I've Realized My Calling

“I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Be completelyhumble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” Ephesians 4:1-2

“How old is she?” I asked.

“A hundred and one next month. Here’s her DNR.”

The nurse handed me a piece of yellow paper. I took it and studied it. It bore the familiar red “STOP” sign and the bold command: Do Not Resuscitate! It had been signed by a licensed physician and was well within date. I nodded. The order looked legitimate. And after all, I thought as I glanced at my patient, there was nothing I could do for her anyway. She lay in the nursing home bed, unresponsive. Each guppy-like breath she took appeared to be her last. I touched her wrist. It felt warm. A weak pulse tapped beneath the dry, papery skin, but I knew it was just a matter of time before it stopped. Her eyes looked empty. Fixed and drained of all life.

“Thank you,” I said, my heart strangely pricked. “We’ll take good care of her.”

I heard sniffles as we loaded her onto our stretcher, muted sobs as we rolled her to the ambulance.

"Goodbye,” someone called. “We love you, Hattie.”

I felt a rainbow of emotions as we pulled away from the scene—sadness, wonder, guilt. The old lady’s time had come and there was nothing I could do. But as I sat and watched her respirations slip away it occurred to me that I was witnessing something special, something many people never have a chance to experience—the final moments of another person’s life. What a privilege to be there, I thought, alone with Hattie in the back of my truck. It was as if I had been invited.

I felt a sudden yearning to reach out to her, to hold her hand and whisper in her ear. And I knew what I wanted to say but, I wondered, would she hear me? They say hearing is the last sense to go. I felt guilty as I considered what to do. Who am I, I asked myself, to take advantage of her now? She’s dying. She can’t possibly defend herself. But what if no one ever told her, I wondered? What if she’s never heard the truth? This could be her only chance to hear it. It would certainly be her last.

I made my decision.

“Hattie,” I said, whispering in her ear. “Can you can hear me? I just want you to know that you’re not alone.” I squeezed her hand. “Jesus loves you. He’s with you now.”

To my amazement I saw a small tear well up in the corner of her eye. It rolled down her wrinkled cheek and dripped into the folds of the pillow case.

Hattie didn’t die en route to the hospital. We made it to the ER where she lived another forty-five minutes, clinging to life, fighting for every breath until her lungs finally gave out and the cardiac monitor traced a clean flat line. Her life ended peacefully. No advanced procedures. No heroic acts. It was a quiet death. A simple one. And I stayed with her until the end.

*

I never planned to become a paramedic; I had grander ideas, more lofty goals. But it seems God had a different plan for my life, something He wanted me to do. And it’s in the special moments, like this one with Hattie, that I’ve realized my calling, to reach out to others and to be with them in those most private moments when they need someone most.

I felt sad as I walked out of the ER that night and climbed back into my truck, but I felt something special too. I felt love. Hope. I felt new purpose. I had witnessed the end of a human life, and mine had been the last voice she had heard on this earth.

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