Holy Oil

So, this weekend was a hard one.

Every summer, I get a mom. Head.

I don't know how the accident happened, but here she is. Were the kids fighting? Was she turning around? Was there an argument with the daughter over the radio station?

Neuro checks every hour. We know how I feel about neuro docs. I think they're all smarter than me, but I think they're mostly all bastards.

1700, her pupil blows. Fixes. Till then I'd been getting reactions. But I'm not sure. You think you can trust your own eyes, you know? You think you can trust your own perceptions, but nowhere does it become more apparent we live the ego's story than in interacting with patients. So often, even though you have the intention of being vigilant and objective, your own hopes and wishes get projected on to the situation and you see what you want to see.

Does it move? Does it not? So many times I've called someone in: "the pupil isn't reacting."
"Yes it is," Wiz'll say, "see?"

I called him in on this one several times.

Then...gone.

Did it happen when we turned her? Did it happen when I suctioned her? Did we have the lights dim enough?

Was it because I interrupted the holy oil?

I can be an asshole, sometimes. I don't stay an asshole for more than a few seconds, but sometimes my initial reaction to something is that of an asshole. And you just can't undo it, once it's done.

The resident, Dr. Wetter and I, sat down with this woman's parents to tell them frankly what was going on with her. They had their pastor with them. I don't like pastors, in general, I think they're crazy. I think it's crazy that we pay people to be pastors. Okay, no I don't. But a lot of pastors are not responsible people. They think they feel a "call" and that that gives them a right to a living, and I distrust that. Sometimes I think it's genuine, but sometimes I think they're full of crap. They always feel they deserve more access to patients than is theirs by right of law, they always interfere, and they feel they don't have to answer to anyone because they believe they're chosen by God.

So anyways, we're having this conversation with the parents, and the pastor interrupts and asks if he could be permitted to lay hands on the patient and anoint her head with holy oil.

Dr. Wetter and I are both silent for a second. Then our clinical paranoia kicks in and we both start shaking our heads.

"Well, we just put a ventric in..."Dr. Wetter starts

"It's really important not to introduce anything foreign around it.." I have visions of their dirty old holy oil compromising the latex on the ventric catheter.

"I'm afraid I have to say, no." Dr. Wetter states.

"Could you anoint her with your spiritual intent, instead of the actual oil?" I ask.

"Of course," the pastor says, nodding. He has a bad haircut and a big wooden cross hanging around his neck with an effigy of the crucified Jesus on it. "We understand completely."

So I lead them back to the patient and I leave them alone with her for a few minutes.

I go back in--because we've just admitted her and we're pushing things as fast as we can and running labs, blah blah blah, and...guess what they're doing.

They're fucking anointing her head with holy oil!!!! Holy Oil! On my precious patient in my precious clean ICU. They're so sneaky about it too. Rats. I get pissed.

"Excuse me, " I say, in my best movie nurse voice, "didn't we discuss this?"

They look up at me, innocent, caught, round-eyed. Like possums at the cat food when you switch on the porch light. And I look at the grandmother and suddenly I see these poor elderly people, who have lost so much in one day, who are old and weary and bent over their dying daughter, and trying to do anything, anything, anything at all to appease the fates, the terrible storm of life that sweeps us in front of it like dross, unappeasable, implacable, merciless --trying to put oil on the water--anything, anything at all. Any offering. Oil on the water. Oil on the sea.

"Oh, God. Oh, okay." I say. "Please, please forgive me. I'm so sorry. Do whatever you need to. "

"Hands?" the pastor asks me.

"Sure."

He puts just a small drop. Then he prays. I pray, too.

"You tried to stop them from putting holy oil on her?" Wiz echoes in disbelief, when I tell him about the incident later, after work the next day in the utility room. After she's gone. "Jesus Christ, Haley. You're right. You are an asshole. "

I get defensive. "I back pedaled."

"Asshole." He sighs. "Oh, well, you can sell yourself down the river, but I'm still not buying you, Haley Patton."

We're washing blood and shit off blood pressure cuffs. Still no unit attendant.

"My grandma said you can sell your family down the river once but you can't sell them twice."

"You did okay. Here is what killed her: she wasn't wearing a seatbelt and went through the windshield of her car at 60 miles an hour. Did you turn her, did you not, when did her pupil go, I was in there as much as you were. You're not God. Did you fuck up? In the 12 hours you watched her, yep, being a person, I'm sure you did not do everything perfectly. Nor will you ever, in your entire life, have a day as a nurse where you do everything perfectly. Did you do your best? Of that I am sure. Did you do a good job? That, too. She was gone, Haley."

"The oil," I say.

Wiz nods.

"Christ."

Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison
Kyrie eleison.