Jared

Ever had one of those unexpected moments where you enter the heartbeat of another human being?

I had one of those today.

I was at "The General" this afternoon for pre-surgical admit. My nurse was Kathy and it took me about 3 minutes to size her up as an Old School pro -- a demeanor which is totally sympatico with this grand dame joint, a hospital built in the days when we knew how to show a little marble on the walls and on the stairs. Not sheetrock or fake wood, mind you, but beautiful, burnished, dark marble lined with silvers and blacks and dark greens and worn in a majestic sort of way by decades of service.

And yes.....STAIRS. You gotta love a hospital where you can still find some marble stairs. I felt like I was at The Biltmore.

I reported to Kathy in Same Day Surgery after checking in with the bright, smiling African-American ladies in Admissions, who I think got me warmed up to receive the little moment that would arrive a bit later. One laughed at my jokes during the intricate administrative preliminaries while her occupied co-worker at the next station quietly hummed an old spiritual. "Oh, what a blessedness, oh what a peace is mine, leaning on the everlasting arms.... "

Before they sent me on my way to the 3rd floor, and as I signed the last of the insurance paperwork, one of them cocked her head and secured my attention.

Oooo....you got Dr. Dupont, honey.

Yes, ma'am. I do.

He's gooood, she reported.

Sho' is, yes indeed, said her friend, interrupting her humming and looking at me with pert eyes over her glasses. EVERYbody say THAT.

Well, that's a good thing, I guess.

Oh, yes, honey, the first lady agrees, pounding a loud staple through my documents. You don't have a THING to worry 'bout. Now, you take these with you to the 3rd floor and have a blessed day.

I leave....and, forsaking the stairs for the elevator, I can hardly help but wander off into a hum myself: "What have I to dread? What have I to fear, leaning on the everlasting arms?.....leeeeaning.....leeeeaning......leaning on the everlasting arms....."

Kathy meets me just outside the elevators. She's younger than me, has taken good care of herself and is pretty -- like your best friend's Momma was pretty back when you were a kid. It's the sort of pretty you're not sure what to do with. She was squared away in dark blue scrubs with a stethoscope hanging around her neck---covered in part by a colorful "scrunchy." Her ID tag was simple and heralded her only as: KATHY, RN As I approach her, she looks up from her clipboard and says:

Mr. Clary, is it?

What's left of him.

Oh, now it can't be THAT bad. Come with me and we'll get you all ready for Monday. This thing's gonna be a snap. Don't worry. Dr. Dupont is great.

That's what I hear.

Once we get into the surgical area, she goes through all of the checklists and forms like a pro. No allergies. No current medical problems. (Well, except for the cancer. There's that. Beyond that little blip on the radar, everything is peachy.) No tobacco use. No booze. We relive some of my prior medical adventures and she's unimpressed. She tells me confidentially that she will need urine, as if I might need some time to prepare for such a daunting, extemporaneous task. I tell her I'm pushin' 54 and, consequently, I can pee at the drop of a hat -- no sweat. As a matter of fact, the only time I don't have to pee is while I'm actually peeing. Just to show her she's not dealin' with some piker, I immediately take the cup and report to the bathroom. I'm back in less than 2 minutes with all the pee one could reasonably use --- safely and warmly ensconced in my little screw-top vial.

She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she's impressed.

Then, she says she needs to take blood, so I present an arm. Kathy unwraps all the sterile stuff a RN needs to find a vein and remove some of that magic mix. I am steeling myself not to flinch when she inserts the needle because I want her to know she's dealing with a tough guy. She fiddles with her kit and ---after a moment or 2--- I sort of get the odd impression that she's dithering about a bit.

You live on Highway 68. Kathy says. It's a declarative statement, but seems unfinished somehow.

Sure do, 68.

Then your house is near the National Cemetery at Port Hudson, isn't it?

Yes, ma'am....that's right. I answer, wondering why we're returning to the preliminaries. We'd already covered all this, even before I had passed my urine test. But, I continue the conversation, sensing somehow that we're not really talking about my address. I'm about a half mile from the cemetery....a little closer to the battlefield park.

Your date of birth is the 6th of October, I see.

Yup. That's right.

That was my son's birthday, she says, taking my arm in one hand and swabbing the targeted vein with the other. The past tense within her sentence hangs in the air along with the smell of rubbing alcohol.

It was? I finally reply quietly.

Yes. He was killed in Iraq almost 2 years ago.

Awwww, kiddo....is all I can think to say. Bless his heart.

I take my other hand and bring it to cover hers, resting both on my exposed forearm. The alcohol is cool on my skin. Her fingers feel warm to me, even within her latex glove. We stay like that for a bit.

He's buried over in the Port Hudson National Cemetery right near your house.

I know it well, I say. I've been there many times.

My mind's eye conjures the rows and rows of graves at Port Hudson, studded with identical white marble markers. Hundreds of them are Civil War casualties. Many come from The War to End All Wars, and then plenty hail from the wars that came after that.

Her eyes meet mine and there are no tears.

I sure am proud to meet you, Kathy. And I would've been honored to meet your son. Could you tell me his name?

Jared......Jared Crouch. He was a corporal in a Stryker Brigade and he was doing what he always wanted to do.

Jared Crouch, I repeat, patting her hand softly. I'm going to remember that name, Kathy. I promise you that. I thank you for sharing Jared with me today.

It was just seeing your birth date....she says, trailing off. She starts to busy herself with the alcohol swab again and I move my hand away.

Of course, kiddo. I understand.

You'll feel a little stick, Kathy tells me, all business again and moving the needle in for the strike.

But, I never felt it.

--J.R.


Zachary Native Killed in Iraq

By The Associated Press -- June 4, 2007


ZACHARY, La. — A Zachary native who joined the Army his senior year in high school was killed Saturday in Hadid, Iraq when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle, the Army said.

Cpl. William Jared Crouch, 21, had only been stationed in Iraq for a little more than a month, his mother, Kathy Rushing, said in a newspaper interview. She was informed of his death Saturday night by casualty assistance soldiers from Fort Polk.

The Defense Department said Crouch was a cavalry scout assigned to the 2nd Squadron, 1st Cavalry Regiment, 4th Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, Fort Lewis, Wash.

Rushing said her younger son, John Crouch, a reservist with a maintenance company stationed in Iraq, would try to join his brother’s body on the flight back to the U.S.

“We’re hoping he’ll be able to bring his brother home,” said Rushing.

She said both sons had always felt the need to serve. Jared Crouch, who graduated from Starkey Academy in Central in 2004, wanted to be “in the thick of things ... on the front lines,” his mother said.

She said he got his desire to serve from his father, James Crouch, a Baton Rouge policeman who died of natural causes when Crouch was 13. James Crouch, had wanted to serve in the military but never got the opportunity, Rushing said.