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August 20, 2006

Bless us



By Michelle Martin

It wasn’t a moment in which I felt like giving thanks.

Sitting alone in an exam room in a strange hospital, facing a 2 1/2 hour drive home, with my right eye causing so much pain that I stifled sobs each time I blinked, I felt more sorry for myself than thankful.

Thinking of my kids waiting outside in the minivan—husband, kids and dog, on a day too warm to leave a pet unattended in a vehicle—I felt more guilty than grateful.

I didn’t know what had caused the pain in my eye. It had started as a mild irritation as we were leaving a restaurant after lunch.

But by the time I reached my parents’ house, where we were staying, a half-hour later, I could barely open that eye. Taking my contacts out and switching to glasses didn’t help.

We were planning to return home that afternoon, and I hurried the process along, hoping that getting on the road, with my husband driving, would allow me to close my eyes and make it feel better.

Only problem was, when I closed my eyes, it didn’t feel better.

So after scolding my husband and snapping at my kids, I knew I had to do something. We followed a series of blue-and-white hospital signs off the highway (spotted through the air hole in my black White Sox hat, which was covering my face to keep the light out of my eyes). It directed us to St. Nicholas Hospital in Sheboygan, where I presented myself, red eye, tearstained face, grubby shorts and all.

It didn’t look like a Chicago ER. The waiting room—with carpeting and upholstered furniture—was empty. I was called into triage within about three minutes by a nurse who took my vital signs and immediately moved me to an exam room, despite no evidence that I was near death.

But just like in a Chicago ER, I had to wait. Linda, the receptionist (who also called my husband in the parking lot to keep him updated) explained that an ambulance had arrived the same time I did, and the doctor would be with me as soon as he could.

So I waited, listening in vain for footsteps to stop outside the door of the room I was in.

Then I heard something I wasn’t expecting. The speaker on the public address system crackled, and a voice came on. It was 5 p.m.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit,” the voice said. “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts that we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Now, I wasn’t expecting dinner, and I wasn’t really thinking about God’s bounty. But shortly thereafter, the doctor came in, explained that the area of my cornea covered by contact lens was damaged, and gave me antibiotic drops and pain medication. It was enough so that when I left—before 6 p.m.—and my daughter greeted me in the parking lot by asking if I was OK, I could answer, “Not quite. But I will be.”

The ride home was still uncomfortable, but by the next day, I could open my eye and see out of it again, and two days later, I was pain-free—and grateful. Grateful for modern medicine, yes, but also for the kindness of the people I encountered at the hospital, and for the reminder that no matter how hard that day was, I have been given far more than I ever had any right to expect.



Michelle Martin is a Catholic New World staff writer.