By My Hands Read Free

wake up, have we?” She spoke
in a cheerful Jamaican accent.
    “Do they teach all nurses to speak in the
third-person plural?” The water had helped Adam’s voice.
    “Just the good-looking ones.” She winked.
    Adam couldn’t help noticing that her remark,
flippant as it was, was certainly true—she was striking. Her ebony
skin was highlighted by strong facial features: high cheekbones, a
well-defined jawline, piercing dark eyes, and bright teeth that
provided a stark contrast to her dark skin.
    “Are you comfortable?” she asked, her eyes fixed on
the plastic IV bags suspended over his head.
    “Actually, I’ve felt much better.” As he finished
the sentence, the nurse slipped a sterile covering over the
electronic thermometer and placed it under his tongue. A few
moments later the device beeped and revealed Adam’s temperature in
red numbers: ninety-nine degrees.
    “A little above normal, but nothing to be concerned
about,” the nurse said as she recorded the statistic on Adam’s
chart. Quickly and smoothly she finished her examination: blood
pressure, pulse, and general appearance were checked and the proper
notations made on the chart. It was obvious that she had done
hundreds of such routine postoperative exams. Adam read her name
tag—Ramona, R.N.
    “While you’re at it,” Dick said, “why don’t you
check his oil too?”
    “I’m sure it would be a quart low.” The woman never
missed a beat. She was the kind, Adam decided, who liked to tease
and be teased. He would remember that whenever he needed cheering
up.
    “Ramona,” Adam said as she was leaving the room.
    She turned to face him. “Yes?”
    He wanted to say something witty in return, but his
mind was still too sluggish, so he said, “Thanks.” She responded
with a smile and another wink, then disappeared into the outer
hall.
     
    Sunday, March 1, 1992; 11:00
P.M.
    “MR. BRIDGER.” The voice seemed distant. “Mr.
Bridger.” Adam felt a hand on his arm. He struggled, willing
himself awake. Slowly he opened his eyes. The lights seemed dimmer
than before. It was still dark outside. He wondered how long he had
been asleep. Focusing his eyes on the clock on the opposite wall,
he saw that it was almost 11:00. He had been asleep for two hours.
Adam realized that he must have fallen asleep while talking to
Dick. Patients had done the same to him on many occasions.
    “Mr. Bridger, I’m Dr. Tremaine, your surgeon.”
    Adam shifted his gaze to the figure standing next to
him, a woman in a white smock.
    “I had planned to be here earlier, but an emergency
kept me away.” Adam thought he detected impatience in her voice. “I
want to ask you some questions.” She began a series of general
queries about his medical history, followed by questions about his
present condition. She kept her eyes fixed on Adam’s chart
throughout the questioning, never making eye contact. The only time
she looked up from the chart was to examine the three-inch-long
incision on his lower abdomen.
    Adam had not been in the ministry very long before
he developed an ability to identify those who were intrinsically
unhappy. Dr. Tremaine was a classic example.
    “What were you doing when you had your attack?” She
spit out her words quickly as though she were late for a meeting.
Adam felt as if he were detaining her.
    “I was in the pulpit.” Adam began shifting his
position in the bed, but a stab of pain curtailed the action.
    “Pulpit?” She sounded shocked.
    “Yes. I’m the pastor of Maple Street Community
Church.”
    “I see,” she said. The disdain was obvious in her
voice.
    “Well, Mr. Bridger, or should I call you Reverend
Bridger?” She emphasized the word Reverend.
    “Actually, I prefer Adam.”
    “Well then, didn’t you sense something was wrong
prior to stepping behind the pulpit? Didn’t you have earlier
discomfort? Or fever? Appendix problems don’t occur instantly, you
know; they develop over a period of time. Surely you had