Abstract
O
The principle thing is to stand with the mind in the heart before God, and to go on standing before Him unceasingly day and night, until the end of life.
Theophan the Recluse 1
Stepping out of the taxi, I look up and see a large banner that reads: “New York's First Magnet Hospital.” Not far from the entrance, there are panhandlers, construction workers, teenagers on phones, and a long-haired man with gloves on, strumming a guitar.
“It's a zoo out here today,” I tell the cabbie, handing him my credit card.
“Yeah, well, it's always crazy around here. This hospital attracts all kinds. Just read the banner,” he laughs.
I brush the snow off my jacket before entering the hospital. As I walk through the door, a woman greets me with a warm hello. Through the foyer windows, I can see men and women in white coats and blue scrubs sipping on cappuccinos from tall cups, laughing and carrying on with one another. A man on crutches walks past them. A woman screams obscenities from a stretcher. The medical crowd keeps sipping coffee, paying no mind. Across the room, a family huddles together, pulling tissues from a small box. I can't help thinking about Brueghel's Icarus, falling from the sky, as farmers and ship captains go about their usual business.
“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?”
I turn around to meet a tall man in a blue uniform. In the upper corner of his chest, I read “Ambassador.”
“Yes, yes you can. An older gentleman collapsed at my church the other day, and I was hoping to visit him.”
“Do you know his name?”
“My priest says he goes by the name of “Chris” or “Christos.” That's all I know.”
I walk over to the ambassador's station while he looks up the name. Another blue uniform wheels an elderly woman to a waiting van.
“Sir, you're in luck. There is only one Christos in the hospital. Take that elevator over there to the 5th floor. Room 515.”
“Thank you.”
In the elevator, more white coats and scrubs. More laughter.
Straight ahead, I see a broad counter. Behind it, a woman answers a call from a speaker phone.
“Your nurse will be right there, darling. Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I'm looking for room 515.”
“Okay, if you walk down that hall to your left, the room will be on your right.”
I've never been in a hospital before. My grandfather died on a farm, with mom and me at his bedside.
“I believe God made me to die right here, and that's what I plan to do,” he told us.
I glance through open doors in the hallways. Old people in loose gowns. Bags of fluid hanging from poles. 515. I knock on the door once, then slowly open it, continuing to knock.
“May I come in?”
I see Christos in the recliner. His eyes are closed, and his hands clasped. He murmurs:
“Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison. Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy…”
I wait by the door, listening to the repetitive prayer. After a minute, he looks up.
“Come in, come in. I don't think I know you.”
I don't think I know you. I note his gentleness and curiosity.
“No, you don't know me. I'm John Smith. I was at the Greek Orthodox Church when you collapsed the other day. I just stopped by to see how you were doing.”
“Strangers don't usually check on strangers, do they?” He smiles. “Thank you, thank you.”
“On my way to Bible study, I walked by you on the church porch. You were on the ground, in a sleeping bag. When you didn't respond to my questions, I kept walking into the church. I want to apologize. Next thing I know I'm watching you collapse onto the church hall floor.”
Christos gently nods. His eyes greet mine in sympathy.
“I see, I see. Well, young man. I don't remember any of that. A young, pretty doctor told me all about it. I'm simply happy you dropped by.”
“My apologies for interrupting your prayer.”
“The Jesus prayer. Are you familiar with it? The prayer lives right here,” he says, pointing to his heart. “It keeps me alive.”
A woman in a white coat knocks on the door and rushes by me.
“The pretty doctor I was telling you about. Meet Dr. Maria.”
“I'm sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir. I need to examine my patient.”
Looking at Christos, she asks, “who is he?”
“My new friend.”
I watch her pull out a stethoscope as I leave the room. Minutes later, she quickly walks by me in the hallway, eyes straight ahead.
I walk back into Christos’ room. “If you don't mind me asking, how are you doing?”
“Much better, thank you. Dr. Maria tells me my kidneys are working again, now that I am fully hydrated.”
“Your doctor. She certainly was in a hurry. And all business.”
“Yes, well, I've been admitted many times to this hospital. I've seen a lot of doctors here. Few of them sit down to talk. Fewer lay hands on you after the first day. And it's a rare one who knows what it means to be mindful. I pray for them.”
“Are you a priest?”
“I was a priest. I'm a street person now,” he says. “Both experiences have taught me how to be with people. Even you,” he jokes.
Christos scratches his unkempt, white beard. His bare feet hang over the footrest. I notice his thick nails, and the dirt between his toes. His outward appearance belies his peaceful manner.
“John’ is it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do, John, besides visit homeless strangers like me?” He smiles. “Please. Please sit down, sit down. Tell me about yourself.”
He leans forward and pats my hand.
I sit down on the side of his bed. I tell him about my grandfather. How we used to fish together on his pond; how we talked for hours about important things, like how to live a meaningful life. His peaceful death years ago. My work on Wall Street. I tell him how I'm thinking about changing careers and becoming a doctor.
“I can tell you have the heart for it, John. I'll pray for you.”
We are interrupted by a woman who identifies herself as an echocardiographer.
“Do you mind if I stay for this?” I ask.
“No, not at all,” he says, closing his eyes.
I watch the technician set up the machine. She applies a gel to the echo probe. As she moves it across Christos's chest, dark and light images appear on a screen. She points to the atria and ventricles. She identifies the valves and major arteries for me.
“Doing okay, Mr. Christos?” She asks.
“Mr. Christos?”
“Is he sleeping?” She asks me.
I lean over his bed, and put my ear close to his heart, where the whoosh of blood reverberates rhythmically with the faint words flowing from his lips: “Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison…”