Vibhusha Kolli, BS
School of Medicine and Public Health
2023
Prose
“Brring brring … brring brring … brring brring …”
Silence.
The phone pauses for a moment, only to restart its incessant candor. In the heavy Midwest winter, the department’s mainline barely caught a breath, particularly restless from the bitterness of COVID. As just an undergrad patient navigation intern, my patient list for the past months tore into the next day, and again, and again. Some of those patients would have already left the hospital before I got a chance to meet them—Mrs. S included.
Her last name had floated around the hospital before. Maybe it was just common. Maybe she had family settled across the city. She was in and out of hospitals in her 70s, her list of ailments reflecting the wear of life and a recent COVID recovery. (DISCHARGED). I must have just missed her. As the last call of my shift, I left a quick voicemail and logged off.
The next shift, I returned to the hospital, answering calls at every chance to stop them from piling up in the bottomless inbox. Some were estranged callers, bounced between departments. Others needed help deciphering riddles from their insurance companies. Some were discharged patients following up. And one was a callback from Mrs. S.
On our first call, I introduced myself as a patient navigation intern, explaining how we could coordinate her follow-up appointments. She sounded nervous at first, but tension softened into small talk. She said she hadn’t expected anyone to check in after she left the hospital.
“Of course, Mrs. S. Has everything been okay since the discharge?”
A sound escaped her lips—maybe a sigh, maybe a lump in her throat stuck mid-cry, maybe a shudder as she tried to speak.
“Not really. I knew something was wrong, but then I came home—”
The line went silent.
A few seconds passed.
“He never would have left me in the hospital alone,” she whispered. “And he didn’t. I knew it.”
“Mrs. S, I’m so sorry—how—are—”
“He was on the floor. He was dead on the floor of our home. I knew he didn’t just leave me in the hospital. And those days, those last three days in the hospital. I knew—oh, I knew—that’s why.”
He left to go home, maybe just to shower, maybe just for a minute to breathe. He didn’t even make it past the atrium. Or maybe he did? Was he on the way in or heading back? Did he pass peacefully? Did he know she was okay before he was gone?
Her voice broke at every edge, releasing words that had sat on her lips, waiting patiently for a recipient.
Beneath the polyester and plastic layers of my face shield, my breath grew heavy. Nausea pinched at my throat. It came back to me as she spoke—her husband had been in every cardiologist’s waiting room in the hospital for years. Lately, her last name had been on every hospital list because of him. She had been with him through it all.
But now, all the memories of their half-century-long marriage poured through the phone, seeking acknowledgment. Their first and last home. Their children. Their grandchildren. Their love. Her voice carried the warmth of a life built together, and I could do nothing but listen.
Listen as she recounted returning to the doorway of their home. Listen as she pleaded for answers from the authorities who took the body away. Listen as she described how the walls they built together now stood as the only witnesses to her grief. Her family was scattered across the country. They would need time to visit.
“I wish I never let him take me to the hospital.”
The call flatlined.
I called back.
Voicemail. Silence again.
I stared at the clock on my screen. One minute—nothing. Maybe she needed a moment. My hand trembled as I jotted down her information, ready to call an ambulance. Two minutes—nothing. Three minutes—the ambulance was called.
“Brring brring … brring brring … brring brring …”
“HELLO.”
“Mrs. S, hi—it’s me. We talked just a minute ago. How are you feeling?”
“A bit better now. I’m sorry. What did you want to talk about?”
Relief rushed over me. I waved at the intern across from me, gesturing for them to call off the ambulance.
“I was worried about you. The call dropped, and I wasn’t sure what happened.”
Embarrassment coiled through me. What was I doing, nearly chastising a woman who had endured the worst day of her life?
She spoke softly, and I turned further into the phone, apologizing, thanking her for speaking with me. She stayed on the line a little longer, until it seemed like her heart had settled. After a moment of breathable, almost comforting silence, we returned to the reason for the call.
“Your care team wants to check up on you in the next few days. Would it be okay if I scheduled the appointments?”
It felt unfitting to offer only more hospital visits in return for the story she had entrusted me with. She hesitated.
“Could ya? That would be nice, but I don’t want to wait another month for a follow-up and then end up staying because of something or another.”
I promised I’d schedule her appointments; no wait time if I could help it. We spoke again later that day to finalize the details. And a few more times after that.
She thanked me for every call. But it felt like gratitude for something else—for a brief escape from her loneliness. As my time with her wrapped up, we exchanged well-wishes, and I quietly held her story close.
For days, I sat waiting. Hoping she wouldn’t call back—because that would mean she was okay. But out of worry, and maybe some hope, I checked her chart a few days later.
Perhaps it was the Monday haze. Or just heartache.
It took a couple of reads before the tears came, before I realized—
She didn’t have to wait any longer.