This place is full of big moments. Of split second decisions that make the difference between things not going well, and everything working out perfectly.
These moments are made possible by those not in the spotlight, those who don’t get the credit. But who do it anyway, just like they have for the past 100 years.
Read MoreWhen Neil Harrison was born, he weighed in at a mere 930 grams–or slightly more than a pound and a half. The son and first child of Deborah and Will Harrison, Neil was–at the time–the youngest surviving baby to be born at St. Charles Bend. Even by modern standards of neonatal care, Neil’s chance of survival at that early age would only be 80 percent, and he’d be faced with a 75 percent chance of a long-term disability.
What’s so most remarkable, then, about Neil’s birth story was the year in which he was born: 1982.
At 26 weeks pregnant, Deborah Harrison called her doctor to let her know she wasn’t feeling well. Though she didn’t realize it at the time, she was having symptoms of labor. Her doctor recommended that she immediately check-in at St. Charles.
“I was in complete denial and shock,” said Deborah. “I kept thinking, ‘I’m 26 weeks, I cannot be in labor.’”
For three days, a team of doctors and nurses worked around the clock to prevent Deborah from having her baby so soon.
“Anyone involved in my case was there all the time checking in on me, talking through all the possibilities,” she recalled. “They said, ‘We’ve never delivered a baby this young. But we’ll do everything we can.’”
Doctors’ prediction for Neil was grim: the odds were 50-50 that he’d survive being born at 26 weeks.
After three days of labor, Deborah’s health began to deteriorate. Her doctors recommended that she be flown to a children’s hospital in Portland, which was better equipped to deal with premature babies. But Deborah chose to stay at St. Charles.
Hours later, on May 19, Neil was born. He was whisked away to a makeshift neonatal intensive care unit, or NICU, and in her utter exhaustion Deborah didn’t know whether her baby was still alive.
“All the staff was so unbelievable,” Deborah said, choking up as she recounted the story, “doing everything they possibly could to save him.”
Early on, Neil’s fragile grip on life was touch-and-go. He faced numerous complications.
“It happened on several occasions that we called in the priest,” Deborah remembered. “To this day, it’s just a miracle.”
After three months at the hospital and weighing in at 3 ½ pounds, the Harrisons were finally able to take their baby home.
Though he was a late bloomer physically and required glasses as a youngster, Neil’s record-setting birth would have few long-lasting effects on his quality of life.
The Harrisons later relocated to Portland, where Neil graduated from Sunset High School and earned an associate’s degree from Portland Community College.
Now 35, Neil says the only major complication he’s experienced as an adult was a detached retina, which he had surgically repaired when he was 20.
Even by 2018 standards, Neil’s birth remains a remarkable story of faith and determination when faced with long odds.
“Its an interesting conversation starter, that’s for sure,” said Neil. “People are just amazed by it.”
“There were four pediatricians, and they kept telling me that though they’d never saved a baby this size, they were committed to doing everything they could. They said, ‘Emmanuel was the best place to be.’ I prayed about it, and said: ‘I have faith in all of you, and I’m not leaving this hospital.’ With the quality of care I was getting, I just knew it was the right place to be. That’s why I chose not to leave.”
Read MoreFor years, Bill Danaher has provided spiritual care for patients and their families during their time at St. Charles.
As one of the health system’s long-time chaplains, Danaher said he has witnessed extraordinary acts of lifegiving by St. Charles caregivers every day, most of which went largely unnoticed.
“And they would look at it like another ordinary day,” he said. “There is tremendous need, and tremendous people working here to help meet those needs.”
St. Charles’ commitment to compassionate care, he said, is deeply rooted in its humble beginnings. The hospital was founded in 1918 on the banks of the Deschutes River by five Catholic nuns who made it their mission to care for all, or care for none.
As the hospital and the community grew, the torch for compassionate care was passed to Sister Catherine Hellmann, possibly the most well-known and storied figure in St. Charles’ history.
Hellmann first arrived in Bend in 1948, and served as the hospital’s nursing supervisor for three years. After attending management school at the encouragement of her mother superior, Hellmann then returned to serve as CEO from 1969 to 1995. Hellmann was instrumental in the decision to move the hospital in the early 1970s from its cramped downtown location to it current location in east Bend.
Danaher recalls a light-hearted story that Hellmann shared with him regarding the old hospital’s fire escape plan.
“The plan was to use plywood boards and take a mattress with a patient on it, and slide them out of the hospital if it was on fire.”
One winter, when the boards were covered in snow and ice, Hellmann and another nurse decided to go for a joyride — using a bedpan to slide down the board. The fun ended quickly, says Danaher, when the nurse broke her arm.
Danaher compares the staff who worked at St. Charles during the Hellmann era to jet fighters. “They were just flying fast and low. They were here all weekend and late at night.”
Danaher said one evening Hellmann approached a staff member working late, typing away in the dark by herself.
“Sister Catherine asked: ‘What is it you can’t let go of? What are you missing in your life that you can’t live life? You better have a life outside of here, or you’ll have nothing to bring in here.’”
“Sister Catherine,” Danaher said, “was the epitome of the spirit that the founding nuns brought to this hospital — a spirit that continues today with so many people who work here, and will continue to work here long after I’m gone.”
Read MoreSusan Long joined St. Charles Bend fresh out of nursing school and spent her entire 38-year nursing career working on the hospital’s medical unit. But her connection to St. Charles goes even deeper. She was born at St. Charles, bore her children here, watched her father die here and expects that some day her life might end here.
“For me, the hospital is a family thing,” she said. “And I’ve always treated my patients as I would want to be treated.”
So it’s safe to say that Long has experienced A LOT during her time at St. Charles.
But one patient, she remembers, stands out the most.
The man was an eastern Oregon cattle rancher with terminal cancer. Before modern hospice and palliative care, long-term cancer patients were cared for continuously at the hospital. Because the rancher was at the hospital for four months, Long and other members of his medical team got to know him and his family well.
“He didn’t like being confined to the hospital,” Long recalls. “But because I also raised livestock, we had a connection. We often discussed changing irrigation pipes, just to pass the time.”
As the end of his life drew near, the rancher pleaded with Long to be allowed to go home.
“I want to be with my horses,” Long remembers him saying. “I want to be outside.”
The owner of a local mortuary offered to fly the cattle rancher home in a private plane. But there were concerns that because of his high oxygen needs and a lung infection the rancher might die en route without his family.
So Long worked with the rancher’s family and a team of nurses around the clock to find a way for him to live out his final hours on one of the hospital’s scenic outdoor patios.
“This hadn’t been done before,” she recalls. “His wife and sons had to wear masks because we weren’t sure what kind of lung infection he had. Outside, they could take their masks off and smile and talk.”
Long also went floor to floor to ensure any patient with a view of the patio wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.
“It was so special for that family to be able to have that moment outside of the hospital, without masks, and to be able to die with dignity,” she said.
“We are all going to be faced with illness,” Long continued. “Faced with the words ‘there’s nothing more we can do.’ But to have people around you to support you in this transition, to have lives celebrated … that’s what I will always remember most about this place.”
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