The call came at 4:03 in the afternoon on a Thursday. I was finishing my shift at Three Rivers Hospice, sitting in the break room with a cup of coffee I hadn’t touched yet. My phone rang.
UPMC Presbyterian ICU. I have been a hospice nurse for eleven years. You learn to read the tone in someone’s voice before they finish their sentence.
The charge nurse transferred me to Dr. Lorna Fitzpatrick. She didn’t waste time.
“Miss Schaffer, your grandmother Eleanor was brought in by ambulance twenty minutes ago. Perforated bowel, advancing sepsis. We need to get her into surgery within the hour.
I need you to understand this is high risk. Her age, the infection, the stress on her heart. She may not survive.”
I grabbed the napkin under my coffee and started writing.
Perforated bowel. Sepsis. High risk.
I didn’t need to write it down. I know what those words mean. But writing keeps me in control.
“I’m coming,” I said. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Is there other family we should contact?”
“I’ll call them.”
I hung up and immediately dialed my father. Four rings.
Voicemail. I called my mother. Six rings.
Voicemail. I stared at my phone, trying to process the fact that neither had picked up during a family emergency. Then I opened our family group chat and typed: Grandma in emergency surgery.
UPMC Presbyterian. Critical. Need you here now.
Sent at 4:05 p.m. The message showed delivered immediately. Then, seconds later, read by John and read by Diane.
I waited. Nothing. I got in my car and drove.
UPMC Presbyterian is fourteen minutes from the hospice. I drove with my phone on the passenger seat, screen up, waiting for it to light up. At 5:02 p.m., my phone buzzed.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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