A Brief Encounter at Twenty-Two Weeks

A Brief Encounter at Twenty-Two WeeksUntitled Part 1

                                      A Brief Encounter at Twenty-Two Weeks

I was late. The office was, as usual, over-booked. That, and we never turn drop- ins away, some might be sick.

In my mind I planned the most efficient way to navigate my way through the hospital. I wouldn't get distracted. I would avoid conversation. I would stick to my plan. Stay on point.

My determined efforts came to an abrupt halt.

A stranger, a young man stopped me. Physically blocked me from entering the hospital.

"Is life fair? How come there has to be suffering? Why are they putting my wife through this? Where is God? You're a doctor, tell me."

Schizophrenic speech? Bi-polar religious mania? Stopped taking his meds?

"My God, My God. Why could it have not been me?"

I kept walking. I entered the hospital. He was on my heels.

"I'm talking to you, Doctor."

I kept walking.

He raised his voice.

"I'm talking to you, Doctor. Turn around and talk to me. I asked you if God exists?"

I didn't need this. Not today. I was in a hurry.

I stopped and turned. He stopped.

The man was thin, wore a T-shirt, with the old English D. In better times he was a Tiger's baseball fan. He had a three- day growth, that was still youthful sparse. He probably shaved every third day. I tried to side step him, but he followed my lead. I felt threatened. Did he have a gun? A knife?

I questioned the wisdom of practicing in the inner city.

His eyes were tired, and dark and wounded animal wild. He wasn't going to back down. Something told me to avoid confrontation, and maybe find understanding. Religion and anger is a bad combo.

"I don't know about fairness or the reason for suffering, but yes, I think there's a God."

"Well then why are they making my wife go through this? She's going through childbirth, labor, pain and when the baby's delivered they're gonna let it die. It's a little boy."

"What?" I asked.

"They're going to just let it die."

"How many weeks?"

"Twenty-two."

I was silent.

"It's a miscarriage," I said. "A late term miscarriage."

"It's a human life. Just because it's twenty-two weeks, they're gonna let him die? My wife is in agony for nothing? She was screaming so loud. I had to leave."

"I'm sorry."

"Are they right? It's a human life, isn't it? Here look at his picture."

He showed me the black and white ultrasound image of the fetus.

"You can see fingers and toes. He's sucking his thumb. Sucking his thumb! You can hear a heartbeat. My son's alive."

I hesitated. My throat tightened. I directed him to an arrangement of chairs.

"Let's sit. We can talk in private."

We sat in silence.

Eventually words came.

"Some hospitals will resuscitate a baby at twenty-five weeks, others at twenty- three. This hospital will resuscitate at twenty-three. Our neonatologists are very competent. But not twenty-two weeks," I said.

"Bastards. They probably want to chop his body up for parts, for research. I heard about it. There's big money in that. Hospitals and doctors are greedy."

"Hospitals are very greedy, doctors aren't. Sometimes if you give the doctors permission they will use the fetal tissue to help others. But you have to allow it."

"Bastards, it's not tissue, it's my son."

"The doctors that are attending your wife are Saints. I don't know how they do it. I couldn't live with the daily heartbreak."

"They better not touch him."

"If your little boy was twenty-three weeks, but twenty-two weeks..." I shook my head.

"He can't make it?"

"No," I said. "And it wouldn't be fair to put him through it. I'm not sure it's fair to resuscitate the very premature. Even if they survive there are a lot of complications."

"My son, my son. Why couldn't God take my life?"

He put his face into his hands. I put an arm on his shoulder. His muscles were taut and contracted with his muffled sobs.

"Do you have any other children?"

He looked up. His eyes were vacant and bloodshot.

"Yes, a little girl. She wants a brother. She has it built up in her mind."

He showed a slight smile when he spoke of his child.

"Then thank God for her. Love her, and your wife, even more than you do now. It will help. It will be difficult for you but they'll need you to be strong. It'll be tough on your wife."

Grief returned to his face.

The young man held up a pair of infant sized high top Converse All-Star basketball shoes.

"What am I gonna do with these?"

The shoes were tiny and hopeful and tragic.

My eyes welled up.

I wanted to tell him that even if he were twenty-three weeks his son would probably never be able to play basketball. His risks of cerebral palsy, asthma, deafness, blindness would be very high, almost a certainty.

"Save the gym shoes. You'll get another chance to use them. When that child gets older tell him or her it was a gift from an older brother."

His hateful eyes became liquid pools of sad resignation.

Minutes passed. It seemed like hours.

"Thank you," he said. "If my son can help others, they can use his body. I guess it's alright."

"Another gift," I said.

He asked, "Can we have a funeral for him?"

"Yes," I said. "It will help. You and your wife need to grieve. Would you like me to call a priest or rabbi?"

"I'm not very religious," he said. "Can you call both of them?"

"Sure."

He extended his hand. I shook it.

I left to make rounds on my patients.

I was behind my time.

I looked back at him then walked on, returning to my plan.

I recalled the admonition, "If you want to make God laugh tell him you have a plan."

I think the young father will be all right.

I'm certain those shoes will be used someday.

First, they must grieve for the empty shoes.