En route to the call I pulled out my phone and Googled the
diagnosis we got from dispatch as my partner drove. I’d never heard of NDMA encephalopathy. Wikipedia said it’s a rare autoimmune disease, typically
affecting young women, often associated with ovarian tumors. The
onset is usually gradual, with altered mental status, seizures and eventually
coma. The long term prognosis is good if properly diagnosed and treated.
Monica lay in bed, her facial muscles in a constant state of
twitching. She was unable to respond to me. Her father and mother introduced
themselves and began to tell me about her condition. Monica’s father is a
paramedic instructor from a small town in Texas. They brought her to the Mayo hospital in Phoenix because it’s one of the only hospitals in the
Southwest with the ability to diagnose and treat her condition.
As I shook hands with her mother, I couldn’t help but notice
the beautiful necklace draped around her neck. Dangling from the necklace was a
gold cross.
As people wandered in and out of the room, her nurse gave me
report. From an envelope, she pulled a stack of papers that were stapled together
and handed them to me.
"Here”, she said, “You need to give these to the people who will be taking care of her where she’s going”.
"Here”, she said, “You need to give these to the people who will be taking care of her where she’s going”.
I asked what they were. She explained that for the past 4
months, all of her nurses in the ICU had been recording every significant event Monica had
gone through. They took turns writing notes and compiled them into a journal to
be kept with her during the course of her stay. As I read the notes, I smiled. They
recorded all of her procedures, every seizure she had and every change in
mental status.
I noticed that Monica’s finger nails were painted. It looked
fresh. An attractive pink stripe pattern adorned each nail, except
for the middle finger on her left hand, which was bare.
“We all did!” one of the nurses replied. The room had
quickly filled with nurses, techs and others who wanted to see her off.
“I see you left one finger without polish…nice touch.”
“Of course....that’s for the pulse ox probe.”
Thick nail polish can impede the pulse oximitry sensor,
which makes those annoying alarms go off. So it’s wise to remove the nail
polish on one finger. They thought of everything. I can’t recall ever seeing a
group of nurses who became so involved in the personal life of their patient.
It was like they’d adopted her as a sister.
We carefully moved Monica to the gurney and got her covered
and belted in for the trip. The loving people from Mayo bid her farewell as we
rolled her to the elevator. Her mother was riding with us. Inside the
ambulance, I handed her one of my cards and asked if I could pray for her
daughter. She was overjoyed. “By all means, please do!”
I closed my eyes and placed my hand on her shoulder and
declared life over her. I immediately saw in the spirit, Monica sitting up with
her eyes open talking to her mother, as if nothing was wrong. I commanded
sickness to leave and for her immune system to be healed. We both prayed for
this lively young woman trapped in a broken body.
I told her mother what I saw and suggested that it probably indicated
a good outcome. I shared with her some of the visions I’ve seen during prayer
and a few of the dreams I’ve had about my patients.
She smiled and told me that the nurses at Mayo had been
having dreams about Monica ever since she arrived. In the dreams, they would
talk to her as if she was perfectly healthy. They believed the dreams indicated
that she was able to understand everything they said, in spite of how things
looked outwardly. They also believed that she would recover and have no long - term
complications. The dreams were one reason why they had such a keen interest in
Monica and why they treated her like a sister.
We arrived and transferred her to the bed. Her mother and I
took turns giving report, but it didn’t take long. The nurses were familiar
with Monica and her condition. She’d been admitted there for 8 days in
February, but she became unstable and had to return to Mayo. They’d also fallen
in love with her and anxiously waited for her return. As the nurses fawned over
their newest patient and long lost friend, I washed my hands and quietly left
the room.
I love the way that God orchestrates His plans; bringing
strangers together to provide hope and healing through something as simple as a dream.
This call gave me hope for our healthcare system. It was
refreshing to meet people who sincerely cared about their patient and
all of her needs. I meet a lot of people who aren’t able to show genuine
compassion. Because of that, many of the calls I go on don’t
have a happy ending.
I seldom share those stories. I prefer to focus on the
positive. Unfortunately, the sad stories far outnumber the
happy ones. You don’t get a true cross section of the kind of things we see. And if I’m going to be transparent, I owe you an occasional glimpse at the darker side
of the job.
The next story I’ll share will be quite different from this one.
- till then