FireQuill Publications
The
Short Stories, Plays and Bible Studies of Kathy Kearney
The
Short Stories, Plays and Bible Studies of Kathy Kearney
Your Subtitle text
The Last Elevator Ride
The Last Elevator Ride
By Kathy Kearney
By Kathy Kearney
A Real-Life Story
My throat tightens as the elevator glides to a halt. The doors swish open onto a carpeted hallway lined with rooms. I fix my eyes on my destination; the day-room at the end of the hall to keep from looking through the doorways on my right, but it doesn’t work. I can hear what I can’t see, the pumping noise of respirators, monitors, and other medical paraphernalia as it conjures up images of pencil-thin bodies laboring for the next breath--images of silent relatives with tear streaked faces, holding unresponsive frail hands of loved ones .
I hate this floor. If I were Christ, I would storm every room with healing. "Get up, get out of here!" I would cry triumphantly. "Go back to your families. Be well. Be alive!" But I am not Christ. I am Kathy, and for this day on this floor; the oncology ward at Western Medical Center in Santa Ana, I am His representative, and a flawed one at that.
"Kathy!" her voice calls from the doorway of the day room.
"Kathy, you came." She hugs me.
With false cheerfulness, I try hard not to convey my reluctance to be here. ""Well, I said I would come, and here I am."
I had known Gerri for three years since she moved next door to us.
Gerri selected the house on our street because she didn’t drive and needed to be within walking distance of Western Medical Center where she worked in the nutrition department.
Our three kids loved her. But I, wise mother that I am, suspected that gluttony was the basis of this love affair. Every evening Gerri brought home baked goodies from the cafeteria, and Sean, Leslie, and Kim showed up on her doorstep like hungry, stray cats that had found a soft touch. Ah, but judgment was not mine for long. Cups of coffee and French pastries all too soon lured me into joining their gourmet prowling.
Gerri loved being with our family as much as we enjoyed having her. We often invited her for dinner or coffee. She seemed to possess a sixth sense of never assuming or presuming upon the place we so gladly gave her.
Within the confines of our easy relationship, it was natural to want her to know the joy of a relationship with Christ. She would question me about my faith, come to my drama presentations, and to church when I was teaching Bible study.
Gerri had a great sense of humor and we laughed a lot. I used to make her laugh just hear her wonderful deep-throated chuckle. I teased her unmercifully about her New "Joisey" accent. "Hey, you got a cup of 'coiffee' for me?" I would ask.
"You bet, Toots. Do you want it with cream and 'sugah?'"
Her warm, genuine friendship became a treasured blessing as our friendship deepened.
All this was B.C. Before Cancer.
Gerri knew that I had fought a three year battle with Hodgkin's Disease. So when she was diagnosed with cancer, my presence seemed to comfort her. Since she didn't drive, I took her to doctors appointments, chemotherapy sessions, and group support meetings. Finally, under the barrage of treatment the cancer gave way.
Later that year Gerri got married and asked me to be her matron of honor. It was a wonderful day, filled with love, joy and such great fun. She and her husband moved to Long Beach, but since she still worked at Western we saw each other often.
Two months later I picked her up at work for a dinner date. It was raining as she ran from her office to the hospital parking lot. As I backed out of the parking space, she said, "Kathy, the cancer is back, and worse than before. The doctors say I have less than a 50% chance of beating it this time."
Suddenly I couldn't separate the water streaming down the windshield from the tears cascading down my heart. I could only grasp her hand and promise, "I'll be there, Gerri, and I'll be praying."
As part of her chemotherapy course, Gerri had to have a catheter implanted. She asked me to pass the time with her until she went into surgery that evening. That's how I came to be in the day room on the oncology ward.
I struggled to hide my feelings of panic at being on that floor. It brought back too many memories of my own, memories I had never discussed with Gerri.
You see, in 1966 when I had cancer there were no support groups. Doctors didn't often work with patients concerning the course of treatment. My own doctor didn't even tell me that I had Hodgkin's until I was discharged from the hospital after surgery on my neck. In fact, up to the day of my release he let me believe that all I had was a simple thyroidectomy.
But in those days you didn't question your doctor. Wasn't he a god with a scalpel who knew everything? "You have an incurable cancer called Hodgkin's disease," he told me. He chattered on about how science would someday find a cure, then sent me home to face the four walls of our apartment with terror stricken stares to wonder if I would live to deliver our baby, or be around to see her grow up.
I guess I did a poor job of hiding the avalanche of these memory-activated feelings from Gerri. She suddenly laid her hand over mine, and with perceptive smile said, "You would rather be anywhere than here, wouldn't you, Kathy?"
I could only nod my head in sheepish agreement.
"Yet you're here anyway, and I am so glad. Thank you!"
That was the afternoon Gerri accepted Christ as her savior. The hospital chaplain came to see her while we waited. Gerri asked me to excuse her while she talked with him. When I returned an hour later there were tears in her eyes. Not wishing to pry I didn't comment or ask questions.
Later that evening while Gerri was being prepped for the surgery, I met the chaplain in the hallway outside her room. I started to introduce myself to him when he grinned and interrupted me. "So, you're Kathy! Gerri has told me so much about you. You have planted a lot of seed." His grin broadened as he continued shaking my hand. "I led your friend to Christ this afternoon,"
Shortly after that the local flu bug caught up with both of us, sending Gerri to the hospital, and me to my bed. I phoned her while I was recovering. She seemed very short of breath, but I attributed that to the flu--I wasn't exactly running any foot races myself. We promised each other an outing for lunch when freed from our sick beds.
"I love you, Kathy." She had never said that to me before.
"And I love you, Gerri,” I replied as we ended our conversation.
Two days later she died.
That was 10 years ago, and everytime I drive past Western Medical Center I think of Gerri, first with a sense of loss, then with a rush of joy. I will see her again.
I will never forget how God led me into the very place I hated and felt my weakness the most just like the apostle, Paul when he wrote II Corinthians 12:9 “ . . .Most gladly, therefore, I will boast of my weakness that the power of Christ may dwell in me." Gerri just wanted me by her side, she didn't need my strength, and because that's the day she came to know God's strength through the gift of His Son, Christ.
