A sheet covered the body.
A lifeless hand fell draping the side of the stretcher revealing fingertips that were enlarged and bulbous like those of a tree frog. I recognized the left hand fingers of an old-time, hard working, hard living, professional guitar player.
I observed the body and moved closer to pull the sheet up and cover the dead man's face. Give his death some privacy and dignity. The chest moved up and down. I jumped back. The guitar player was breathing, still alive. Just sleeping. Even for a doctor it's difficult to tell sometimes.
I love music, even some country and western. I was pulled to this man and violated the HIPAA laws of privacy and examined the wristband on his right hand. The fingertips were not deformed, but the skin between his index and middle fingers was pigmented by sedimentary layers of nicotine. His name was Jefferson, Jesse.
I was the only one on the ward who was familiar with "the Bassman." He was as famous as James Jamison of the Funk Brothers. Both nicknamed "JJ," both played bass.
I had to talk to him. Let him know I recognized him and that he was more than a series of hospital assigned billing numbers entered into an unsecured computerized medical record.
I squeezed his left hand, applying gentle pressure, awakening him.
"Mr. Jefferson," I said. "You're the famous bass guitar player?"
He looked at me through bloodshot liquid eyes, the kind that spent a lot of time in smoky bars. That, along with the pack of Kool-unfiltereds, peaking out of the plastic bag containing his belongings, explained his medical condition. He was too far-gone for surgery or much else.
"That's me."
"You're famous."
"Yeah famous," he said. "Now let me go back to sleep."
He smiled and closed his eyes, returning to sleep and I presumed memories.
Jesse "The Bassman," Jefferson was very sick. He slept a lot. I observed him. I couldn't help it. I was curious. When he was awake he played his classic songs on an I-Pod. His head bobbed up and down to the rhythm. He sang softly, on key. He snapped his fingers, but his hands were weak and the sound was more of a thud than a beat keeping finger pop.
I was consulted to see him, so in retrospect I didn't violate his privacy. A technicality that should keep the hospital Gestapo off my back, for now anyway.
I reviewed his medical record. He would require kidney dialysis or a gentle hospice directed death. He would have to make the choice.
Putting sick people on the kidney machine can be an agonizing-am I helping them?- clinical exercise. Are they getting false hope, am I just prolonging an inevitable death and making the patient miserable in the last few weeks of life?
If the patient is young and I can dialyze them and steer them to a kidney transplant they can live thirty or more years in fairly robust health. And with the rapid pace of medical advances things will get better over those decades. But the elderly, the sick, they need a reason. In order to treat Mr. Jefferson I had to learn if he would choose a life prolonging treatment.
I gave him the choice.
"I have things to do," he said. "Put me on your kidney machine."
"What things do you have to do, Mr. Jefferson?" I asked.
"Get things in order, I need to stay alive to see Winston Magic once more. He's coming to see me." Mr. Jefferson smiled showing cracked teeth and abandoned spaces revealing infected gums.
