Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
February 19, 2013

The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm.

I stood in the nurses’ station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.

As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.

He looked up from his starched white bed. “Nurse, would you –” He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind. I touched his hand, waiting. He brushed away a tear. “Would you call my daughter? Tell her I’ve had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have.”

His respiration suddenly speeded up. I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. “Of course I’ll call her, I said, studying his face. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. “Will you call her right away — as soon as you can?” He was breathing fast — too fast. “I’ll call her the very first thing,” I said, patting his shoulder. I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 – year — old face.

Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowysilence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot. “Nurse,” he called, “could you get me a pencil from my pocket and set it on the bedside table.

I walked back to the nurses’ station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams’s daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed.

Her soft voice answered. “Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I’m calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and — “No!” she screamed into the phone, startling me. “He’s not dying is he ?” “His condition is stable at the moment,” I said, trying hard to sound convincing. Silence. I bit my lip. “You must not let him die!” she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone. “He is getting the very best care.” “But you don’t understand,” she pleaded. “My daddy and I haven’t spoken since my 21st birthday, we had a fight over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I…I haven’t been back. All these months I’ve wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, ‘I hate you.”

Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, “I love you.”

As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. “Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness.” “I’m coming. Now! I’ll be there in 30 minutes,” she said. Click. She had hung up.

I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn’t concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door. Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.

“Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat.”

The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed. Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest. With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs. I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and breathed. He could not die! “O God,” I prayed. “His daughter is coming. Don’t let it end this way.”

The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing. I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. “God, don’t let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace.” “Stand back,” cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on, Mr. Williams’s chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead.

A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent. How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside-everywhere–seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?

When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone.

I took her hand and led her into the nurses’ lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking. “Janie, I’m so, so sorry,” I said. It was pitifully inadequate. “I never hated him, you know. I loved him,” she said. God, please help her, I thought.

Suddenly she whirled toward me. “I want to see him.” My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeeze her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside.

She pushed open the door. We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up.

It read:


My dearest Janie, I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too, Daddy _______________________________________________

The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glistenin her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast. “Thank You, God,” I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again — but there is not a moment to spare.

I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, “I love you”.

From me to you, do not wait until it is to late to tell those that you love that you do care. You might be missing the greatest joy of your life.

Author - Sue Monk Kidd (best-known for her novel "The Secret Life of Bees")
  1. Hi Kenny said:

    I love this story, I posted a story about my late daddy a few days ago. would you mind if I re-blog it to Life as we know it?


    • You can re-blog anything on the “Morning Story and Dilbert”!!! Take Care and God Bless 🙂 Kenny T


  2. jen said:

    Reblogged this on and commented:

    “To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.” -CS Lewis


  3. Reblogged this on Ava's Blog and commented:
    Wow, this is a very powerful blog post, I gotta call my Pops, I miss my family!!


    • Hey Jessica, The Author update had been made on the Post. Thanks you so much for your help!!! Take Care and God Bless 🙂 Kenny T


  4. Lyn said:

    Oh goodness, I forgot the tissues. How sad that she didn’t make it in time, but wonderful that her Daddy knew she wouldn’t and knew what she needed.


  5. "Working for Christ" said:

    Powerful stuff, Kenny T! Five cups plus! Thanks … have to go call my daughter now. Take care and God bless you! 🙂


  6. I have this story in my collection for dramatic reading interpretation. Last spring I had the joy of working with a former student whom I had coached in speech twenty plus years ago and she placed first in the competition. That story brought back memories because, you see, I found myself judging her daughter in a storytelling competition. Like her mother, the daughter did exceptionally well. We never know the talent we hold in our hands as teachers nor how God is going to mold and use the person. Every day counts. Every post counts for someone; we don’t know who it will be. Today, at least, I am one of them, Kenny.


  7. A great reminder that, “Don’t let it end this way” is best prevented by doing something now. Here’s to not waiting! Thanks Kenny T.


  8. Shekea said:

    To be forgiven, we are called to forgive…the ability to do so is rooted in love…and even when our hearts are hardened and its not so easy to forgive, all we have to do is ask for help to do so…thank God


  9. Oh so true a story, heart warming but yet not. Although my hopes and prayers have gone out to one I love in hospice, and anger kept us apart, anger is no more between us. I do not know where she is, I do not know if she now rests in God’s arms, or has taken a stand of faith standing strong letting God show His mercy and strength cleansing the cancer within. May she rest wherever she is Rev. Dr. Becky Sue Hartley. May she be blessed. THANK YOU KENNY for the post.


  10. Ian Gudger said:

    Touching. Very touching. I don’t have any more words. So well written. Also, thanks for stopping by my blog. So fun running into so many wonderful people. Thanks.


  11. thanks for the inspiring stories …. I makes me want to write a few notes today, instead of waiting until tomorrow!


  12. Thanks so much for this Kenny. My wife and I now know the full power of forgiveness to bring physical healing, even for someone disabled, as she was years ago. (For anyone interest and with time to read couple of pages see her testimony at


    • I read your comment about testimony of Forgiveness, got a fresh Cuppa, read the testimony and I was blessed!!! Take Care and God Bless 🙂 Kenny T


  13. Reblogged this on Richard's Watch and commented:
    Life’s far TOO short for NOT loving one another. I recall a morning’s teaching on a seminar on healing many years ago in Streatley, Berks, where a delegate asked if forgiveness has any relevance. He was thanked for mentioning it because that had been overlooked and the trainer said, “Forgiveness is key to healing. Remember, Jesus forgave the soldiers as they crucifed Him!” Then I knew why I’d kept being impressed with a memory of an image of one of the Stations of The Cross that I’d seen as a boy. In her Catholic Church, my mother used to sit close by the sculpted picture of Jesus being nailed to the cross! So thank you Lord for your marvellous sacrifice for each of us.


  14. Patty O said:

    What a sad, wonderful, heart wrenching and hope giving story. I just blogged last night about my Mom who passed away 8 years ago tomorrow. After years of not speaking much, I did my best to help in their (her and Dads) time of crisis. When faced with her alcoholic behavior I stepped back, only to stop in a week later to find her dying. It was a horrific scene that will forever be in my mind. I still struggle with guilt for not listening more to her needs rather than my own. Sometimes forgiving ourselves is the hardest thing to do. This time of year is always a struggle for me.

    And yet when I take the time to sit, cry, and think it all through, I know I did what I could. And things happen on God’s time, not our own. And so I forgive myself and I forgive her. We are human after all…perfectly imperfect, just as God made us…and someday He will call us all Home. Thank you for the blessing of this story. The world is truly blessed by you.


  15. Thank you for writing this Sue. Thank you for posting it Morningstory. You have touched my heart.


  16. A great reminder to “live without regret!”–one of my mottos! ❤


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