"DO YA FEEL LUCKY? DO YA?"

They were bringing me down from the Surgical ICU, the second time, to my room.

I know I had lingering ICU psychosis because all through the corridors, running alongside my bed, Clint Eastwood hung over the sidebar, ducking under the swinging IV poles. When I looked to my left, I could see a crooked grin on his face, and his eyes twinkled down at me. This was a real adventure for him. We arrived to my room. He sat on the chair. The nurses came in briefly and announced that the doctors from the SICU would be down shortly to make sure everything was in place. Then they swished the curtain half closed as they filed by.

Suddenly he was at the rail of the bed. “Do ya feel lucky? Do ya?”

The exchange we had could only have been understood by the deeply convicted believer in the Lord. Nevertheless, before I could explain the difference between God’s plan for me, and “luck”, we were again interrupted, this time by the Critical Care team. They began tracing their fingers along the IV lines, flushing the heparin through the PICC line, checking the multiple IV bags, looking carefully at the wounds on my chest.

“You were very, very sick this time. I don’t think you know. Well, you’re holding your own. We have to watch your blood levels for a few days. There’s a lot going on. Get some rest, but in a day or so, you’ll be up and walking a little at a time.”

Dr. Patel looked around the room, behind the curtain to the other bed. “Didn’t you just have a visitor when we came in?”

I assured him that all my babbling was the ICU psychosis. In my most educated medical-speak voice, I contributed, “Well, you know, patients hallucinate and talk to people that no one else can see. That’s all. I’ve been talking to people for days. I realize they’re not there, but I’m certainly not psychotic. It does pass.”

He placed his hand on mine and smiled. “You’re doing just fine. You’re a very lucky woman.”

It was so painful to sit up, but my body jolted forward. “No, Dr. Patel, it is not luck! Don’t you understand? It’s not luck, it’s not luck.” Then the worst possible thing happened. I began to cry. I tried talking but it sounded garbled. He waited until the words could tumble out of my mouth without having to call for a translator.

“It’s not luck. I’m alive because of the Lord.”

Protocol won out: A psych consult was ordered.