The little girl–I will call her “Jenny”–looked about five years old, and her curly brown hair and one-piece swimsuit were still wet. A few minutes ago she’d been screaming, but now an oxygen mask covered half of her small face, and she was quiet. Half an hour ago, Jenny, her ten-year-old sister “Amanda,” and their mother had been sitting by the pool in their backyard when the phone rang. Their mother went inside to answer, leaving Amanda in charge. Jenny had promptly stripped off her arm floats and jumped into the pool. When Amanda and her mother pulled Jenny from the water just a few seconds later, she was already turning blue. Her mother performed artificial respiration and called an ambulance.
Now they were in the emergency room. The mother lay in Bed 1 with Jenny in her arms. Amanda stood by the bed, repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her face was streaked with tears.
It was June, 1997. I’d been volunteering in the emergency room for three or four weeks, but the doctors had never used Bed 1 before; they reserved it for very serious cases. I watched the little girl from the nurses’ station, twenty feet from the bed. The pediatrician on call, a big, barrel-chested man, entered the ER. He stopped to speak briefly with a nurse. Then he went to Bed 1. Amanda was sent to the waiting room. The doctor gave one deft yank, and he, Jenny, and the mother disappeared behind a pale blue curtain.
Jean, one of the nurses, came up to me. “Bed 7 has been discharged.”
“Okay.” Changing linens was one of the few things the volunteers could do. I took a fresh sheet and pillowcase from the shelf and headed to Bed 7. There was a three-inch reddish-brown stain on the old sheet. I donned a pair of powdered latex gloves and dumped the dirty sheet into the hamper marked “SOILED LINEN.”
I returned to the nurses’ station. “Jean, Maintenance might need to clean 7 first. There was some blood on the sheet,” I reported.
“Oh, right. Dr. Elliott was doing some stitching over there.” She picked up the phone and dialed the proper extension.
Donna, one of the nurses, touched me on the shoulder. “Would you get an ice pack for the man in 8? For his wrist.”
I wondered how Jenny was. The curtain was still drawn around Bed 1. As I passed it on my way to the supply room, I heard low voices, and then a sharp, childish wail. The doctor had removed the oxygen mask, and Jenny had started crying again.
“Her O2 sat is normal,” I overheard Jean say, in a puzzled voice.
“Maybe she’s just scared,” Donna replied.
In the supply room, I pulled off the gloves and dusted the powder off my hands. Opening the ice chest, I filled a plastic baggie with crushed ice. The man sitting on Bed 8 had sandy blond hair and a mustache. His big hands and solid build gave him the appearance of a construction worker. His right wrist was badly swollen.
“Hi. You needed ice?” I said, handing him the ice pack.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
With a swoosh, the Bed 1 curtain was drawn back. I turned to look. The pediatrician emerged. With a last reassuring smile for Jenny’s mother, he headed to the nurses’ station.
“We’re going to transfer her,” he told Donna.
“Where?”
“Probably Morristown.” The doctor picked up a phone.
Donna sighed. The emergency room was filling up. I watched the nurses flutter from patient to patient, like butterflies flitting from flower to flower. I watched the patients as they waited anxiously to see a doctor. I suddenly realized that I was the only one with nothing to do. More and more patients were trickling into the ER. I felt useless, and wished I’d already started my medical training.
I approached Donna. She sensed my presence and turned around, looking stern. Donna usually looked stern. “Yes?”
“I just wanted to ask if there’s anything I can do.”
She wrinkled up her nose and scratched an eyebrow. “I can’t think of anything right now,” she admitted.
“All right,” I said.
Then her eyes lit up. “Actually.” She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure,” I said, glad to be of use.
“You know the little girl in Bed 1?”
I was going to be useful to Jenny!
“Well, her sister is out in the waiting room, and she’s really upset. Could you get her some milk and graham crackers? I think it would help her calm down.”
“Okay,” I said, but I was disappointed. I had hoped to do something more important. In the kitchen, I filled a Styrofoam cup with cold, 1% milk and took two cellophane packages of graham crackers from the basket on the counter. Thus armed, I walked into the waiting room. Amanda was sitting on the powder-blue couch. Her eyes were puffy, and she stared blankly up at the TV. Days of Our Lives was on.
“Donna thought you might like some graham crackers,” I said.
“Thank you.” She bent her head to take a sip from the cup, and came up with a milk mustache.
I patted her shoulder. She gave me a small, watery smile and said she felt a little better. It suddenly occurred to me that delivering graham crackers was rather important, after all.
