Free Angels in the ER by Robert D. Lesslie Page A

that’s what she wanted. Wouldn’t ever consider leavin’.”
    And then he expressed his concern for his sons and grandchildren. “They’re really gonna miss her. They’re farmers too, and live on the family land. They see her every day. I don’t know what to—”
    His last thought was interrupted by the opening of the door. I looked up to see two middle-aged men and a teenage boy stepping into the room. These were big guys. And they all wore well-used, dirt-stained overalls, the badge of men who made their living with their hands. The door closed and the older men sat down in the two chairs. The teenager stood against the door. Their eyes were fixed on Mr. Reid, and then they moved to me.
    Bill Blanchard.
Suddenly his swollen and bruised face flashed across my mind. I gripped the clipboard in my hands, flimsy protection should I need it.
    I was about to say something when Mr. Reid spoke.
    “Boys, I hate to tell you this, but Mama’s gone.” It was a simple statement, but all that needed to be said.
    The two men immediately got up from their chairs, and the boy straightened up, bolt-upright in front of the door. Their gaze went from Mr. Reid to me, and back to Mr. Reid.
    “Daddy,” one of the sons uttered. The single word contained volumes of grief and loss and love. And then they began coming across the room.
    Mr. Reid was slowly getting to his feet, seeming much older and weaker than he had a few moments earlier. He seemed unsteady now. I also stood up, and glanced in the direction of the door. The teenager stood motionless, his arms dangling by his side as he stared intently at his grandfather.
    One of the men reached out and brushed my shoulder as hehurriedly stepped forward. In an instant, the two sons held their father in their arms, sobbing.
    I stood watching, and it was only then I realized how tightly I had been gripping the clipboard in my hands. I felt small and out of place.
    One of Mr. Reid’s sons turned to me and said, “Doc, I know one of the paramedics that brought Mama in. I saw him in the parking lot a minute ago and he told me she was in bad shape when they picked her up. He told me you had done everything you could to try and save her. Moss and I here want to thank you for that,” he said, motioning with his head to his brother.
    He held out his hand to me and I shook it, not knowing what to say.
    I stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind me. I was alone, and I stood there for a few minutes. I looked down at the clipboard in my hand and felt a little foolish. What good would this flimsy piece of glued-together material have done me had these two big men and the teenager turned violent? And then I felt small again, remembering their response to the news of their mother and grandmother. These men, this family, were firmly grounded, and though their loss was sudden and awful, they had somehow maintained their composure. They had supported each other with a tangible love and a quiet dignity.
    Yet you never know. You can never really predict how people will respond in these circumstances. You have to be watchful.
    Always remember Rule Number One.
    I walked back down the hall to the nurses’ station.

 6 
    The Generations Pass
     
    All men are like grass, and all their glory
is like the flowers of the field.
     
    —
I SAIAH 40:6
     
    I t was a Saturday night around 9:30, and we had been really busy. Most of our rooms were full and the stack of charts for unseen patients kept getting higher.
    I picked up the chart from the top of the pile, noted the room location, and headed off in that direction. I glanced briefly at the information at the top of the clipboard:
     
Minor trauma—C
William Purvis
35 yr old WM
Laceration of chest
     
    “That’s a pretty bad one,” the triage nurse commented, nodding at the chart in my hand as she passed by.
    Great. A complex laceration could take a while to repair, and all during that time the ER would be backing up. Well, we’d just have