Evening star., 1962-05-21
JIM BISHOP:
REPORTER

MIAMI, Fla. The word
spreads. 1t was on local radio
stations and television within
an hour. John NJ. Bishop, rs.
retired police lieutenant, had
suffered a heart attack at
West End, Grand Bahama,
and was now in jackson Me-
mortal Hospital.
The sympathy of strangers
is very sweet. Phone calls
offering help came from
everywhere. A woman sent a
poem and a prayer. Some
offered financial help; a man
named Schwartz offered a
suite Of rooms free at the
New Everglades. You'll be
closer to the hospital" Wom-
en- offered to watch the chill
dren. Miami Beach police
sent flowers.
THE ACTION in Room
1885 is impossible to describe
DR.. Pedro Greer and DR..
Maurice Rich supervised tests.
The chart began to show
pages of notes. Night orders.
Day orders. EKGs. X-rays.
Oxygen at 9. Medication.
Liquids. Sip through q straw.
Breathe through a green tube.
A little blood out of the arm;
a shot into the back.
Patient on the critical list.
Call the doctor. Stop the
medication. Try something
new. Pulse stronger at 63.
Arms cold. He whispers that
his stomach hurts. He shows
digitalis intoxication. Cathe-
ter, please. Some uremia.
A little fluid in the lungs.
Let's not try anything
radical with this patient. Too
old. Take one thing at a
time. Congestive heart fail
ure first. One thing at a
time. Nice and slow.
1t was like that for days.
Inch by inch. John Bishop
began to climb back up. The
eyes flickered open. They
looked at Kelly. One Of them
winked. The man was max
ing his own fight. He heard
the nurse say he needed
fluids. Beer" he said, form
ing the word slowly. Get
me a BARRE"
He received extreme unc-
ton, the heavenly passport,
and he felt better. The pa
tient never mentioned any
thing about his chances Of
living, but I saw the linger-
ing, longing look in his eyes
and I knew that he didn't
think he would make 1t. His
only disappointment was that
he was far from home.
The days dragged. The
televiSion set on the dresser
remained blank. For the first
time in 40 years, he did not
care about the New York
Yankees. On the fifth night,
he had scotch and water
through a bent straw. John
Bishop couldn't believe it.
The doctor had said that it
wouldn't hurt him, and it
might do a little good.
In the hall. I talked to the
doctor. Hes still In heart
failure" he said. Everything
depends on how much heart
muscle he has left" I had
thought that II my father
recovered, it would be grad
ual and sort Of permanent.
I was learning something
grim. He would not recover
fully. Much of the heart
muscle was flaccid, dead. No
one could predict what would
happen, but the chances were
that he would. with luck. live
out his remaining time in a
wheelchair, out Of breath at
the slightest exertion.
JOHN BISHOP is not the
type for that life. He had
once been a flashy second
baseman, a rugby player, a
lieutenant Of police with big
strides, a man who held up
one end Of a piano while my
mother slipped a rug under it.
His will had been written
a long time ago. 1t disposed
of his cherished possessions
among his three children and,
at the bottom, it said: "No
tears. No grief. In my time
I have lived a life and half
maybe two-and there is
nothing to feel bad about.
Please take sufficient cash to
buy dinner and a drink for
my friends"