Swedenborg - Chapter 5

                       Chapter 5

 

    Even before the woman spoke, Sharon Sweetwater knew how the conversation would go.

    "He never done this before," the woman said.

    Maybe. Maybe not, Sharon thought. But that didn't matter.

    "Did you call the police?" Without waiting for the answer she knew she'd get, Sharon added, "Do you want me to call?"

    "No," the woman said, panic mixing with the fear in her eyes. "Lam a good man. He don't beat me, not really."

    Another woman. Another beating.

    In just six months as an nurse intern at the St. Bridget Health Center, Sharon had seen an increase in the numbers of women treated for domestic violence - a sanitized way to describe being punched, kicked, clubbed, slapped, bloodied and even killed by someone who was supposed to love you, Sharon mused.

    Already this week three women had come in - and it was only Tuesday morning.

     Nor was it just women. Last week she'd helped the doctor stitch up a man whose girlfriend had slashed him with a knife. She was a good woman, the man had explained, just a little riled that day.

      No, he did not want to press charges. None of them did. Even as the fear burned in their eyes.

     Sharon took down all the necessary information from the woman. She escorted her to the room where the doctor would examine her.

     Waiting outside in the hall as the woman disrobed, Sharon caught Doctor Beecher's eyes.

    "Another one?" he asked. She nodded.

    He shook his head, then they went in together. Not too bad this time. A cracked rib maybe, a few bruises to the chest, the back, the face, the arm. Nothing serious. The doctor prescribed some pain killers which the woman probably would never buy because she didn't have the money. Sharon gave her a few days' free sample of the painkiller. Enough to tide her over.

     After the woman left, Sharon sat down with a cup of coffee in the crammed office the staff shared at the center. Operated by a local Catholic church, the center was often the only health care many of the residents of this inner city neighborhood ever saw.

     Sharon had begun her internship in January, expecting to do health education, help inoculate children, do some well-baby check-ups, maybe make a difference - and, of course, complete the final requirements for her R.N.

     Instead, she found herself treating families without health insurance; men, women and children who were beaten or abused; alcoholics and drug addicts ridden with disease and malnutrition. When she offered a health program for expectant mothers, none of the women who came had seen a doctor for prenatal care.

     All of them smoked. Most continued to drink through their pregnancies, despite repeated warnings and the pamphlets Sharon gave them. One woman had simply handed the pamphlet back saying she couldn't read that well.

    Sharon found her sessions with patients were often more about listening than about medical treatment. If it wasn't their loved ones, it was the world that beat many of the people down. In cynical moments, Sharon had begun to refer to her patients as the zombies or the walking dead. Euthanasia might have been a kindness.

    But lately it had grown worse. There was more violence.

    Suddenly the door swung open. Donna Bailey, the co-director of the center, popped her head in.

    "Hey, Sharon, it's getting heavy," Bailey said.

    Sharon reluctantly put down her cup and went into the greeting area.

    A pregnant woman sat in one chair screaming - "Nuri, you put down that thing" - to one little boy aiming a toy shovel at another boy.

    A sullen looking teenage girl glared. An enormously fat woman in a too small, soiled dress opened her mouth but said nothing. A man stood with his back to Sharon, twitching looking out the window at the street.

    "Next?" Sharon said, trying to sound sweet.

    The fat woman started to pry herself out of her seat, but the man turned suddenly and passed by Sharon into the hall.

    "The first room on the left," Sharon said, following him.

    The man entered, looked around quickly, his eyes pausing at the cabinet, then he turned to Sharon.

    She stopped in her tracks and almost gasped audibly. His eyes seemed on fire. Drugs, she thought. And something more.

     "What brings you in today," she said with deceptive cool.

     The man looked past her to the door, at her, at the floor, then at her face again. His whole body seemed coiled, like a snake ready to strike. His upper lip twitched. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

    "I got a pain," he slurred.

    Damn, she thought. Another addict seeking free drugs. But this one was dangerous. Sharon knew it before he moved. She could almost smell his fear.

    "The doctor will be in a minute and he can check you over," she said calmly. "Where does it hurt?"

    He looked at the open door again. Growled. And drew a knife.

    "Hey, it's okay," Sharon started to say, but he began to move toward her. Her right foot flashed up and out, connecting with his knee. She could hear the crack, then his scream as he fell.

    Thank God for anatomy studies - and a self defense course, Sharon thought.

    The man's scream rose like one of the sirens of the almost endless stream of police cars that passed the center.

    Doctor Beecher rushed in. "What," he blurted, then he saw the man writhing on the floor.

    "You okay?" he said to Sharon.

    She nodded and picked up the knife with a towel.

    As the doctor bent over the man, Bailey rushed into the room. She took in the scene, and said to Sharon, "Maybe you'd better get down to the office."

     "Fuckin' whore broke my leg!" the man on the floor bellowed.

     Sharon walked out of the room. Doctor Kathy Quinlan was rushing out of an examining room down the hall. Several patients were staring at Sharon.

    "Bitch Indian tried kill me!" the man roared in the room.

    "Shut up," Doctor Beecher barked.

    Sharon continued down the hall to the office. Doctor Quinlan touched her arm gently as she passed by.

    Sharon sat down in the office in the beaten chair she had vacated just five minutes before. She picked up the coffee she hadn't finished. The cup shook in her hand. She put it down, looked into the mirror opposite. An impassive face stared back. Olive skin. High cheek bones. Dark eyes. NAtive American.

     Then, to her relief, she began to cry.

     My soul isn't dead yet, she thought.

Pax et bonum