I just overheard her say to the person on the phone, “No, everything’s fine. We’re just sitting here waiting.”
She’s not being entirely truthful. Putting a good face on a bad situation is the polite way Southern women behave. She has other Southern feminine characteristics. Even in this situation, with her husband in surgery, the result of his internal organs shutting down, her makeup is expertly applied, every strand of her red hair in place. You know how it is in that particular culture – one does what one must do with dignity and proper decorum.
The waiting room is quiet except for her polite, extended, conversation with the person on the other end of the phone line, who should know better. But the quiet is pregnant with tension. It’s been three hours now, three long hours of waiting and worry, and waiting and anxiety, and waiting and waiting.
The well-meaning one who called has finally released her from his need to let her know he’s concerned. There’s silence for a few moments. The ring of the waiting room phone startles in her seat like an electrical jolt, betraying her projection of calm and assurance. She grabs the phone before it can sound a second ring. Listening quietly for a moment, she then cups her palm over the mouthpiece and says, “Is anyone with the Brannon family here?” No one responds. Politely she tells the caller no one is here. She offers to take a message in case they come in. She pulls a pen from her purse along with a small pad of paper and writes down the caller’s message. “You’re welcome,” precedes hanging up the phone. She sighs and sits deep into her seat, folding the paper neatly and placing it in the side pocket of her handbag..
Another family member arrives, her sister-in-law. They hug. She directs her in-law to an empty seat. Then she introduces me.
Silence. She stares at the wall.
“Have you heard anything from the doctor?” the in-law asks.
“No, nothing so far, but they said it would be a while.”
Silence.
“Oh, you should have heard his sermon Sunday. It was really good. You ought to come and visit the church sometime.” And then, much to my amazement, she relates the main points and theme of the sermon.”
“Well, Jeff and I keep saying we’re coming but you know how it is once you get out of the habit.”
Silence.
Another family walks in. “Are you the Brannon’s?” she asks. They say they are. She rises from the sofa and walks over to them with the folded paper in her hand. They talk a moment as she relates whatever was relayed to her. They are obviously grateful. I hear her say, “We’ll keep her in our prayers.”
She returns to the sofa.
Silence.
“Whatever happened to the Ryder family?” asks her sister-in-law. “Do you folks ever see them any more?”
She says they do. They talk for a good five or six minutes about the Ryder’s children, laughing lightly at remembered incidents, occasionally relating the person of the even to the life of her husband fighting for his life in the surgery.
Silence.
“I’m going to see about getting something from the vending machine. Do you want anything?” asks the sister-in-law.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
The sister-in-law leaves. She stares at the wall. And then, out of the blue, she leans in toward me and says softly, “The Brannon family has three small children. The wife is in surgery for a heart problem. It came on very suddenly. They are so worried. When you get back would you mind asking the prayer chain to remember them to the Lord?”
I say I will, marveling at her consideration.
Silence
More silence.
The phone rings. She jumps. She answers. She listens. “Thank you,” she says. She informs me that the caller was the nurse in the surgical room. The operation is taking a little longer than they anticipated. The doctor will call when he’s finished.
Silence
The sister-in-law returns. She’s given the information.
Silence
The phone rings. This time there’s an audible intake of breath. I reach for the phone to answer for her, but she raises her hand in an “it’s okay” gesture and answers. She listens. She turns and informs the Brannon family the call is for them. They come over. She rises and offers her seat. As the family member talks she rises. I rise with her. “Do you want to take a walk?”
She says she does and informs here sister-in-law we’re going downstairs a moment. She politely asks her to remain in case the doctor calls. We ride down in silence. We stop in the cafeteria and by a cup of coffee. Outside we sip our coffee and walk through the hospital gardens. One, then two, trips around the blooming roses and the gurgling fountain, and she sits. She looks at me, “It’s so hard to keep my composure.”
“I know,” I say. “And you don’t have to do that all the time.”
There’s no response. I was raised in the shadow of my Southern grandmother. I realize her upbringing requires composure. The foolishness of my suggestion is acknowledged by the gentle pat of her hand on my forearm.
We sit on a garden bench and finish our coffee.
“I guess we should get back upstairs. We shouldn’t leave her alone in the waiting room.”
We go back upstairs. We’re informed there’s been no word.
Silence. More silence.
The wait was a bit over seven hours. Through it all her composure remained intact. Her hair remained in place. Her gestures of concern for the other family remained apparent. The phone call for her never came. Instead, the doctor walked into the room. He sat down beside her with a worried look on his face. The operation was over but there had been far more extensive damage than they realized. It was going to be touch-and-go for a while. In the meantime her husband would be in CCU.
She politely thanked the doctor. Then she asked when she could see her husband. The doctor said it would be a few hours.
Silence. Her eyes were watery but no tears flowed.
There was a board meeting at the church. It was a long drive back. I had to leave. I told her so.
“Thank you for all you’ve done,” she said.
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” I replied.
“You were here,” she whispered.
Walking to my car I encountered her doctor. He said to me, “She’s probably going to need you soon.”
On the way to the church I passed her house. It’s a picture postcard from Southern Living. One could eat off the floors; her roses would put the professional gardeners of the hospital to shame. I could visualize the interior, its neatness, the dust free surfaces, the daily vacuumed carpets, the smell of mint nestled in the bottle on the kitchen window sill.
I knew what was most likely was coming for her. It came for me four years ago. That house will be empty, emptier than ever it has been. Her footsteps will echo on the tile kitchen floor. The garden care will be mechanical. The blooms will be just blooms. The carefully prepared meals will be a means of sustenance and not a joy of preparation.
I know what she’s going to be going through. You’d think that being able to say, “I know exactly how you feel,” would give me clue as to how to minister. It doesn’t. I know exactly how she feels.
She feels empty. I feel empty, too.
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