top of page

The Janitor

kimhessbooks

”Mari, drive straight to the doctor’s office,” the nurse urgently commands me, “and, do not get into an accident!”

I hang up the restaurant’s office phone and seek the manager-on-duty to explain that I must leave my lunch shift immediately. She nods without questioning me.


The nurse’s words continually replay in my head, as I carefully drive to the office. I wonder: What do the tests show?


I approach the receptionist and give her my name. Within a minute, a nurse calls me back to a room, bypassing the triage room, since another nurse had recorded my weight and height at yesterday’s appointment. The expeditious call-back, coupled with the earlier phone call, fray my nerves.

Again, I wonder: What do the tests show?

A couple of minutes later, the doctor knocks once and enters the room. He sits down, quickly scans my arms and legs. Then, he looks directly into my eyes and states, “Your blood tests indicate significantly low platelet counts. That’s why your body is covered in bruises. I need to draw your blood again, but then you will need to go to a hematologist for further testing, because I do not know the cause of the low-platelet count. Mari, would you like for us to call your parents to meet you there?”

Stunned and confused by the news, I don’t remember answering him. I’m only aware of how freaked out my mother will be when she receives that call.


The hematologist’s office has fewer people in the waiting room, but the tension feels different than the general practitioner’s waiting area. This waiting room has a more somber and subdued atmosphere.


While waiting, I read the office pamphlet and discover that the doctor graduated valedictorian of his class. This accomplishment impresses me, and it oddly consoles me during this uncertain time.


My mother arrives, and then a nurse calls my name for the second time that afternoon. The nurse leads us to a patient room. We nervously wait for the doctor.


The doctor gently knocks and enters the room. He introduces himself. To make small talk, I comment on his graduation rank, and he humbly quips that he memorizes medical jargon quickly. I smile in reply, appreciating that his intelligence is balanced with humility.


The doctor explains that my platelet count has continued to plummet, so he needs to withdraw bone marrow to determine a possible cause. A bone marrow biopsy requires a large needle to be inserted into a pelvic bone from the backside. To minimize pain, he will administer several doses of local anesthesia, but warns that I likely would still experience pain. I cringe at the thought of another needle, a much larger needle, inflicting pain.

During the procedure, my mother sits in the waiting room. Once the biopsy is completed, the nurse brings her back to my room. My mother is stunned to see the bite marks I had made on the pillow to avoid screaming. We wait for the results of tests, again.


Finally, the doctor confirms a diagnosis. Test results indicate Idiopathic Thrombocytopenic Purpura. ITP is a blood disorder with an unknown cause. Basically, my body is filtering out all platelets of my body. Furthermore, I must be admitted to the hospital, because I’m at risk for having a stroke.


I drive myself to the hospital, and my mother returns the house to pick up my father. They will meet me there.


My mother and father arrive. I am keenly aware that my mother is trying to hold back tears, but I notice that my father seems agitated and somewhat distracted. My mother periodically glances at him, like she’s checking for a sign. I wonder whether he’s concerned for me or having a bad day.


Later that afternoon, my parents leave, and three of my childhood friends arrive. We’re all home from college for summer vacation. A nurse checks on me, once again, and notices their presence. She firmly commands that they may not have any physical contact with me. A simple bump could yield a bruise, and she did not want me to develop any new ones. Despite the scary warning, I excitedly welcome my visitors, who want to entertain me by playing cards.


As Diego deals the cards, he accidentally knocks into my right arm. His girlfriend Jessica and my other friend Anastasia freeze. Diego senses the change among his friends and realizes what had happened. Their eyes widen as they notice a new bruise starting to form. The nurse returns and asks if all is well. Diego apologizes because he accidentally bumped into my arm. The nurse inspects the recently formed bruise and notes my chart. Fortunately, she does not dismiss my friends.


We continue to play cards all afternoon, and Diego cracks jokes. We laugh so loudly that my nurse returns to admonish us for being rowdy. She reminds us that we are on the oncology floor, and some of the other patients are not well. The reminder of where we sit lands harshly on our mood.

Finally, visiting hours end, and my friends wave goodbye. The loneliness of solitude creeps into my mind, slowly stealing the joy of the visit with friends. I stare at the pale blue wall and wonder: Why me?



Time passes slowly. My nurse stops by periodically to check my vital signs. I want to sleep, but my mind contemplates whether the first-tier treatment will be effective. Earlier this afternoon, the oncologist had reviewed the four tiers of possible treatments. Tier 1 encompasses high doses of steroids, the least invasive and most gentle of options. Tier 4 is a blood transfusion. I hope the steroids would work, despite the expected side effects.


The door opens, interrupting my thoughts. I wonder what the nurse wants to check now, since she had recently stopped by the room. To my utter amazement, I hear my given name pronounced perfectly but from a man.


“Damaris?” a deep tenor voice inquires.


“Yes?” I reply in wonder.


“Please excuse the interruption, I’m the janitor. May I empty your trash can and spot clean your room real quick?” he asks.


I pause before replying, “Um, yes, please?”


He chuckles from the doorway. Then a slender gentleman ducks his head to enter my room. He unfolds his body, standing to his full height. Even more impressive than his stature is the gentleness of his smile and the serenity of his eyes. The wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and the greying of his hair hint at his age, but his countenance shines with a youthful glow that intrigues me.


“Good evening, Damaris,” he intones. I’m so enthralled with this man that I do not respond. His kind dark brown eyes sparkle, as if he knows a secret for which to share with others. He wears navy blue scrubs, the uniform of hospital staff. Instead of a stethoscope adorning his neck, as all the medical staff wear, a long black corded necklace drapes his chest. A mahogany, wooden cross hangs on the cord. His presence immediately shifts the atmosphere of the room from despair to hope. I smile in return.

“How do you know how to pronounce my name?” I stammer.


“Anyone who has studied the Bible knows your name.” Again, he chuckles, “Although, I beg to differ with the sentiment of your name. You’re not exactly what I’d classify as a bovine creature.”


It’s my turn to giggle. Damaris means cow or heifer, and for the life of me, I have no idea why my parents selected that baptismal name for a girl. As soon as I had discovered the meaning, I immediately adopted the nickname Mari, which is pronounced like Mary, but spelled differently. I had dreaded the day when someone would learn of the translation. But, this guy did not mercilessly tease me. He spoke my name with reverence and love.

While we chat, the janitor quickly tidies my room. His movements convey purpose, yet he is not rushed. I gradually stop talking and stare at the wall again, thinking about what had transpired in less than twelve hours. So much had happened so quickly. Tears leak from my eyes. The janitor silently sweeps my room, then leans on the handle of the brush and quietly asks me, “Do you want to take a quick excursion?”


His question startles me. An excursion implies a short journey or trip. How could I possibly attend an outing while admitted to the hospital? But, I desperately want a distraction.

“Sure.” With so much uncertainty in this day, it's funny how sure I felt about this invitation.


The janitor holds up his pointer finger indicating for me to wait. I snicker at irony of him signaling for me to wait, as I lie in a hospital bed, waiting for my platelets to increase.

A minute later, the janitor returns with a wheelchair. Sweeping his open hand toward the wheelchair, he invites me to sit. I gingerly rise out of the hospital bed and settle into the chair, taking care not to bump into any corners or edges.


The janitor ducks below the doorjamb as he wheels me out of my room. He expertly turns to the right and directs me past an unattended nurses’ station. I notice the hallway is eerily void of any doctors, nurses, staff, or patients. Slowly, I turn my head around to ask the janitor about the significant change from day to evening. He assures me that the hustle and bustle of the dayshift morphs into a silent rhythm for the evening shift. I nod my head, accepting his assurance.

We pass the elevators and enter another section of the hospital. Still, I do not notice any other people, nor do I hear any machines, announcements, or doors clicking shut. My ears faintly detect a beautiful melody. I cock my head to the right and then to the left, trying to discern the source of the glorious sound. I hold still, but I cannot pinpoint the origin. I close my eyes and simply revel in the splendor of the music.

I ask the janitor whether he knows the source of the music, but the sound stops just before he replies. To my astonishment, I realize that the janitor is the source. I beg him to continue. He complies, and the contentment that I had started to feel when I first heard the tones swells as the music returns. I close my eyes in complete bliss.

I detect the wheelchair slowing to a stop, and I open my eyes.

Awestruck, I stop breathing.

A marble man towers above me, diminishing my sense of size in proportion to his majestic presence. His hair cascades down his shoulders into loose ringlets. His eyes cast downward, not out of shame or fear, but to peer at those who sit before Him. His bearded countenance exudes gentleness and compassion. His floor-length tunic drapes across his chest over his left shoulder, then around his back, finally draping over his left arm. His arms reach outward and downward, with His hands open as to welcome others. His right-foot steps forward at my eye level, while His left-foot receives the weight of the stance. Every aspect about this Man is larger than life.

Jesus!

As my mind registers the details of the statue, I barely hear the janitor whisper details about the statue. The proper title of the statue is Christus Consolator, but many people aptly call it the Divine Healer. This particular statue is one of several replicas around the world. Carved from a single block of Carrara marble, it measures 10-1/2 feet tall. In 1986, hospital administrators unveiled it within this dedicated rotunda. Ever since then, staff, patients, and visitors stop to pray, donate money, or leave miscellaneous items such as notes, flowers, and figures.

The janitor softly asks me, “Is there anything you’d like to ask Jesus to heal?”

One single answer floods my mind: my father.


But, I can’t utter the request. The desire for my father’s full healing runs deep to the core of my being. His health and well being is the only thing I would ask for. It’s the thing I have asked for. The awe I felt just a second ago while peering up into eyes of Jesus completely changes to white, hot anger.

I explode, “Why did you allow my father to be sick?! Why haven’t you healed him?! I have prayed, begged, and pleaded for you to help my father. Aren’t you God, supposedly the most powerful thing of the universe?! Don’t you have the power to stop cancer?!” The ugliness of the past eight years echoes off the rotunda’s walls and domed ceiling.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt like an idiot shouting at a statue. Worse, I had betrayed myself by acting like a silly, little girl who immaturely allows her imagination to run wild and to believe, once again, that there is a God who listens and cares for every person. Embarrassment clouds my mind.

The janitor gently interrupts my thoughts. “Damaris, the Lord did not give your father cancer. We have an enemy that comes to steal, kill, and destroy. But, then Jesus came so that your father, and you, may have life. Abundantly so!”

“If that’s true,” I retort, “then why does He permit evil?”


“Excellent question. The best answer I can offer is that God gave His beloved sons and daughters freewill to choose to love Him and to obey His commandments. But, Adam and Eve chose not to do so. Their actions allowed sin to enter the world.”


The word “sin” convicts me. Again, I turn and yell at the statue, “Are you punishing me, because I stopped praying? Because I stopped believing? Because I hate you?! You never answered my prayers! Prayers didn’t work! Why did you abandon me?!” I heave with sobs and can barely catch my breath.


Just as quickly as my temper flared, it abates, and guilt crushes my conscience. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean any of that. Please don’t be angry. Please don’t hurt my Daddy because I yelled at you. I’ll pray again for him; I promise! I’ll do whatever you want so that the tumor leaves my father’s brain.” I hide my face with hands and cry uncontrollably.

“Oh Damaris, please stop berating yourself,” the janitor speaks in hushed tones. “The Lord did hear your prayers. And, He did respond. He knows you want your father completely healed, and in time he will be. But, for now, He has surrounded you and your father with angels for protection.”

“With all due respect,” I icily reply, “my father is still sick. He keeps having seizures, because the tumor grows back. Since the tumor is wrapped around his optic nerve, the doctors cannot remove it completely.”

Frustration compounds my anger, and I turn to yell at the statue again, “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to see my Daddy losing control of his body and not being able to help him? Do you know what it’s like watching his faculties diminish? Do you realize how devastating it is for dreams of the future being dashed? No one understands!

I’m so scared! Will he seize with me again? Will that seizure be the one that kills him? Will he die during surgery, leaving my mother, sister and me alone in the hospital waiting room? Will the tumor change him even more? Will he walk me down the aisle? Will he see his grandchildren? Will I be able to give him a hug in his old age? It’s not fair! I want a normal family! I want my Daddy!” I sob uncontrollably. Every fear I had buried over the past eight years gushes forth with incredible force. The anguish overwhelms me.

For a long time, I wail and convulse with tears, trying to catch my breath. Eventually, my breathing returns to normal and I simply stare at the oversized feet of Jesus without seeing anything. I am utterly exhausted. I no longer have the energy to cry.

“Damaris, what do you see?” the janitor gently asks. I refuse to reply, but I take notice of something that makes me shudder. My mind registers the scars on His feet.

“You see them,” he states matter-of-factly. I nod my head almost imperceptibly. I don’t blink, I just stare at the vicious marks. The janitor softly urges me, “Touch them.”


I take a deep breath and exhale through my nose. I bow my head and mutter with shame, “I do not have the right to do so. I don’t deserve to touch His scars. Please take me back to my room.”

The janitor does not budge. He patiently waits. Finally, he explains, “Damaris, first, your words and actions demonstrate that you do indeed believe in God, contrary to what you stated earlier. Second, Jesus specifically went to the Cross, so that healing could be received by you. And third, Jesus accepted the spikes into his feet and hands for you, so that your sins could be forgiven, and your soul could be saved. The Father did not send the Son to condemn the world, but that the world may be saved through Him.” The janitor pauses for a second before continuing, “Don’t you see? He did this for you, Damaris. He wants you, His Beloved Daughter, to receive this honor.”

A solitary tear trickles down my cheek. I sigh in resignation.

The janitor takes notice of the subtle change in me, “Jesus would graciously receive your anger, frustration, stress, fears, anguish, guilt, shame, and despair. In fact, He appreciates that you would trust Him with those hard emotions, especially your deepest fears. Now, are you ready to fully release it all to Him and to willingly receive His blessings and love?” the janitor asks me.

I grapple with what he had expounded before answering him. Moments later, I ask, “Are you sure that Jesus wants all that … stuff from me? I don’t want to burden Him.”

The janitor pauses before responding, “Damaris, would you read aloud the inscription at the base of the statue, please?”

I lean forward in the wheelchair and read the inscription, “Come unto me, all ye that are weary and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” I recline back into the wheelchair and raise my head to look into the eyes of Jesus. I know without a doubt that He desires me to surrender everything to Him.

I sob again, releasing all of the memories and pain. With hope, I open my hands to receive all that Jesus wants to give me. As I receive, the tears of pain and sadness turn into tears of joy and excitement. I raise my head up and sit straighter. I can sense a change in my mind, body, and soul. The bitterness of missed opportunities softens as I acknowledge His promises of new opportunities. The guilt of sin loosens its grip as I reject the notion of condemnation. The fear of worst-case scenarios fades into potential adventures to tackle with His strength. The memories of past difficulties stop spiraling as my mind aligns with His mind. The tension in my body recedes as I release the stress of the day. The perceptions I imagine others have of me diminish as I realize the delight He has in me. The cracks in my soul from rejecting God strengthen with His love.

I feel a sense of peace that I haven’t felt for years. I know that Jesus is with me, not just as a marble statue, but in my heart. His presence has radically changed me forever.

The janitor languidly wheels me back to my room. We do not speak. He wisely allows me to remain silent, as this silence isn’t a defense mechanism of building walls of protection but a moment of peace since the defensive walls had crumbled. He begins to sing once again.

Suddenly, my room appears, and the janitor rolls me to the hospital bed. I confidently climb out of the wheelchair, no longer fearing corners or edges, nor do I fear what the doctor may report tomorrow.

The janitor wheels the chair to the door, turns off the lights, and waves, “Goodnight, Damaris!”

“Wait, I don’t know your name! Please tell me.”


“I’ll give you five guesses.”

“May I ask for a hint?”


“Sure. That’s question one.”


“Hey, that’s not fair!” He simply replies with a wink. “Fine. Would I find your name in the Old Testament or New Testament?”

“Clever girl. Old Testament. That’s two.”


“Okay. Now what should I ask?” I comment aloud.

“I suggest a book titled with a person’s name. That’s three.” He winks again.


“Hey!” I object.


“I know, not fair,” and he smiles.

“Fine. Two questions left.” This time, I keep my mouth shut, not postulating aloud. I start to get overwhelmed by the thought of guessing incorrectly. Joshua, Samuel, Ezra, … Who am I missing?

Then, I remember what he had told me earlier: Jesus wants me to bring everything to Him, even the little things. I bring my question to Jesus. Then a name pops into my head. “Tobit?” I ask eagerly.

“So close. That’s four.”

Disappointment flashes across my face. I pout. Frustration creeps into my mind, but I stop the thoughts by whispering the name of Jesus.

My eyes widen with the thought of another name, “Raphael?!”


The janitor winks one last time, bows out of my room, and proclaims, “Peace be with you.”


I whisper, “And, with your spirit.”







59 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

The Gifts

Comments


Commenting has been turned off.

© 2022 - 2024 by Blessings Press. Website services by YellowStudios.

bottom of page