Root of Bitterness

“But if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”

At work the other day, I had a startling reminder of the consuming and destructive power of bitterness. Something about holding onto and meditating on offenses begins to dissolve someone from the inside out… like acid.

******

His hair and beard where unkempt and matted. His feet were stained from raw sewage he had been walking in. At first sight you would assume he was your average homeless guy, hygiene and mental function highly corroded by years of various street drugs and alcohol. The door to his room was open wide, and he was lying face up on the stretcher wearing nothing but a sheet, mumbling in low, angry tones to himself.

He’d had the pleasure of being escorted to our humble facility unwillingly after loudly threatening to kill himself and his niece after some sort of fallout with his landlord. Threaten bodily harm to someone else… you go with the police to jail. Throw in yourself…you go with the paramedics to the ER.

He’d been in the ER for hours already when I came on shift. During his stay he had loudly cussed out several crisis workers and threatened to hang himself with the call light cord. Now his room was stripped of even standard equipment like blood pressure cuffs and oxygen monitors; anything with cords long enough to become weapons of self detriment. He would mumble and shout and engage anyone who made the mistake of loitering outside of his room in a recounting of the many various wrongs done to him by his landlord, niece, authorities, and hospital staff.

“They took my f&*king cat, man! My landlord threw me out for no f&*king reason, now I’m f&*king homeless! And I’m starving to death, but these f&*ckers won’t f&*king feed me! And I’ve been yelling my head off about this f&*king headache I have, but they won’t even give me any f&*king Tylenol!” He rambled in circles; to himself… to the wall…to the wide-eyed family member of the patient next store… to every member of the medical staff that set foot in -or near- his room.

But between his long repetitive rants on the injustices of his life, he had surprising interludes of … well… normalness. During these interludes I learned that he’d been married, was well traveled, and was fluent in Japanese. The stark contrast between what sounded like a once normal, productive, even interesting life and the cursing, sneering, pouting man now before me was unsettling. The offenses and injustices of his life, whether real or imagined, had been allowed to take root. He had fostered them, dwelt on them, built on them until they destroyed the very foundation of a once rational mind.

When I last glimpsed him that day he was walking around his room, naked but for the sheet he held loosely around his dirty body. Face contorted and indignant, he was recounting to the walls once again his injustices. His bitterness had literally driven him mad.

Now when I find myself mulling over an offense, I picture his face, and remember the stern warning Christ gave regarding our bitterness.

For love or duty

I think that there are jobs that you love in the sense that you look forward to going to work each morning and jobs that you love but... have just the slightest feeling of impending doom each time you drive to work. I can honestly say I love my job. There isn't any other place I could see myself at this point in my life than the noisey, chaotic churning of humanity that is the ER. Yet at the same time, I don't think I could honestly say I ever look forward to going.

My quick drive to work is my prepping session. I try to vamp myself up for whatever unknown is around the corner. I make my ritualistic plea to God to help me do the best I can, not screw anything up, and not get more than I can handle. I pray for skill, for patience, and for compassion.

I gauge the fullness of the parking lot as I pull in to try and get a feel for what possibly awaits on the other side of those sliding glass doors. Not much parking... three ambulances blocking the view of the doors... not a great sign. So what will it be tonight... Steady? Crazy? Pure unadulterated chaos?

I slide my badge through the electronic reader at the doors to our trauma bay and they slide open with a click. I'm greeted by the familiar pulse of fluorescent lighting and din of voices punctuated by monitor alarms and the ring of the base station phone. Paramedics are sliding someone strapped to a backboard with a cervical collar around their neck onto one of our hallway gurneys. Somewhere in the background someone is screaming obscenities at the top of their lungs.

Welcome to my world...