---------------
“Kay, it’s for you,” the charge nurse called, raising her voice over the general clamor of the nurses’ station where I worked. Since my dad was having a patch repair on an old aneurysm site hundreds of miles away in North Carolina, I hurried over to take the phone. This was to be a “tune-up,” an overnight stay at the most. The positive outcome far outweighed the risk, my brother and I had been reassured. I had been waiting hours for this call; the procedure had been delayed late into the afternoon.
“Dad’s not doing well,” Joe spoke with emotion. “They can’t stop the bleeding. His arteries are too calcified and they can’t get a good seal. They found a new aneurysm, too. He’s already had eight units of blood. Can you come?”
I rushed home to gather my things and make hasty arrangements for my teenage children who would be left behind to continue on in their school routine. This was the most painful aspect of being a widow and single mother—not having someone with whom I could halve the burdens in times of emergency. I wept as I packed, grateful for the silent support of the children as they fetched important items and slipped them into my bags.
Soon after dark, I was on the road, navigating a different and hopefully faster route to the mountains by the glow of my portable GPS. Fatigue pressed in on me soon after midnight. I had been up since before five that morning and still had miles to go before I could sleep again. "Lord, help me!” I interjected into the outpouring of prayers for my father.
“Kay, it’s for you,” the charge nurse called, raising her voice over the general clamor of the nurses’ station where I worked. Since my dad was having a patch repair on an old aneurysm site hundreds of miles away in North Carolina, I hurried over to take the phone. This was to be a “tune-up,” an overnight stay at the most. The positive outcome far outweighed the risk, my brother and I had been reassured. I had been waiting hours for this call; the procedure had been delayed late into the afternoon.
“Dad’s not doing well,” Joe spoke with emotion. “They can’t stop the bleeding. His arteries are too calcified and they can’t get a good seal. They found a new aneurysm, too. He’s already had eight units of blood. Can you come?”
I rushed home to gather my things and make hasty arrangements for my teenage children who would be left behind to continue on in their school routine. This was the most painful aspect of being a widow and single mother—not having someone with whom I could halve the burdens in times of emergency. I wept as I packed, grateful for the silent support of the children as they fetched important items and slipped them into my bags.
Soon after dark, I was on the road, navigating a different and hopefully faster route to the mountains by the glow of my portable GPS. Fatigue pressed in on me soon after midnight. I had been up since before five that morning and still had miles to go before I could sleep again. "Lord, help me!” I interjected into the outpouring of prayers for my father.
A short time later, I lost my way on a strange road with no paper map to clear up the confusion. A pack of coyotes suddenly appeared in my headlights. The poor creatures flew in every direction across the hood and on either side of the windshield, taking out the front end of my car. Crying and shaking, I crept onward, too afraid to get out of the car to see what mayhem I had caused, the urgency of my present errand overriding my concern for either the animals or the condition of my vehicle.
Wide-awake from the surge of adrenaline that followed the accident, I panned the GPS out until I located the main road. Eventually, I found my way back onto Hwy 25. Within an hour, I was handing my driver’s license to the hospital guard, sweat still drying on my hospital scrubs. I realized I had forgotten to change.
“Seibert… Seibert… yes, he’s in the Coli ICU. You just missed your mother. I’m surprised you didn’t pass her out in the parking deck. Hadn’t even been a couple of minutes,” he said as I signed my name.
I looked at him sharply. “Excuse me?” I queried, keeping my surprise in check. It was two in the morning. Perhaps I wasn’t hearing clearly.
“Your mother’s been here for hours. She just left,” he patiently explained as if he were speaking to a small child.
“You must be mistaken,” I replied.
“Nope. Remember the name. Unusual name. Came to see your father.” he insisted as he handed my license back to me.
I said nothing more about this, thanked him, and asked for directions. Within minutes, I was outside the locked doors of the unit, wondering if anyone would allow me to go to my dad’s bedside at such an hour. Just then, they swung open as an employee exited. Could she help me…?
One of the intangible benefits of working at a hospital is the professional courtesy that is often extended by members of other facilities. After a brief consultation with this nurse and her subsequent, “Wait here, please,” she disappeared. Soon afterward, a man ushered me to my father’s bedside, describing his serious condition and altered appearance as we walked. Disregarding the array of machines that were keeping him alive, I held my father’s hand, prayed aloud, and reassured him of my presence and my love. The team let me stay there for fifteen minutes; they once again needed the space to continue their intense battle for his life.
Numbly, I walked down the hall to the ICU waiting area. A spry, older man with a neatly trimmed Amish-style beard greeted me. He had been keeping a vigil over his dying wife in the glass cubicle next to Dad’s. We exchanged stories about our family members. Then, he began to talk about the woman who had stood in my father’s room at the foot of his bed praying for hours since his return from a second surgery that night.
“She’s been so wonderful to watch,” he mused with a smile, “Never in the way of anyone, just stood there praying the whole time. I can’t believe they let her do that. Was that your mom? A friend of your dad’s?”
I shook my head in dissent. I had no idea who this could be. All of my dad’s friends were too old to drive after dark. As for my mom… she died of a stoke barely two weeks after my husband was killed by a drunk driver. Dad and I had shared the widow/widower experience for the past eight years. It was one of the reasons we were now so close. Tears stung my eyes. What on earth?
The next morning, my brother and I convened in my dad’s room. He was on a vent, heavily sedated, in critical condition, but still with us. I asked the nurse about the late-night visitor. As he bustled about the room adjusting tubes and checking monitors, the nurse remarked that the night staff had mentioned her, but he didn’t know anything more than that.
In the days that followed, I spoke with a number of people. Though none of them could describe the woman with any certainty beyond the words, “Calm, serene, beautiful, peaceful,” she was seen by many and questioned by none. Whoever she was, she had a presence and authority about her that allowed her to be where no one else could be—at my father’s bedside in prayer until the moment I arrived.
She was never seen again.
“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” Hebrews 13:2
Kay Seibert O’Hara
June 11, 2011
Wide-awake from the surge of adrenaline that followed the accident, I panned the GPS out until I located the main road. Eventually, I found my way back onto Hwy 25. Within an hour, I was handing my driver’s license to the hospital guard, sweat still drying on my hospital scrubs. I realized I had forgotten to change.
“Seibert… Seibert… yes, he’s in the Coli ICU. You just missed your mother. I’m surprised you didn’t pass her out in the parking deck. Hadn’t even been a couple of minutes,” he said as I signed my name.
I looked at him sharply. “Excuse me?” I queried, keeping my surprise in check. It was two in the morning. Perhaps I wasn’t hearing clearly.
“Your mother’s been here for hours. She just left,” he patiently explained as if he were speaking to a small child.
“You must be mistaken,” I replied.
“Nope. Remember the name. Unusual name. Came to see your father.” he insisted as he handed my license back to me.
I said nothing more about this, thanked him, and asked for directions. Within minutes, I was outside the locked doors of the unit, wondering if anyone would allow me to go to my dad’s bedside at such an hour. Just then, they swung open as an employee exited. Could she help me…?
One of the intangible benefits of working at a hospital is the professional courtesy that is often extended by members of other facilities. After a brief consultation with this nurse and her subsequent, “Wait here, please,” she disappeared. Soon afterward, a man ushered me to my father’s bedside, describing his serious condition and altered appearance as we walked. Disregarding the array of machines that were keeping him alive, I held my father’s hand, prayed aloud, and reassured him of my presence and my love. The team let me stay there for fifteen minutes; they once again needed the space to continue their intense battle for his life.
Numbly, I walked down the hall to the ICU waiting area. A spry, older man with a neatly trimmed Amish-style beard greeted me. He had been keeping a vigil over his dying wife in the glass cubicle next to Dad’s. We exchanged stories about our family members. Then, he began to talk about the woman who had stood in my father’s room at the foot of his bed praying for hours since his return from a second surgery that night.
“She’s been so wonderful to watch,” he mused with a smile, “Never in the way of anyone, just stood there praying the whole time. I can’t believe they let her do that. Was that your mom? A friend of your dad’s?”
I shook my head in dissent. I had no idea who this could be. All of my dad’s friends were too old to drive after dark. As for my mom… she died of a stoke barely two weeks after my husband was killed by a drunk driver. Dad and I had shared the widow/widower experience for the past eight years. It was one of the reasons we were now so close. Tears stung my eyes. What on earth?
The next morning, my brother and I convened in my dad’s room. He was on a vent, heavily sedated, in critical condition, but still with us. I asked the nurse about the late-night visitor. As he bustled about the room adjusting tubes and checking monitors, the nurse remarked that the night staff had mentioned her, but he didn’t know anything more than that.
In the days that followed, I spoke with a number of people. Though none of them could describe the woman with any certainty beyond the words, “Calm, serene, beautiful, peaceful,” she was seen by many and questioned by none. Whoever she was, she had a presence and authority about her that allowed her to be where no one else could be—at my father’s bedside in prayer until the moment I arrived.
She was never seen again.
“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” Hebrews 13:2
Kay Seibert O’Hara
June 11, 2011
