 |
 |
 |
 |
Her real name was Ballentine. Yet, when I first asked her name, I heard
a "V" instead of the "B," so this wonderful name Valentine and an unforgettable
nocturnal friendship were birthed in a hushed, darkened hospital corridor
in the early morning of a spring day in 1974. The lilting, soft, sing-song
Jamaican accent further enchanted me as she continued mopping the floor.
She was striking in an ethereal sort of way - tall and lean, with temples
silvered and her remaining short hair very black to match her eyes, all
enhanced by a carraige suggestive of ancient nobility.
"Why do you want to know my name?" she inquired as she lowered her eyelids,
looking down and away from me.
"Because of what happened in room 405," I said pointedly.
Just minutes earlier, I had finished evaluating a patient who was
admitted to 405 with painful pleuritic chest pain. Returning to the nursing
station, I began writing the orders for medications I felt would help her.
"A strong analgesic," I thought, "and a muscle relaxant. A sleeping pill
should she require it, chest x-rays, electrocardiogram...."
As I was writing, I first glimpsed Valentine and her mop in her
slow rhythmic dance, moving from room to room down the hall. I thought
I could even hear her humming softly - like a lullaby or a child's sweet
song. She entered room 405.
I continued writing: "Aspirin for light pain, regular diet, vital
signs every two hours until stable...." I suddenly remembered that I had
not asked my patient about any allergic reactions to medications she might
have had. I started to enter her room, only to bump gently into Valentine.
She graciously nodded her head and revealed a most wonderful smile. She
was singing softly, I thought.
I entered 405, filled with physician responsibility. What I encountered
greatly impacted me. My patient was sitting up in bed, relaxed, humming
the same tune Valentine was singing.
"What's happened to you?" I asked. There was almost a tinge of attack
in my voice.
"Oh...that wonderful woman came into my room to mop the floor. She
was singing this childlike song."
"Did she say anything or do anything?" I probed.
"No. She just kept singing softly and mopping." My patient added,
"I do feel much better, Dr. Joy."
A little deflated, I inquired about her allergies and left the room.
Which brings me to where I can finish this story.
"What happened in 405?" Valentine softly asked.
"The patient there is much better because you came into her room...that's
what," I responded.
"I am very happy she is better. Yes, I am very happy she is better,"
was Valentine's response as she moved past me to get on with her work.
I suddenly realized I was making her uncomfortable with such directness.
Through quiet hellos and eye embraces, our friendship initially deepened. Then one night she opened to reveal how Spirit had Called her. She had experienced the Healing Presence since childhood. Pets, people, and plants seemed to get better when she was with them. She called it "Spirit doings." I'll never forget her words: "Oh, I could never learn what you know to help the sick, Dr. Joy. So I prayed and prayed and Spirit said, 'Go be a night janitor in a hospital.' So here I am... still mopping, thirty-five years later!" She laughed. We both laughed. I, being 35, at myself. She, in childlike wonderment.
She had deepened my realization that something was missing in my soul training. Two months later my Call came in a loud inner voice that said, "Your life as a physician is over." The exploration of dreams that ensued began my apprenticeship as a night janitor to the soul.
A Radiance of Love,
