake,
turned over, gazed out the window, and continued, “…in medicine is…” His eyes
closed again and a long pause followed until he was infused with a bit of
energy. His eyelids opened, and he
looked deep into my eyes, sharing the last word I remember him speaking:
“compassion.” And so, I find it only
fitting to give my uncle the last word:
“The most important thing
in medicine is compassion.”
- Dr. Charles Goldhammer Carluccio II
(1926-2010)
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