Dick Woodcock

Dick Woodcock

Richard Woodcock, best known as "Dick", was an HIV+, Hep C+, IV drug abusing “frequent flier”. If you’ve worked the ED, you’ll recognize the term, but for those who haven’t, it’s a patient who’s a “habitual utilizer of emergency services”. I met Mr. Woodcock late one winter Saturday night when he was in “severe need of a belly tap” and “could barely breathe.” All the key phrases emergency docs use to convey this patient could in no way wait until Monday, no not even until the next morning.” This indeed was an urgent call. So, off I headed into the cold dark to find Mr. Woodcock sitting cross-legged on his Room 12 gurney eating a turkey on wheat, sipping a carton of cran-apple. Immediately I felt tension hike up two notches at the base of my skull.  

“You get my Morphine?” he spat, noticing me peeking around the thin blue curtain. 

“Good evening Mr.…” I glanced at the chart, “Woodcock,” noticing the oxygen canula dangling necklace-like around his scrawny neck “. I understand you’re having trouble breathing.” 

“Wait, wait, wait it’s always the same.” his cavernous mouth quipped showing a few greying broken nubs. His wiry form had the paradoxical obese-wasting of someone whose liver was on its final lap. His protuberant abdomen hugging a fraying, Atlanta Braves tank, looked to hold at least 8 liters of drainable extra. Only then, would he be back to his fighting 105 pounds. I was tired, my usual low level of patience far below necessary for this challenging sir.  

“I’m here to perform your paracentesis.” I stated hiding irritation behind formality.  

“OK missy, don’t think I’m getting much younger? “He said Adam’s apple bobbing obscenely. “And make sure that nurse’s got my Morphine. I’m in pain. Not gonna let you do your thing,” he wagged an index finger nose level, “…before I get that on-board.” 

“I’ll be right back,” was all I could manage.  

“Think you could do that?” he called gruffly behind me as I walked out. 

Taylor sat behind the nursing desk charting. “Not my call,” she started without looking up.  

“Yep,” I retorted. Afterall, it wasn’t her fault I’d been paged. Even the ED doc just wanted to band-aid Mr. Woodcock and get him out; turnaround time and such “metrics” admin tallied were everyone’s demanding masters.  

“Did you get King Richard’s Morphine?” I shot back indicating Room 12’s direction. 

“Not a chance,” she replied. “You think I want to encourage these visits?” she said giving a conspiratorial wink.

“No chance,” I agreed, “but,” I pleaded, “you’ll do me this small favor won’t you?” We knew who owed who, I wanted to be done as much as she wanted Mr. Dick gone.

“You know he works at Sammy’s?” Taylor tossed over her shoulder high stepping it towards the dispensary.

“Lovely,” I returned, “now I can’t ever eat there again!” The thought of Mr. Woodcock spreading mayo on my tuna sub, blowing his nose between layering turkey with Swiss…Sammy’s was an F on my Health grades from now on.

 “Meow, Meow” she responded in the unique Taylor way, letting you know her heart was breaking for your oh-so-sad story. I suspected that veneer came from working 4 straight years of ED nights. Forget her Bronx upbringing, I thought. She’d hardened more by serving Atlanta’s federally subsidized than any Port Morris middle school taunting. The needs of her needle sticking, powder sniffing, pill popping patients would erode compassion in any soul. She’d burn out soon. “You’re going to be here all night” she laughed, knowing each liter of fluid would take at least 15 minutes to drain.  

“Nope, I’m taking off just enough to relive his “extreme work of breathing,” I replied with the easy sarcasm we all fell into especially after hours, patients' suffering now fodder for tired humor. “Mr. Woodcock is welcome during regular hours for a full-service tune-up.” I felt the stab of regret aware this banter was in poor taste, unprofessional in the least. But told myself his situation was no emergency, and Mr. Woodcock’s demanding attitude had nudged me effortlessly into disrespect. I gathered my supplies and consent form relieved to see Ms. Nelly’s 95-pound frame pushing the ultrasound inside Room 12. 

As I rounded the hall and heard Richard’s loud twang, “What in God’s name are you here for, lady? Trying to add spice to my pretty party?” 

“Hello Sir.” Nelly replied in her usual soft, heavily Jamaican voice “I am Ms. Nelly…” 

“What! Do you think I’m pay’n extra for help?” 

Nelly shot me a pointed look as I walked in but knowing her, I felt sure she wanted me to, “Forgive as we are forgiven.” 

“Look Richard,” I started. “Nelly’s your procedural nurse tonight. She’s here at this late hour to help me and you with your medical concerns so how’s ‘bout your give her the respect she’s giving you?” I could easily slide into a deep drawl from my Russell County upbringing if needed and this called for something persuasive.” And Sir,” I paused for emphasis, “we aren't giving you any pain, meds unless she’s present.”  

Richard’s pocked-marked skin pulled tightly over his sharp cheeks as he blanched his lips tight. A moment of tense stand-off passed. He ran a bony hand over his mousy, grizzled whiskers. “Aren’t you just the lady’s, lady? You know I’m in pain, don’t’ you?” he growled recognizing a check mate.   

“Just need your consent for the procedure, then I can give you your medication” I reiterated. 

“Oh no, I’m not consenting to any of your so-called procedures.” Richard balked. 

“You don’t want me to take off that fluid?” I stammered unable to suppress frustration, motioning towards his taut stomach. He slid his hand over a nape length greying ponytail that drew my attention to the smudgy green “April 4-3” tattooed into his pale white chest.  

“I gotta pee!” he declared defiantly, knowing he’d regained the upper hand. Richard would postpone this “procedure” even under his own duress. Shifting his ungainly torso to the side of the bed, he directed his off-centered load towards the bedside commode. Heaving unsteadily, he rolled his body leftward. Then taking a swift inhalation his emaciated bottom half scooted about an inch towards its intended target. 

“Okay, Mr. Woodcock, I’m going to get you a urinal.” Nelly urged, deftly adjusting his left leg onto the bed and then the rest of his thin body under a coarse hospital sheet. 

Nelly was out and back in little time, not enough for Mr. Woodcock and me to exchange awkward formalities. She knowingly tucked the wide mouth bottle under the blanket between his flexed knees, helping Mr. Woodcock orient his manhood into position for relief. 

It was an interminable piss during which I contemplated conversation starters, then recognized I ought to excuse myself. Finally, Richard let Nelly know he was done, and she comfortably retrieved the full urinal stashing it out of sight. 

The rest was a formality. Needle into Mr. Woodcock’s belly, tube hooked to suction pulling a steady stream of amber into the plastic jar. I stepped out to finish paperwork and dictate the case. 

“Done?” Taylor asked.

“Not soon enough.” I said sitting down in front of the next computer. Orders in, I tapped my fingers triumphantly on the desk. “So sorry to leave you all but it’s my time to go!”

Heading towards Woodcock’s room I stopped short hearing an oddly familiar baritone and Nelly’s low hum. “lt is well, it is well with my soul." Then Nelly chuckled, “You have a beautiful singing voice Mr. Woodcock.” 

“I’m in the choir. Lead the songs every Sunday. When I’m not stuck in this God-forsaken place,” he complained. 

“So do I!” Nelly exclaimed. “My goodness gracious, I wonder what else we have in common?”  

“Not much I suspect.” I overheard finally reentering the room.

“More than you might imagine.” Nelly said knowingly, taking his gnarled hand in her small brown ones. 

“Looks like we got quite a bit!” I indicated pointing towards four full bottles under the sink’s fluorescent light. “I know you feel a whole lot better!” With a squirt of Red Z, the liquid clotted into gel. “Now, how’s about we get you outta here.” 

During that year I came to know Richard Woodcock, a little. He was indeed a “frequent flier”. Every couple of weeks I’d get the call, usually just after I’d fallen asleep or as I finished up with my week’s grocery run. I can’t honestly say that I didn’t feel a flash of irritation, but I did my best to channel an inner “Nelly”.  

Mr. Woodcock told me that he’d washed dishes at Sammy’s for “Two years straight!” The longest stretch of continuous employment in his working life. He’d even been awarded “Employee of the Month” last May for using the “Hemlock position” to save a choking Mr. Anderson who’d later sent him an embossed leather plaque labeled “The World’s Best Chef”. He didn’t care if the title was wrong, “It was the thought that counts” he affirmed, joy evident in his proud smile.

Also, I discovered that April, his 7-year-old daughter, lived with this ex. Ex-what I did not learn. They’d met during one of his Tennessee benders. April was beautiful, he told me, "She's got a thick chestnut braid that runs almost to her waist and deep brown eyes like one of 'em chocolate Labs. Thank God she looks nothing like my ugly ass.” One day he told me the transplant team had determined “He was not a candidate,” because of “sobriety issues”. Mr. Woodcock was not in the least bit concerned, “My liver’s on the mend, he reassured. 

And then one day Mr. Woodcock just never came back. You never know when the last time is just that. I searched hospital records and later the Atlanta obituaries. I even called Sammy’s, but they’d never heard of a Richard Woodcock. 

I wanted a tidy ending even if tragic. But unlike a Dicken’s tale this bed was left undone. Traces of the sleeper strewn about, the who, what and why unanswered. Some days I expected Mr. Woodcock’s string of epithets to assault me from behind an ED curtain. His slumped form in worn tan corduroys lingered in my peripheral vision for a while, fading with other patients’ pressing needs.

I like to think Mr. Woodcock chose another set of doctors to call in on Saturday. In my imagination someone changed his transplant status, never needing another “belly tap”. As Miss Nelly would say, “In God’s glorious world all things are possible...”