The Man in Maroon

I spent this afternoon in the Alberta Children's Hospital (ACH) Short-Term Surgical Stay unit with my 17-year-old, Greta's younger sibling. Nothing serious, a routine procedure that required him to be under anesthetic.

As we waited to go from the prep area to the surgical unit, I noticed porters coming and going with other patients. At ACH, porters all wear maroon-coloured scrubs. I watched them wheeling patients in wheelchairs and beds down the halls and a powerful memory came to me…

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Nineteen years and three months ago, exactly two weeks after her birth, Greta was transferred from the Foothills neonatal unit to ACH. At that time, the Children’s was on 17 Ave. and Richmond Rd. SW, an aging building with some of the most talented and dedicated doctors and nurses in the country.

We had received Greta’s diagnosis of Prader Willi Syndrome that morning. By the time we arrived at the Children’s around dinnertime, we were scared, exhausted, and hungry.

The next several days were consumed by a battery of exams and tests ordered by nephrology, pulmonology, endocrinology and cardiology. In addition, I was learning to insert Greta's nasogastric feeding tube; pumping every few hours; tracking Greta's urine output; keeping meticulous records of how much milk she took orally; and trying to find time to eat and sleep myself. It was fucking brutal.

Each time we went to a clinic, a porter in maroon scrubs came to wheel her crib and guide us to the appointment. There was one fellow, a man of middle eastern descent in his 40s, who I was always glad to get. He never failed to be upbeat, talkative and cheerful. He made me smile and chuckle every time he escorted us; a bright spot in a string of difficult days.

Later that week, my grief, exhaustion and frustration with specialists who weren't communicating with each other led to an angry outburst. I demanded a case conference with Greta’s entire medical team and the nurse promised she'd arrange it. As I sat next to her crib in tears, my favourite porter arrived to take Greta for yet another test. He put his hand on my shoulder and stood there while I cried. As the tears abated, he handed me a box of tissues, patted my shoulder, and said, “Take some deep breaths, mama. They can wait,” he said, referring to the medical staff waiting to perform the next test in the next clinic.

After a few minutes I stood up and we walked down the hall and he gave me some words of support and encouragement. A different porter came to take us back to our room afterwards. The case conference took place that afternoon and, within 24 hours, the hospital released us to go home with our new baby.

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In the years since, we've had hundreds of appointments at ACH, first at the old location and then at the new hospital when it opened in 2006. Occasionally, I would see that porter in the halls, but I never had the opportunity to speak to him.

Then, a couple years ago, he brought a patient and family into a clinic where Greta and I were waiting. After he handed the patient off and turned to leave, I approached him and said, “Excuse me…”

I told him what an impression he’d had on me back in the summer of 2003. What a difference he made to a frightened first-time mother. How his sunny, sincere disposition and sense of empathy had stayed with me all these years. He thanked me for telling him that and said he was glad to hear things were going well for my daughter. Then he told me he was set to retire in a couple of months and how he appreciated me sharing that experience. It was a brief conversation, two or three minutes, that ended with a handshake and best wishes for the future.

I never had the wherewithal to ask that man’s name, but I’ve had many opportunities to emulate his actions. He's an example of how a moment of kindness can make a profound impression. How a small but genuine gesture of support can have a lasting effect. So, to paraphrase the minister from my childhood churchgoing days, "Leave this place, go out into the world and share your love."