His Shackles

Nursing and witness

By Hob Osterlund

A nurse stops in a shiny hospital hallway to tell a story.

Every time I recall this story it just gives me chicken skin, she says. Maybe it was ten eleven years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was my fourth day in a row. Twelve hour shifts. There were admissions, discharges, students. I had charting to do and rounds. I was overwhelmed. I thought Why had I chosen this career? Did I mention the patients? One of them was my primary patient so I had taken care of her the whole four days. She was Samoan in her sixties dying from ovarian cancer. She had nine children and they all had husbands and wives, children, cousins, and they were watching her every move. The patient was really struggling. I could communicate with the younger generation but not the older generation without a translator. I spoke with the youngest of the daughters most. I was trying to prepare the family for the patient’s passing. She had seizure after seizure after seizure. Each time a seizure would occur the family would get all excited and come get me to get some help because they thought they was more we could do. They were afraid. We were already using high doses and there were times when they said can’t we just put her out of her misery? There were times the family requested us to do so, don’t you get that too? We tried to assure them we were doing everything we could. There was something not allowing her to pass. That’s when I said What did we learn in nursing school? Kubler-Ross. Because she, the passing was drawn out. I asked more along the lines, Is there anyone that your mom may not have finished, anything you can think of? They talked amongst themselves in their language. I felt there was something they were holding back. The daughter came out of the room about thirty minutes later and we stood at the doorway. They were so hesitant to tell me there was a son incarcerated. I think it was just pride like a family would have, but I was so thankful that they would share that with me. I didn’t really feel the need to know that knowledge about why he was in prison. It was for a long time. Of course my curiosity wanted to ask but professionally it was none of my business. So I called the Halawa Correctional Facility and how did I know who to ask for? I have not the first clue of the system of the correction system. I was nervous but I was also excited, can you imagine? This is so much more important than like asking people about their bowels. All I did was explain to the person who answered the phone. He said the warden would possibly call back maybe on Monday. Here it was Friday. I said we don’t have until Monday. Then the warden called back about two-thirty threeish. I said if only the son could be allowed to visit, maybe the mother could go in peace. The warden said we’ll see what we can do but don’t hold your breath. That was it. Late in the afternoon I heard and I looked and I knew. What first caught my ear was the clangering of his shackles when he walked. He was shackled hands and feet. The clangering of the shackles, if that’s a word, the noise, the metal against the floor. The systematic shuffling of feet. It’s not a familiar sound in a hospital setting. I looked up and my heart stopped. The presence of the guards was more overwhelming than he was. Normally prisoners have one guard. These guards were gigantic Polynesian gentlemen. Their presence. With the son in the middle. I’ve never incurred someone, if that’s a word, being escorted in that way. I popped up because they were headed right to the room. There was about seven family members in the room and I saw them hitting each other and there was a gasp in disbelief that the son the uncle the brother was there. There was some family members outside of the room who called the family in the waiting area so the room quickly got filled. I could tell the family had not seen this son because everyone was paying a lot of attention to him. I don’t want to call it a reunion but everyone was glad to see him. The long lost son you would say. I stood at the doorway when they entered. I was nervous and scared and amazed and really really hoping that this was what would help the patient finally let go to finish her life here on Earth and move to whatever you look forward to. They circled the bed, you know how they do? There was a peaceful quietness almost a stillness you could feel it. Two guards stayed in the room, two guards were at the doorway. Next thing the daughter came out and saying she was having another seizure and I went in and she was gone. That was the only time I looked at the son. No words were exchanged. They just looked at me like Is she gone? I nodded my head. It must have been about ten minutes after the mom’s passing, the guards said it’s time to go. They were pretty gracious. The family followed him and the guards out of the room. I felt like an unspoken fleeting just momentarily thank you from the son. It was okay. I felt it was okay. The younger generation followed him as he clanged down the hallway. Not the older generation, but the younger ones. The older ones and the youngest daughter stayed in the room. There was not a big sadness, I think because it was expected and very drawn out, I think a lot of them were definitely saddened but they looked at it as no more suffering. I was fulfilled because her unfinished business was finished. I was hoping, I was truly hoping. I knew in the heart of my heart to me there’s no other explanation because if you could have experienced what she went through and what the family endured. I want to use the words tickled pink but that’s not appropriate. Yes we can, we can do anything. The worst thing they could’ve said was absolutely no way so why not try?

Leilani Grippin Karasaki ’90, who tells the story here, is a nurse in Honolulu; Hob Osterlund, who caught it, is a nurse and writer on Kauai. Another terrific essay about nursing and witness by Hob Osterlund (“Bald Places”) graced the Spring 2008 issue of Portland magazine.