Three Days in Heaven

“I’m calling it.”

ER doctor glances at the clock, not to contradict or second-guess what the nurse reported, but for confirmation. Details like the time of death is an important piece of information on the death certificate.

Then he spoke those final words: “Time of death, 6:33 p.m.”

It seems most of the time, all a clock does in an emergency room is to let people know when their shift is over, or when to pronounce a patient dead. These people are trained professionals and use to this kind of stuff on a routine basis, but on this day, there are tears and some faint sniffles. It’s safe to say I had a fair amount of respect at the hospital, not the most-loved; after all, I was the hospital’s lawyer. I’ve thrown a few doctors, nurses and others under the bus for varied misdeeds, and put together defense teams to fight off costly malpractice and wrongful death suits, but that’s what I got paid to do.

Kent, the hospital administrator, is a long-time family friend. He used to be our pastor but said the hospital paid him more than God could afford. Kent got his job when I had his predecessor terminated for taking kickbacks and bribes from vendors and pharmaceutical companies. All of my life, I grew up hearing about my father’s charity work and fundraisers he’d done for the hospital. To show their gratitude for his years of service, they dedicated a floor at the hospital in his honor: The Stanford Psychiatric Unit. Given my family’s involvement with the place, I guess it was destiny I’d work there one day. But after working as their lawyer for years, I never expected a response like this from the hardworking ground troops. I underestimated that some of them liked me, probably the ones I didn’t have to sue or fire.

After the tension fades in the ER, extra equipment is removed, and spent instruments are taken from the room as well. The heart monitor is the last detail and is switched off, and that’s that. But is it? Though the staff has plenty to do, for whatever reason, a few do not leave the room. They stand in place just looking at me and saying nothing. There seems to be an eerie presence as everyone’s eyes are glued to the corpse—mine!

New arrivals show up, including the medical chief of staff and two clergymen. Father Lucci is doing that sign of the cross deal, and Brother Bob holds a Bible close to his chest and offers a prayer. I’ve met both of them. I like Father Lucci, but surprised Brother Bob doesn’t pass around an offering plate. It is quite a crowd.

Bev and the kids must be here as well, in the waiting room. Everyone’s on hand as witnesses to this ongoing event.

I still can’t comprehend how a man by all medical standards is dead, yet feel so alive. I’m that man; stuck in a place somewhere between walking and talking among the living, or conversely, being a snack for the worms.

Wait a doggone minute! Hold the phone and let’s backup. Ongoing event? What ongoing event? Let me explain as best I can. When you are somewhere between dead and alive, you can bet there will be an ongoing event. This one will last three days.

The room is cleared, and all that remains is a dim light and me, complete with the dramatic sheet pulled over my head. All the i’s are dotted, and t’s crossed. Every detail has been tended to, except one—no one signs the death certificate.