The Evenin' Shadders

Zachary has pink toes. Thursday, that horrific, difficult, awful day, is over. And here, in the stillness of my home, the quiet is my benediction. My youngest son – the smallest, most fragile of a large, blended family – has stood at the edge of oblivion and returned. The weeks building to this day brought tension, anxiety, stress and fear. Overwhelmed by nature of Zachary’s needs, we, his parents, had no real plan, no other process in place. We simply turned our faces toward the storm and prayed. For the third time in our lives, Karen and I made the long, long walk down the yellowish-tan colored hallway to the operating theater. This time, Karen went in with Zach as they put him under. She walked out the doors sobbing. We returned to the third floor of Children’s Hospital and started out long vigil. The clock seemed to move backward. Once again, we huddled inside the waiting room with friends and family and made mindless conversation. We talked about politics and God and life. ...

  You can tell the ones who work the night shift.             Their bodies move slowly, bathed in the yellowish amber glow of neon. Exhausted by the day and drained by fear, they seek refuge beneath the glass and steel that – at this moment – is their home. Their faces betray them. Their smiles have given way to pain. They are pale and gaunt with dark eyes and hollow, almost lifeless expressions. This is not their true being, mind you, just the mask of wear and worry assigned them by the night shift.             They have no time for fun or laughter. Under the steel and glass there is no smoky jazz club, no the out-of-the way bistro. Here, instead are the operating theaters and the nurses’ stations, their walls covered in drab paint. Here is the worn tiled floor, the proof of a billion footsteps. This is the night shift. Those assigned didn’t seek the task – it found th...