AUGUST 31, 2022 – (Cont.) Day 8. Like a sea of porpoises, arching in and out of the water, waves rise, crest, and fall relentlessly toward their destination beyond the horizon. Day and night, they carry my plucky little vessel forward across the boundless sea. Now, in the moment, with the sun in my face and the wind at my back, I’m content just watching the bow as it rides the backs of liquid porpoises.
But periodically, I must quit the open deck and enter the bridge for a check of the radar, the pre-set headings, and an old-fashioned chart, spread across the navigation table. Each morning I enter a magical communications closet, marked by a teakwood door encased in thick, shiny varnish. On the door is a gleaming brass plate bearing in deep blue lettering, “Angels of the University.”
When I enter the closet and the door latches behind me, the space expands into a five-story building in the heart of the medical world of the U of MN at the geographic center of a contintent. I’m greeted by my providers of the day, whose hearty “Ahoy!” buoys my spirits. There’s the usual blood draw, a check of vitals, and the question, “Is the sailor feeling any seasickness?” (though not always is the inquiry shaped in nautical terms). The lab results come back—markers along the charted course—and if we’re now over underwater canyons, they must be crossed to the friendly shores that lie beyond.
As a nurse administers another “sub-cu” injection of growth factor—my fourth, post-transplant—I ask how she found her calling. The injection takes a full minute, so the question serves a dual purpose—distracting me from the shot itself, as well as feeding my curiosity.
“My parents spoke only Spanish,” she says, “so as a very young girl, I had to translate for them when they went to the doctor—because no one at the doctor’s office spoke Spanish. It was a big responsibility for a little girl, and I took it very seriously. In the process, I became fascinated by medicine.”
“So that’s why I became a nurse,” says Jessica with a winning smile.
I learn that her family came from Ecuador, to which they now return annually to enjoy their special Shangri-La apart from the madding crowd. The answer to one question begets another question, extending a delightfully rewarding exchange beyond the minute-long injection.
I tell Jessica how much I marvel at the combination of art and science that infuses my medical care. She tells me how much she enjoys her work and patients.
I’m released on my own recognizance, and as I depart I issue a special “Thank you,” because those angels can never be thanked too much. After pressing the auto-door-opener, I turn, salute, and say, “Fair winds!” which comes out as, “Have a great day! I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I leave with garlands of smiles and encouragement.
The moment I exit the facility, I’m now outside the magical communications closet aboard my vessel. I return to the helm to grip the wheel, feeling by its movements, the work of the auto-pilot that guides the rudder.
Except for splashing oceanwater laughing against the hull and the steady wind singing ancient aeolian melodies through the rigging, the only sounds around are the ones I make. As I peer into the yonder ahead, I wonder, when will I hear the first bird? Its call, its appearance will signal that a few days farther, our destination will come into view.
Meanwhile, I must wait patiently, carried gradually but inexorably by a sea of porpoises, divine creatures who know my story, my destiny, my destination. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
