Ann Matzke

What Losing the 1979 World Series Taught Me About Life and Death

I was green the fall of 1979 and when I say green, I mean, I was a new student starting an internship a thousand miles from home. It was early October, the same fall when the Baltimore Orioles faced the Pittsburgh Pirates in the World Series. I could see the lights of the Memorial Stadium, affectionately called the old house on 23rd Street, from my dorm window and hear the occasional roar of the crowd and sometimes the very distant tune of “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge, adopted by the series. Much like the players on those fall evenings, I felt the pressure to perform, prove myself, and my abilities at one of the largest teaching hospitals in the country.

An early rotation took me to the infant and toddler unit. A hall with small rooms tucked on either side with metal cribs, one, maybe two parents sitting bedside, holding a small, medically fragile infant or toddler in their arms attached to oxygen, tubes, lines, with small boards taped to a hand or foot to keep an extremity straight and an IV in place. Toys sprinkled in cribs to maintain some sense of normalcy, a prescribed form of treatment to help prevent a child’s regression and promote normal growth and development. Toys were tools used as a key distraction during difficult blood draws or other bedside procedures and just for playing.

At twenty-two, I didn’t know a thing about infants. Sure, I’d babysat years ago but mainly with school-age children. In college, I’d taken courses in early child development. So, I felt like I had a firm foundation of the stages of normal growth and development for healthy children and could now compare it to the profound impact of illness and hospitalization for children. Without a doubt, this new experience left me feeling exposed, under the bright lights, and just a little out of my league. 

Often parents stood vigil with blank looks on their faces watching their sick child. I couldn’t begin to imagine what they were facing with possibly their first child or fifth child along with so many other things to worry about. Sometimes, you’d see a rosary dangling in a mother’s hand. A bookmarked bible on a bedside table lost in the clutter of old paper cups, small packets of leftover salt and pepper from meals eaten by the bedside. Occasionally, a priest or the hospital chaplain would come through the unit. I learned quickly watching the tight huddle of a baptism or as last rites were whispered in a clutch of hurting souls. 

As time went by, I watched as parents would support one another much like players on the same team in their uniforms of yellow cloth gowns covering days of rumpled clothing. And for those discharged there were the familiar, but sad goodbyes. You could see the joy and relief in the family leaving like a player hitting a home run. And the envy as the others stayed, waiting in the lineup for their turn at bat. 

At the end of the hall were the isolation rooms. In one stark and empty-looking room an infant roughly seven or eight months old but the size of a two-month-old lay overlooked. The room was void of color, a few toys stacked at the foot of the crib, and noticeably—no parent present. I’d walked by the room, wondering about the situation, picking up bits and pieces during morning rounds. The diagnosis was terminal, but the infant might possibly live for a few more months with the little bit of treatment that was available. One day, as the rookie on the team, I volunteered to assess and work with the infant. Offering that I knew: the mom was young, a single parent. She worked a couple jobs. Didn’t have a house phone, so you had to call the neighbor and leave a message. She didn’t visit often, usually later in the evening. I felt strongly that we needed to do something.  

The lead specialist nodded, giving me a hard look, not offering to take any other child off my list. I’d have to fit this one in. I knew my greenness was front and center under her scrutiny. I might as well have been a relief pitcher called up with no warmup. The unit was full, and we were all stretched with a full caseload. Joy was my mentor, an experienced Child Life Specialist with a wealth of knowledge. I would watch  as her face lit up when she interacted with each small patient, often getting a smile in return or a gurgle of laughs. I was envious of her ability to make contact, develop trust so easily, and her ability to have instant rapport with parents. I wanted to be like her. 

We stood at the door of the isolation room as Joy quizzed me about the child’s condition and what I thought I might be able to do. I’m sure I was rambling as I pulled on a yellow cloth gown, hoping to cover up my own vulnerability. More than anything, I couldn’t stand to see the infant alone. Maybe, since I knew what it was like to be abandoned myself. I worked to tie on my mask and slip on gloves like a rookie preparing to bat as I rambled on. 

Joy didn’t prepare me for the horrific smell we faced as she opened the second door leading into the isolation room. I forced down a gag and walked in quickly. Instantly, the small patient turned away from us, rolling toward the blank wall, pulling up its small legs against its distended belly. Joy put down the railing, trying her best but she could not coax the infant to turn or open her eyes. Joy told me we wouldn’t try to hold her until she didn’t turn away from us and would open her eyes. I knew my goal. 

I stood at the bedside, leaning into the crib and using a soft voice as I talked. Her eyes remained closed. I could see a road map of blue veins in her eye lids. In the fetal position she looked like a fledgling baby bird. I kept talking because I sensed she was listening. I talked about anything that came to mind including the first game of the series from the night before. How I could see the bright lights of the stadium and hear the occasional cheers. I told Baby Bird how many runs Baltimore had to win the game. Slowly, I could see her arms and legs relax but she didn’t turn towards me or open her eyes.

When I ran out of things to say about the game, I softly hummed “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and after a few times I transitioned to “We Are Family,” by Sister Sledge, the song adopted by the National League Pittsburgh Pirate for the series. I knew every word by this time and softly sang, my vocal ability being no match for today’s The Voice competition, but it didn’t seem to matter. 

The next three games were played in Pittsburgh at River Stadium. Pittsburg won one and Baltimore two. I continued each day explaining to Baby Bird what happened game by game, and I continued to sing or hum “We Are Family.” Every morning on my way through the hospital lobby, I’d slow down long enough and let my fingertips brush the stone garment on the larger-than-life statue of Jesus with outstretched arms, saying a prayer Baby Bird would still be alive when I reached the unit. 

For Game 5 the teams returned to Baltimore. With my dorm window open I took in the cool breeze and enjoyed the occasional cheers, still feeling the excitement from the great strides made that day as Baby Bird didn’t turn to the wall when I walked into the room. Even though she didn’t open her eyes, I felt the joy of what it must be like to hit a fly ball far into the outfield. 

Then came Game 6 of the series; Baby Bird’s eyes were open when I walked into her room that morning. My heart flew into my throat like a pop fly. I pressed the call button, asking the unit secretary to send Joy into the room. It was a monumental day as I was able to hold Baby Bird for the first time. I felt such excitement like I was standing on the pitcher’s mound of a crowded stadium, and everyone was singing “We Are Family” even though her eyes closed as soon as I sat down and slowly rocked. 

The next day, the final game of the series loomed over us. The hospital staff was a sea of orange and black and the talk all day was of the big game. The series was tied, Baltimore and Pittsburgh had each won three games. I was able to hold Baby Bird upright against my chest, her head nuzzled on my shoulder as we rocked. I told Baby Bird all about the upcoming game and what was at stake. She squirmed, preferring to be rocked without my play-by-play. The day passed slowly as my anticipation grew, knowing what could happen next. 

That evening, several of us huddled around a radio listening to the game. At dusk, the street below was empty, the sound of traffic died down, and through the open window we could hear the crowd. Baltimore scored but Pittsburgh went ahead in the sixth inning with a two-run homer and again in the ninth.  Baltimore couldn’t come back. The series was over. The next morning, as my fingers lingered on the cold stone of Jesus’ garment, I tried to figure out how I could tell Baby Bird what happened, trying to think about how to put a positive spin on the loss. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. 

When I reached the unit all of the orange and black decorations looked old and out of place, but Joy stood waiting for me. She walked with me, telling me how Baby Bird took a turn for the worse and died last night about the time the final game was over. They’d been able to reach Mom, and she was there, Baby Bird had opened her eyes for a few minutes. We stopped by the door of what had been her isolation room. I couldn’t help but notice a new patient occupied the room. I looked at Joy and I didn’t know what to say. 

Even though Baltimore lost the city rallied, celebrating, helping us all to overcome the letdown. The celebration extended to the hospital. Several large sheet cakes were delivered. Set side-by-side they filled the length of a stretcher. One of the team’s PR people wheeled the stretcher as the team walked through the hospital handing out slices. You’d never know they’d lost by the way they smiled and joked with the parents, signing autographs with kids, posing for pictures with staff; their attitude was of winners, not losers. 

Caught up in the team visit and their celebration attitude of next year will be even better; I struggled with the idea of losing the battle with Baby Bird. For her there would be no next year. Joy reminded me later, we have to look at our job as winners in this game of illness and disease, the help we offer is far greater than our losses. We do make a difference in our patients’ lives. We can’t always control the outcome but in the moment, we are providing valuable care as a part of the healthcare team. 

Joy’s smile and warm praise in my final evaluation reminded me of the progress I’d made and treating Baby Bird. Like the Baltimore players, who were looking forward to next year. I, too, grew from this experience with death. It was a whole new game. I realized I’d moved up to the big league whether I felt prepared or not. 

I felt less green with each new rotation, feeling more comfortable as a professional. Many mornings, on my walk through the hospital lobby, I didn’t feel compelled to touch Jesus’ garment, but I always said a silent thank you for my experiences. Even though Memorial Stadium remained dark the words to “We Are Family” remained. Yes, we—the healthcare professionals—were family as we treated patients and families. We needed each other, and my arms never forget the winning feeling of holding and comforting Baby Bird so she wasn’t alone, even for a few days.