04/26/2022
Lynn Murphy Mark
Visiting hours
My Jan is in the hospital down the street. She has been there since April 15, trying to recover from pneumonia and some other systems’ malfunctions. The fact that she’s been in this long is absolute proof that she is a sick cookie. I went to Puerto Rico while she was there so I could travel with the certainty that she was being taken care of. Before I left for three days with my daughter I was conflicted about going, but Jan was insistent. We talked three or four times a day. Friends called her and came to visit. That I was able to go to San Juan was a gift that I will not forget.
As I approach the hospital’s main entrance I am re-living what happened 41 years ago at this exact time of year. My mother was hospitalized for COPD from years of heavy smoking. She, however, did not improve; after many times on and off a ventilator she decided she had enough. She died quietly on the Thursday after Mother’s Day. I was at her bedside as she slipped away. I was pregnant with my first child, the grandchild that my mom had begged for for years. She had only gotten to feel Jackie kick and move around.
When someone is in the hospital, seriously ill, every minute carries the possibility of a phone call from the staff after something untoward has happened. I got one of those calls from Jan’s doctor. Jan had aspirated and needed to be intubated and put on a ventilator during the night. She was transferred to the ICU. That old, old dread materialized and I went to be with her, just imagining how frightened she might be. But, by the time I got there she was off the vent and doing better. This incident, however, will no doubt extend her stay.
After getting instructions on how to find the ICU I eventually found the elevators leading to her floor. There were three of us getting on: a woman in scrubs with a name tag, a youngish man, and myself. The staff member pushed our button for the 6th floor. She got off on 3. I got a closer look at the young man and saw that tears were flowing down his face. We exchanged that look that only visitors to ICU have in common – a mix of sympathy and understanding and companionship. But this man was in much deeper agony. When I made eye contact and smiled he said these words, “Right now they are taking my girlfriend’s organs.” The only possible answer to that is “I am so sorry.” I asked if anyone was with him and he told me his parents were in the lobby.
He looked lost and confused and grief stricken. I just kept saying I was sorry. Seems like a pittance of comfort but when our ride was over, he thanked me. We both entered the ICU and I found Jan’s room. I never saw him again but I won’t soon forget him.
Jan was awake and I felt a surge of relief. She is connected to monitors and oxygen and IV machines, but no ventilator. The nurse told me Jan had weaned off of it very well. I took in the spare nature of the room, all machines and one visitor’s chair. I sat there and we talked a little. Her voice is quiet and I was having trouble hearing her over the hiss of the oxygen. Nurses, very nice, came and went. I admire ICU nurses for all of their technical expertise, mixed with varying degrees of compassion. Both are important.
Last night I got one of those phone calls that jerked me out of a sound sleep. The phone was charging in the bathroom, so I just missed getting to it in time. I immediately called back and Nurse Sophie answered, “She’s OK.” Another surge of relief. Anyway it turns out that her blood count is low enough to warrant a blood transfusion and Jan wanted them to call and tell me that. I was grateful that this was the only reason for such a call. Nurse Sophie’s voice was calm and reassuring. I remembered all of the times I used that very tone of voice with someone who was worried and scared. It is sometimes the best medicine.