The following events are not fictional, but they may have happened at different times, with different patients, at different places. Each one of the authors has had patients just like these, in situations just like those described. If you want to know what it’s like to live a day in the life of an ambulance driver, or a small town cop, or a small town ER nurse, join us for the story.
It’s the same story. On the same day. With the same people.
This is what we do, and working with paramedics and cops like these is part of the reason we do it. What follows is part 3 of the story. Start with Lawdog, the cop, for part 1. Then follow along with Ambulance Driver for part 2 as he picks it up and carries it before handing it – and the patient – off to me.
Then come back here for the conclusion. I’ll still be here.
******
Murphy’s Law Corollary Number Something-or-other: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.
Right up under that is a little section of the code that’s very well-known throughout the entire working world: If You Come In On Your Day Off, All Hell Will Break Loose.
But there’s another old adage: Time Is Money. So here I am for some overtime. AD’s working anyhow, so I might as well make a little extra Christmas money. The way I look at it, the day will be done in 12 hours regardless but I’ll be glad I did it come payday.
*****
Wolfing down the last crumb of my biscuit from Vern’s, I clock in for the 11a-11p shift, throw my backpack up under the desk, and stand up straight for a quick stretch before turning to the day nurse, who appears to be catching up her documentation on a chart.
“So what we got?”
“Shhh.” She winks at me.
I grin as I look around at the empty rooms. To my surprise, Moonlighting Paramedic walks out of an exam room that he has just cleaned from the last patient.
Whoa. Three people on? Sweet! But what did they call me in for?
MP tosses the bagged-up trash into the bin. “Ambulance is out, though. Hopefully it’s nothing.”
“Yeah, I know. They’ve gone out to Ms. Schenk’s house,” I tell them as I wash my hands and begin to double-check the crash cart and room supplies.
Day Nurse picks her head up from her chart. “Miss Helen? What’s wrong with her?”
“That, I dunno.”
Picking up the phone, I call Medical Records to request Ms. Schenk’s old chart. A floor nurse and the unit clerk tag along as she brings down a very thin folder containing nothing more than some old bloodwork and a couple of x-ray reports.
“What’s wrong with Miss Helen?” They’re all concerned, and rightfully so. As her old file attests, she’s not what we would call a frequent flyer. She’s notoriously stoic and stubbornly independent. If she’s had an ambulance called out to her, something is seriously wrong.
Bodie calls in on the radio. MP answers it, motioning for paper to write down the report as we gather around to listen. Shocky, paced, grey, morphine. Shit. 72 years old and from the sound of it, she’s had a massive heart attack. Shit. Not today. Not Miss Helen. Not on my shift. Damn.
*****
Mrs. Shenk, or “Miss Helen” as everybody around the hospital knew her, was a beloved Pink Lady for years after her husband died until she got to be too frail to keep up the pace anymore. Most Pink Ladies were just bored, rich, “proper” blue-haired ladies doing the volunteer thing because it was expected. They avoided the ER, commonly known as the Bargain Basement, because it was too…dirty. Noisy. Hectic. There’s blood there, and people often aren’t bathed and are cussing up a storm. It’s not as “polite” as the little 15-bed inpatient floor and so it just wasn’t a place for “polite company” to be. They always smiled sweetly, but you could always pick up a smidgen of condescension in their smiles and the saccharine dripped from their voices.
But Miss Helen was different. Rich, definitely, and proper, I suppose, but if you got her riled…she could be, let’s just say, very opinionated and very vocal in her opinions, caring not what anyone thought about her language.
Heh.
I like ‘em spunky, because I’m spunky myself. Every day, Miss Helen would come back to the ER just to say “hey” with a genuine smile and wish everyone a wonderful day, often sticking around to chat if patient census was low. If we needed something for a patient, she’d run to the floor or to the kitchen to get it and bring it back. If we needed dinner ourselves and were too busy to get it, she’d retrieve it from the kitchen or even make the dinner runs to town for us.
Being something of a saucy little lady herself, I think she liked the action and unpredictability of the ER and she definitely took a liking to the brusqueness of the ER staff. She got the chance to be irreverent, bringing out a side of herself here that she couldn’t show to most of the rest of the world. And she knew that what she said in the ER, stayed in the ER. Out there in the world, around the community and especially around the menfolk, she had to be proper and keep up appearances. In here she could let loose in the safety and confidentiality of the nurses’ lounge. A special relationship developed between her and the ER staff.
That relationship was cemented with the icing on her cinnamon rolls.
At least once a week she brought in these huge, moist, to-die-for homemade cinnamon rolls and danishes, still warm from the oven. Cream cheese, blueberry, raspberry, and “regular”. She took great pride in those rolls and we took great joy in them. I can probably attribute a good 10 lbs on my frame to those things. Licking the last bit of glaze from my fingers I’d tell her, “I don’t know why I bother eating these things. I should just apply them directly to my ass.”
She’d always laugh and wink at me.“Well, darlin’, they probably wouldn’t taste nearly as good to your ass as they do to your tongue. If you’re gonna tote ‘em, might as well enjoy ‘em.”
Got a point there. She knew she had a good thing going with her pastries. Should have marketed them – she’d have made a killing. Instead, I suspect she’d been using them as enticement to extend the company of those strapping young lads who came to her door at the whim of her – ah, Ghosts. Heh. She always did like excitement and she could play “Damsel in Distress” with the best of ‘em.
******
As if on cue, a family of four and a couple of other people arrive to triage and one appears to be vomiting. Day Nurse volunteers to start triaging while MP calls Country Doc to Come On Down! and I ready the room stretcher before running to the Little Girl’s Room while I have the chance. Day Nurse brings a couple of patients back to the other exam rooms, getting them situated.
I emerge just in time to hear “Code Blue, ER” being called out over the PA system.
Miss Helen.
Country Doc squeezes into the room with me behind the medics as the x-ray tech rolls down with the portable machine and RT follows right behind. Country Doc has been around awhile and has partaken of the legendary cinnamon buns, and he now stands beside the empty ER stretcher, awaiting her and looking on gently. Floor Nurse, the Medical Records clerk, and the floor Unit Clerk are looking on in horror, following the crowd as AD continues compressions with the stretcher on the move and he slams out an updated report as we quickly and in one motion move her over to the ER stretcher. RT and the registration clerk enter as I get the monitor leads switched over from the truck’s to ours and MP takes over compressions.
“We’ve got it from here, boys”, Country Doc drawled in the direction of the medics, and he said something else to them but I wasn’t listening. He closed the door and returned to Miss Helen’s side.
“Back off the compressions a second. Let’s see what we have.” MP stops, hands hovering just over Miss Helen’s chest. We look at the monitor: V-fib. Day Nurse starts writing on the Code Record as I deliver 360 joules, and Miss Helen’s body rises and falls in response to the electrical current. Ohhh, no, Miss Helen. You don’t get out of baking those rolls that easy, little lady. You owe us a batch now. A BIG one.
Did I say that out loud? Surely not. But maybe she heard me, because all at once she had little blips on the monitor. The pacer? Nooo…that was removed in the transition and with all the compressions going on.
I think I hear a little something amongst the hiss of the oxygen. RT frowns quizzically and raises the mask just a little.
“Quit…beating… me,” she barely croaks out. “What… I…do to you?”
Surely AD and Bodie heard the whoops coming out of that room with that. The whole town could have heard that. Country Doc just smiles. “Let’s get another line, hang some Lidocaine and let’s get her TNKase’d.”
Day Nurse steps out to check on the other patients in the ER, leaving the door open. I see that AD and Bodie have left already, but in walks Old Family Doc, who has been looking after Miss Helen for close to 30 years.
“She’s too spunky to let this beat her,” Old Family Doc says as he looks her over and listens to her chest.
“Old Perv…always…did…like…my…chest…” came from underneath the mask.
He pulled back and laughed. “She’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll call Dr. GoodHeart and see if he can take her on over at Big City Hospital.”
God Bless Old Family Doc. They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore.
MP and Country Doc step out to check on the other patients for a minute while I pull up a stool and sit down by Miss Helen to start another line, still keeping a close eye on her and the monitor. She’s got a rhythm but it still ain’t pretty. Looks like some sort of heart block, maybe second degree. Still kinda grey there. Blood pressure’s up to 90/50, which ain’t too bad for a lady her size. I’d feel better if it were 120/80, though.
“Miss Helen, you gave us a pretty good scare there. I hate to do this, but I’m gonna have to put another needle in your arm so it’ll be a little horsefly bite but just for a second, okay?”
“Do what you have to do, Honey.”
She didn’t flinch as I pushed the needle in and flushed it, hooking up the little port for IV access later. Odds are she’ll have a central line placed after she gets to the ICU, but this will work for now.
“Miss Helen, I’m going to put some medicine into your IV that will break up any clots that might be getting in the way of the blood flow to your heart, okay?”
She nods.
“You got any bleeding problems or had any surgery recently?”
“No, hun. This is the good stuff, isn’t it?” She’s seen this before.
“Yes, Ma’am, this is the good stuff.”
MP and Country Doc are peeking in and out as I ready the TNK to give her. Country Doc rolls in to watch her and the monitor as I push the dose into her IV.
“It was pretty,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
“Heaven. It was pretty. Blue sky, peaceful…”
I raised my brow at that and watched the monitor, hoping to see something different there. Hearts throw some funky rhythms, pretty scary ones, when they re-perfuse. Right now, I’d give anything for something a little prettier than what we have right now. It’s too slow.
Come on, Miss Helen. Perk on up, now. Anytime now would be fine.
MP peeks his head in. “We got in touch with her daughter, but it’ll be a couple of hours before she can make it here. Old Family Doc made the transfer arrangements to go to Big City Hospital. I just called dispatch for transport. Hand me her chart and I’ll get it copied for you.”
Country Doc moseys back in and peers at the monitor, frowning. “What’s her pressure?” he wants to know.
“90/50.”
“Her hands are cold, too,” he muses. “Tell ya’ what – hold off on the Lidocaine. Let’s try a fluid bolus and start a dopamine drip before the ambulance gets here.”
I break open the crash cart for the pre-mixed dopamine and set it up. It seems odd somehow that we’ve coded Miss Helen and haven’t even had to break the seal on the crash cart, until now. I look at my watch.
Not even thirty minutes since LawDog, AD and Bodie brought her in here. It seems like hours.
I have to look up the dopamine drip rate, but I get it hung in short order. AD can figure the dose in his head, and he’s taught me the shortcut, but it never sticks. I’ve worked too many night shifts and overtime for the past twenty years. The hard drive is full, and new stuff keeps getting deleted. Even the shortcuts.
“Well. That was interesting,” came from under the mask. I look up at the monitor and see a short run of v-tach march across the screen.
You cannot faze this woman.
“It’ll be over in a sec, Miss Helen,” I reassure her. “It’s a sign that the clot’s breaking up.”
At least, I hope it’s reperfusion arrhythmia.
Miss Helen reaches for her mask. RT, still standing behind her head, starts to pull her hand away but I shake my head at him and he pulls away. She raises up the mask and speaks, still weak but starting to gain some strength.
“Babs?”
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“You know the song, ‘In the Garden?’”
I smile. “Yes, Ma’am, I sure do.”
Really?
“Yes, Ma’am.”
She takes my hand with hers. “Will you sing it for me?”
A quick glance at the monitor, her color, and her eyes tells me that it’s fine to take a minute to sing this old hymn for her. I’ve got the dopamine going, fluids running wide open, and she’s had her TNK. All we’re waiting on is her ride and I’m not about to leave her side right now anyway. Choking back my own shyness about singing in front of anybody, I slowly and quietly begin:
“I come to the garden alone…while the dew is still on the roses…”
Weakly, she begins to join in. A small town nurse and her patient who not even an hour ago was being kicked back from the Pearly Gates, singing:
“And the voice I hear…falling on my ear…The Son… of God… disclo-o-ses….”
Miss Helen’s eyes are gleaming. I smile at her and continue with her:
“Aaand..He…walks with me, and He talks with me….And He tells me I am his own…And the joy we share… as we tarry there…None other…has ever…known…”
RT looks up as her voice fades, and the monitor screeches its alarms. Her rhythm is unbroken v-tach now, and Miss Helen’s eyes are closed. She’s not breathing.
I turn around and see AD and Bodie standing there with their empty stretcher, ready to load Miss Helen up for transfer. They seem…pensive. Resigned.
“Call the Code again,” I tell Bodie sadly as AD starts compressions. “Get everyone back in here,” I called to his back as I charged the defibrillator paddles…
*****
We worked her, Lord knows we did. We tried everything we could think of. Country Doc pulled out all the stops. AD threw in a suggestion or three. None of it brought her back. There comes a time when enough is enough, and you just have to let go. Miss Helen wasn’t there any more, and all we were doing was beating her up. Finally, Country Doc called it and we pulled a sheet over her chest before stepping away and taking in the sight of this once-spry spirit now lying there, lifeless.
I’ve seen a lot of different looks in the eyes and on the faces of the dead. Many held stark fear. Many were dark. And quite a few were like Miss Helen’s: they held peace. It was impossible to miss. I smiled tearfully at her and wished her well in her new life before taping her eyelids closed.
She was at peace.
Her daughter, Abigail, got there not twenty minutes later. Of course she was heartbroken. Providing some tissue and a shoulder, I pulled a chair to the bedside and brought Abigail in to say goodbye.
Meanwhile, I went on with my work. They don’t let you be a human being, not and still do everything a nurse has to do. The ER backed up while we were working the code, more patients signed in to triage, and I still had yet to call the funeral home, call Big City Memorial and cancel the transfer, and call the organ procurement folks. Work to be done now. Feeling comes later.
Miss Helen’s funeral was held the following Sunday afternoon. The entire Schenk clan had come home to Bugscuffle for the weekend and the whole county turned out for the service. The ER called in temp staff to help cover for the full time nurses who wanted to attend. Lawdog, all decked out with his bolo tie and church gun, served as one of the pallbearers. The procession was at least a mile long.
After the service, Abigail approached me and wanted to say “thank you” for that afternoon in the ER. I had let myself forget about it, but she hadn’t. She had planned to come visit that day, she said, but she had to postpone at the last minute and so was feeling the guilt for not having been there for her mother’s last moments. She needed to hear something – anything - about that day. So I shared the stuff that was uniquely Miss Helen. The way it all started with the ghost call and Lawdog’s having to convince her to come to the ER. The remark about having seen Heaven. The comment to her doctor. The hymn. The peace in her eyes. Abigail listened intently before breathing a long, deep sigh…and then she smiled her mother’s smile before hugging me tightly.
At home today, I heard a horn outside. I went outside to investigate, wondering if I had just maybe bumped the “panic” button on my car and then bumped it again, as it was a single horn blow.
As I stepped outside, she was approaching the back door with a foil-wrapped tray in her hands. Even through the screen door, I could smell the cinnamon.
“I am just so grateful that Mama didn’t die alone,” she smiled. “She was with people she knew. That was her favorite hymn, you know.”
At a loss for any words, I just smiled.
She looked down at the tray and fumbled for words. “I, I brought these for you, from Mama’s recipe..I never could match hers, though…but…” She looked up at me and sighed. ”I just wanted to bring you something to tell you how much I appreciate the fact that she didn’t die alone.”
Humbled by the gesture, I accepted them and her hug. It was then that I realized one very important thing:
This is why I call this place home.
Now that was a good one! Once I started humming the hymn I knew I was in deep on this story. Well done! Loved the bolo tie and church gun.
Great story! Thanks you guys. You really work well together.
A beautiful story. I’m tearing up just thinking about it.
You guys should go into business.
Wonderful.
Linking now.
My thanks to Lawdog, AD, and you too.
That is also my favorite hymn, and one my father loved. We played it at his funeral — where he lay surrounded by the roses he lovingly raised in his garden, which he wound tend every morning while the dew was fresh.
Thank y’all again for sharing. Now where’d I leave my box of tissues.
I’m too choked up right now to say anything other than WOW!
This shall be linked.
Thanks y’all. I’m humbled that you will share such profound experiences with us common folk.
Thanks to all of you for this. Worth the wait, and looking forward to more.
Wow. As I wait for my daughter’s flight home tonight–and making cinnamon rolls is often one of the first things she does when she gets home.
This was really great; good enough to make me cry on an otherwise perfectly fine Monday.
That’s the Good Stuff!
Thank you.
Great ending, both to Helen’s life and to the story. Knowing she was at peace, that she died surrounded by people who genuinely cared about her as a person, not just a patient, and that she had seen Heaven, well…it just don’t get much better’n that!
Wow. The hymn was awesome. Great job, nurse!
Feel bad for the docs and nurses for not being able to bring back one of their own.
Does sound like that Helen was at peace and didn’t pass alone.
Great hymn to!
Thank you, so well written;we should all be so lucky to have such ,caring, skilled professionals as yourselves to help us in our time of need. Bless you all!
You guys are so good that I can actually smell the cinimon buns and it is very hard typing when there is so much water in my eyes.
I come from a small town and I could FEEL this story. I am going to miss the ghost stories from Law Dog, though.
Well done! Now I need to go find a tissue.
I held it together until her daughter showed up with the cinnamon rolls.
Facing the end in the arms and keep of loved ones is a great way to go. Beautiful conclusion to this touching story, Babs. Thank you. And thank you for the work you do.
I’ve been a lurker for a little while now. I love your blog, and this story was no exception. You all did a fabulous job on it. Thank you so much for caring so much for so many people.
I used to work Food Service at the local hospital. We used to have at least once a month a letter that would either be mailed, or sometimes left on a tray when it was brought back. Used to look at those and figure to myself, “THAT makes putting food on trays and mopping floors a job to be proud of.”
If the people back in the kitchen rarely get near enough respect, the people out in the rest of the hospital sure as heck don’t get near enough. From what I saw on that job, and what I know about from relatives, I feel comfortable saying most people who feel they respect the technicians, nurses, and doctors, still don’t have even half an idea of what they should be thankful for.
Some of the humorous stuff may show up on TV, but the rest? I know my Father came home early once, back when I lived at home, to take a shower because merely pulling off the scrubs and slipping into new ones still wouldn’t have been near enough to make approaching another patient and good idea. And that was without coming anywhere near an operating room. Just right out in the ER with hardly any warning things were about to get interesting.
Dang, but all three of you wrote well.
We Texas lawmen have an image to uphold.
That image is not easy to keep up, when blubbering over some blog or three.
When did I become such a damned crybaby?
Your Perspectives series always moves me to tears. And then I want to read some more.
All three of you are giving me some faith in mankind back. Thanks for that.
GREAT!
Amazing…thank you!
Very well written by all three of you.
A good way to go.
Wow. That was wonderful. Pass the Kleenex; I’m blubbering, too.
I am speechless. Well done, and more than worth the wait.
I think you could be my favorite ER nurse. You remind me of Julia. She could be crusty as all hell, but most of the time, at the core sweet enough to make your teeth ache.
Great story, great writing.
Thanks for that Babs, well done as always. That one hit very close to home.
Thank you
You and AD and Lawdog remind us of the best that humans can be.
Big hugs
How suddenly an ordinary day can change! All three of you depict this so very well. And how, for Miss Helen, too, the day started out ordinary and then–I would say it became something very special, in part due to you all. I cried, of course, but not because it was an unhappy story but because it was meaningful. Thank you.
Well, AD tried… but you were the only one who managed to get my eyes wet.
Nicely written!
I have to admit to being greedy, though… all I can think is “When are these guys going to write more?”.
Damn it, I’m a big manly man, full of manliness.
I’m not supposed to be crying at work.
Thank you.
PS: GET A PUBLISHER!
The three of you did a great job…
and I’m with gmcraff.
Now excuse me while I go get a tissue.
Thank you.
Who needs screenwriters? You three ought to form a production company. This is better than 99.99% of the stuff you see on television today. You could get rich.
You ought to get rich.
Damned fine work, all three of you.
Well Done folks, another great story. . . now I have to explain the teary eyes at work. . . . thanks. . . .
All three of you are awesome. If you work together as well as you write together, Bugscuffle has nothing to fear. Thanks for a wonderful story, beautifully told.
It’s not nice to make me cry at work. (just kidding – this was a great story). Thanks to all three of you for a great read.
Damn good story from all three of you. Almost brought a tear to my eye. I’ve been hurt so many times that I have found it impossible to cry since I was about 30 or so. Still this came damn close.
I’ve know ladies like “Miss Helen”. They come from good stock. They are damn few of them in this world nowadays.
Nicely done, once again, Babs. Once again, it’s quite reassuring to know that there’s a chance that if, God forbid, the time comes, that my life may be in the hands of people like you. Y’all really do exemplify the best we all hope to have deep down.
Thank you for that tale. I don’t know which of the three of you actually got those cinnamon rolls, but I’d wager you’ll never eat another one without thinking of her.
tweaker
This makes me feel better about mopping puke at midnight on Sunday night. It could have been worse. Hell, I don’t even believe in Heaven, but I’m glad she got to see it.
GottDamm! I hate you guys! You made me (yeah, I’m supposed to be a tough guy) cry — AGAIN!!
Where did y’all learn to write? I wuz taught no Southernoors wrote decent stuff since Faulkner (end snark here)
DAMN!!! you guyz are good…
(And PS — AD, treat BABsRN good — there’s a bunch of us ain’t-so-lucky-ones hopin’ to take up where you leave off–
But I don’t think that’ll happen…,.
It brought me to tears…all 3 of you did. It is certainly the wrong time of year for me to hear such a story, as my daddy passed away on December 21 a few years ago. It made my heart ache for him…I so wanted him to live, too. Just like I wanted Miss Helen to.
The three of you write together fabulously! I am impressed to see three chapters of the same story presented so well.
Great job, y’all!!!
I come from a small village in the mountains of Pennsylvania. My brother was the local police officer for 30 years, I am an EMT and my sister, although now an ICU nurse now, was an ER nurse for a long time in the local hospital.
This story from you three folks has really touched a place deep in my heart. After blubbering like a little girl for a half hour I wanted to thank you three for being there and doing what you do. Those of us that have been there know who you are and we thank God for you every day. You are the examples of what we strive to be like. God bless you.
Al
Nice. Again. Damn, y’all have a way with words!
I was fine until the hymn…BMS is tough ya know.
Excellent story…all three of you.
BMS= Blurry Monitor Syndrome
LawDog….that was absolutely one of the best stories I’ve read in a long time…and I read a lot. Thanks to you AD and Babs for the touching story. Nice to read about real folks doing real good in the real world. That along with the country charm really warms a body. Blessings to you all.
Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy, Healthy and safe New Year! mack
Excellent story. I couldn’t stop reading and if I weren’t at work right now (yes, taking a break to read the story), I would probably be bawling right now. Really good stuff.
Babs, AD, and Lawdog: This is such good writing. I hope you will do a novel. BMS afflicted me too. Thank you.
Babs,
I only became familiar with your blog in the recent past, not long before you and AD got together. So far, your writing has been a consistent good read. This one was a little different. The best of the three parts, and a tear jerker. I recall reading on AD’s blog that you might not be blogging anymore. Please, don’t withhold this talent, nor the perspective you bring from what is often a thankless profession.
On behalf of my grandmother, and people everywhere who have passed away with someone like you holding their hand, thank you.
Byron
Fjolnirsson, I appreciate that, but I just have not the time nor energy to keep it up right now.
Ah, well. We’ll just have to make do with the tidbits you leave us, here and there.
Beautifully done…all three!
You all made me tear up sumpin’disgraceful fer a growed man- I hope yer proud! My wife passed four year ago here at home- small town, USA- I called 911 and those people took over from me and wouldn’t let up. Twenny mile trip to the local hospital, and they wouldn’t quit for another hour. Then, as the story goes, it was time; there’s only so much mortal man can do. God needed her for a special task, I guess. This is why I l;ive in rural a area with neighbors I know and love and trust. You All are my kind of people. and are welcome to be my neighbor anytime. Great story about great people. As long as the USA has people like this, we’ll be OK.
whew. well done.
Wonderful story, all three parts. I cried for Miss Helen, and the ones I’ve had to let go of too. The ones you don’t let yourself think of until you read something like this.
Dammit, I can’t keep up the image of the rant-prone asshole here at work if I’m trying to stifle tears.
Awesome work, y’all.
Thank you, Babs. I feel like I’ve just been banged hard on the temple by a pistol butt, from trying to hold the tears in but… thank you.
Babs,
One advantage of having lots of allergies is that I do have tissues close by. This is my first time to read your blog, and you did yourself one heck of a job here. A beautiful piece of writing by all three of you. Congratulations, and thank you!
As always, this perspectives series was enjoyable.
This one, however, left me speechless.
And sobbing.
Great hiccupping, wailing sobs, as I wandered about the house attempting to get a hold of myself and do pre-Christmas cleanup.
You see, I lost my dear, sweet, much beloved by the entire town grandmother in February, and I sang “In the Garden” at her funeral. It hit me, as I read, that this will be our very first Christmas without her.
Still, thank you.
Excellent.
Wow, that was beautifully done. I’m still sniffling. That was my Dad’s favorite song, he always sang it as a duet with my sister. It’ll be awesome to be in that garden someday. My mother-in-law used to sing hymns in Norwegian to the elderly at her nursing home and on visitations in homes, (to other Norwegians) that doesn’t happen in the big city, as far as I know.
Damn! Tearing up. At my age! Brilliant collaborative story. Three perspectives on one person’s farewell – a great insight into life. Thank you from an Aussie firefighter.
Lord!! What a tear jerker….
In the Garden was my Grandmother’s fav hymn… they sang it at her funeral and my Dad’s too…
I can still hear it now…
V/r
Chuck
Tears haven’t run down my cheeks in years.
That collaborative effort was absolutely wonderful. I have yet to read Vol. I but I’m at work and don’t have paper towels handy. Hard to explain wet splotches on shirts when you haven’t left for the bathroom.
Well done.