Yes, that is the truth. I did spend my summer in the hospital, but I wasn’t the patient! That is not to say that I haven’t had my share of being in the hospital bed days and nights at Overlook and other medical centers. No, I have a routine and road map for how that goes, and my overnight bag is always at the ready. In fact, I never take for granted the ability to decide where I want to sleep, rather than being too sick to think about it. But this time, it was a dearly loved one with pneumonia and was in the Critical Care Unit, and I did spend many days and nights watching her breathe, willing her to breathe, and appreciating every breath she took. Watching the countless machines and medical personnel who kept her alive was a daily, if not hourly ritual, as was reading the faces and demeanor of every person who washed their hands before touching this most treasured woman. In
reality, I have never had a more difficult summer, and still feel the sadness around it, even now, months after!
What I want to tell you is that I met so many people in the critical area of the hospital, some who saw patients live, and some who saw patients die. And no, I am not talking about those amazing men and women who give their life over to caring for my loved one and others, since they have made the choice to live in this untenable world that crosses back and forth between life and death, suffering and joy. No, I am actually referring to all of us who gathered in the Waiting Rooms with coffee in hand, bracing ourselves for what was to come next. A camaraderie none of us desired. Just the two words strung together, LIFE and SUPPORT, were words that frightened even the fiercest of us. Just the action of ringing the bell asking permission to lay eyes on someone who may not have opened theirs in weeks. Just the recognition that five minutes may be all we can spend at her bedside, after
waiting for hours to see what her coloring is today, and just the knowledge that the sound of an alarm may emanate from our dearest, extolling the message that something very frightening is occurring. These were all met with a stomach lurching reaction, leading to a strength we never knew we had, yet needed to rely upon like little before this.
The family was together this summer, as we created a quasi-schedule to be at the hospital day and night, in and out…sometimes we were there waiting or watching, three times a day. It was exhausting in its routine. Rushing to her room in the morning, wondering what had transpired throughout the night. Breathless by the time we reached her, we then settled in to watch and wait, and watch and wait. And for what did we watch and wait? For the machines, or faces of those who understood, to tell us what was next…what was to come. Both in need of and in fear of those words, we did what we could for ourselves, and each other. We were as kind to each other as we could be. We were as loving. We understood each others pain and did our best to support. We struggled with the boredom of the day. And we struggled with the fear that she wouldn’t be here another day. We ate snacks and meals because that was familiar to us, and we knew it was what she would have wanted of us. We grew closer and closer and felt the power of becoming one as we faced the rest of the medical world. One day we were told she was teetering between two worlds, while soon after, we were told she looked
stronger and better than she had since she arrived in the unit.
The roller coaster of the summer finally gave way to her being well enough to leave the Critical Care Unit and go to a step-down unit on a medical floor. She was to recuperate, and suddenly, we were adjusting to another routine, for which we were very grateful! To those nurses on the floor, we must have appeared to be overbearing in our concern. They only saw her as healing and getting stronger.
They might have had no idea what we had experienced those several weeks.
The family had learned an entirely new language…that of blood pressure, medications, tubes, ventilator sounds, technicians, therapists. But for her, the only language that mattered was one of love, and how much she means to us.