Courtesy: From Reader’s Digest 1981. November.
From the frontiers of science and the far horizons of personal
courage, these stories of medical triumphs and miracles will reaffirm your
faith in the awesome powers of the human spirit. Dramatic victories and human
triumphs.
When the Curtains of Death Parted
By MARTIN C. SAMPSON, M.D.
It was a hot
Philadelphia summer day, and the air in the old Pennsylvania Hospital hung
heavy and still. I had been up all night
in a vain fight to save a little girl from meningitis. In reaction of her death I was feeling
completely disheartened. As a young
intern I had seen so much of dying in the past months that life seemed fragile
and meaningless. I was face to face with
cynicism. Faith seemed to exist only to
be mocked by death.
The first patient
I was to examine that morning was a man I shall call John Bradley. He was in his late 40s, with deep-set brown
eyes and a gentle face. During the few
weeks since his admission his condition had declined steadily. As I looked through the window of his oxygen
tent I saw that his lips were blue, his breath fast and strained. I knew that his heart had been weakened by
rheumatic fever in his youth, and that in recent years hardening of the
arteries had taxed it even more.
I couldn’t
help thinking of his wife, a small, white-haired woman with a face in which the
shadows of work and sorrow mingled with faith and trust. She and her husband had constantly looked to
me for help. Why, I thought bitterly,
did they ask so much of me?
I went over
Bradley’s medications again in my mind, hoping to think of something new to
relieve his suffering. He was getting
digitalis to control his failing heart, an anti-coagulant to prevent the
formation of clots in its damaged wall, and injections to help rid his body of
excessive water. The amount of oxygen
being pumped into his tent had been increased.
This day, as on many previous days, I inserted a needle to draw off any
fluid that had accumulated in his chest.
Still, when I left him I had the feeling that all my efforts were
fruitless.
Shortly after
six o’clock that evening the nurse in charge of Bradley’s ward called me to
come at once. I reached his bed within
seconds, but already his skin was ashen, his lips purple and his eyes glazed. The pounding of his heart could be seen
through the chest wall, and the sound of his breath was like air bubbling
through water.
“One ampoule
of lanatoside C and start rotating tourniquets, quickly,” I said to the nurse.
Intravenous
lanatoside C would give the rapid action of digitalis. The tourniquets would keep the blood in his
legs from circulating and temporarily relieve the failing heart—but only
temporarily.
An hour later
Bradley began to breathe more easily. He
seemed aware of his surroundings and whispered, “Please call my family.”
“I will,” I
said.
He closed his
eyes. I was just leaving when I heard a
deep gasp. I wheeled and saw that he had
stopped breathing. I put my stethoscope
to his chest. The heart was beating, but
faintly. His eyes clouded over, and
after a second or two his heart stopped.
For a moment
I stood there, stunned. Death had won
again. In that moment I remembered the
little girl who had died the night before and a wave of fury came over me. I would not let death win again, not now.
I pushed the
oxygen tent out of the way and started artificial respiration, meanwhile asking
the nurse for adrenalin.
When she
returned, I plunged the syringe full of adrenalin into the heart. Then I whipped the needle out and listened
through my stethoscope again. There was
no sound. Once more I started artificial
respiration, frantically trying to time the rhythm of my arms to 20 strokes a
minute. My shoulders were aching and
sweat was running down my face.
“It’s no
use,” a flat voice said. It was the
medical resident, my senior. “When a heart as bad as this one stops, nothing
will start it again. I’ll notify the
family.”
I knew he had
the wisdom of experience, but I had the determination born of bitterness. I was desperately resolved to pull Bradley
back though the curtains of death. I
kept up the slow rhythmic compression of his chest until it seemed so automatic
it was as if a force other than myself had taken over.
Suddenly
there was a gasp, then another! For a
moment my own heart seemed to stop. Then
the gasps became more frequent. “Put the
stethoscope in my ears.” I said to the nurse, “and hold it to his chest.” I kept pumping as I listened. There was a faint heartbeat!
“Oxygen!” I called triumphantly.
Gradually the
gasps lengthened into shallow breaths.
In a few minutes Bradley’s breathing grew stronger and so did his
heartbeat.
Just then the
screen around the bed was moved slightly, and Mrs. Bradley stood beside
me. She was pale and frightened. “They told me to come right away.”
Before I
could answer, Bradley’s eyelids quivered.
“Helen,” he murmured.
She touched
his forehead and whispered. “Rest, John,
dear—rest.”
But he
struggled for speech. “Helen, I told
them to call you. I knew I was
going. I wanted to say good-bye.”
His wife bit
her lip, unable to speak.
“I wasn’t
afraid,” he went on painfully. “I just wanted to tell you—“ he paused, his
breathing heavier,”—to tell you that I have faith we’ll meet again—afterward.”
His wife held
his hand to her lips, her tears falling on his fingers. “I have faith, too.” She whispered.
Bradley
smiled faintly and closed his eyes, a look of peace on his face.
I stood
there, filled with a mixture of exhaustion, wonder and excitement. The mystery of death was right on this
room. Could I, in some way, begin to understand
it? I leaned forward and very softly
asked, “John, do you remember how you felt?
Do you remember seeing or hearing anything just now, while you
were—unconscious?
He looked at
me for a long moment before he spoke.
“Yes, I remember,” he said. “My
pain was gone, and I couldn’t feel my body.
I heard the most peaceful music.”
He paused, coughed several times, and then went on: “The most peaceful
music. God was there, and I was floating
away. The music was all around me. I knew I was dead, but I wasn’t afraid. Then the music stopped, and you were leaning
over me.”
“John, have
you ever had a dream like that before?”
There was a
long, unbearable moment; then he said, with chilling conviction, “it wasn’t a
dream.”
His eyes
closed, and his breathing grew heavier.
I asked the
ward nurse to check his pulse and respiration every 15 minutes, and to notify
me in case of any change. Then I made my
way to interns’ quarters, fell across my bed and was instantly asleep. The next thing I heard was the ringing of the
telephone beside my bed.
“Mr. Bradley
has stopped breathing. There is no
pulse.”
One glimpse
of his face told me that death had won this time.
Why, then,
had the curtains of death parted briefly to give this patient another few
minutes on earth? Was that extra moment
of life the result of chance chemical factors in his body? Or did it have a deeper, spiritual
meaning? Had his spirit been strong
enough to find its way back from death just long enough to give message of
faith and farewell to his wife? Could it
also have been meant to give a small glimpse of eternity to a troubled and
cynical young intern?
Whatever the
meaning, and whether of not it had a purpose, the incident made a deep
impression on me. This was my first step
toward acceptance of certain mysteries as an essential part of life. This acceptance, the gift of a dying patient
whom I could not save, put me on the road back to faith.
