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So I'm behind with writing here. I spent from midnight to 8 am Friday in the ER, went home to shower then sleep for a couple of hours, then went back to the hospital.
Dave (my husband) had major surgery back in June, ran into complications, and has had multiple rehospitalizations. This is the fourth time in the hospital, third rehospitalization.
I know a lot of the nurses in the unit where he usually is, know them by name and by sight; I even know some of their stories. I know tonight my husband's nurse is Louis. He's been working there for four years. Once when my husband was in pain, Louis kept paging the doctor on call to get him some relief, not because Dave asked him to, but because he cared. I like Louis.
Today and yesterday Nikki was Dave's nurse. I like Nikki too. She's very matter-of-fact and competent but also, today she said we were the "fun patients," so how could I not like her? Then she said, hastily to me, "though I know you're not a patient." Nikki is helping a nursing student named Jasmine who trails along behind her and does things like administer Dave's medication while Nikki watches. I imagine it must feel daunting to deal with actual patients while you're still learning. Jasmine's quiet, but she does stuff like bring Dave a cup of ice right when he asks so Nikki doesn't have to.
It's the hospital, but the unit's not a bad place to be if you have to be in the hospital.
I know the patterns on the vinyl flooring in the unit, the way parts of it are green with a leaf pattern. I know the artwork hanging on the walls, the whiteboard where each patient gets to keep track of how many laps they do of the unit post-surgery. I know where the nurses' station is and how to get to both elevators. I know how the rooms are laid out, that there's a fold-out fwin murphy bed in each room where you can take a nap. I've watched the big analog clock on the wall in Dave's room. Time moves not at all, and then swiftly, all at once, hours pass. Time has different rules in the hospital.
When or if I'm hungry, my steps automatically take me from the unit to the cafeteria and back to the room. I know where to wave my hand to open the electronic doors. I know a water feature with a bench where I can sit and talk on the phone, or just hang out for a bit outside. I've sat on the wooden pews inside the tiny chapel and tried to meditate or pray.
Today Dave slept a lot. I think it was pain medicine, but I'm not sure. But even with him asleep, I mostly stayed in the room. I didn't want him to wake up and wonder where I'd gone. So I did embroidery, chatted online with friends, listened to music on my phone (with earbuds). I felt calm overall. He's stable, even with the issue that brought us in, and he's not in ICU or anything.
It's when I look into the future and don't know what will happen that I feel myself tense. When I think of what would happen if Dave caught COVID, when I think of being in the hospital, COVID central, even though the unit is far from all that. It's when I wonder if he'll need to have surgery again, if he's strong enough to survive it if he did.
I don't want to think like that, and then I'm back to OCD thinking. Will thinking he might not survive make it happen? Will thinking make it not happen? What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do?
This is the line of thought I shouldn't entertain if I want to get some good sleep (which I do).
So...stay in the moment. Tomorrow I'll get up, get ready, go back to the hospital.
There are other things to write about, but this is the story that I'm mostly living.
Dave (my husband) had major surgery back in June, ran into complications, and has had multiple rehospitalizations. This is the fourth time in the hospital, third rehospitalization.
I know a lot of the nurses in the unit where he usually is, know them by name and by sight; I even know some of their stories. I know tonight my husband's nurse is Louis. He's been working there for four years. Once when my husband was in pain, Louis kept paging the doctor on call to get him some relief, not because Dave asked him to, but because he cared. I like Louis.
Today and yesterday Nikki was Dave's nurse. I like Nikki too. She's very matter-of-fact and competent but also, today she said we were the "fun patients," so how could I not like her? Then she said, hastily to me, "though I know you're not a patient." Nikki is helping a nursing student named Jasmine who trails along behind her and does things like administer Dave's medication while Nikki watches. I imagine it must feel daunting to deal with actual patients while you're still learning. Jasmine's quiet, but she does stuff like bring Dave a cup of ice right when he asks so Nikki doesn't have to.
It's the hospital, but the unit's not a bad place to be if you have to be in the hospital.
I know the patterns on the vinyl flooring in the unit, the way parts of it are green with a leaf pattern. I know the artwork hanging on the walls, the whiteboard where each patient gets to keep track of how many laps they do of the unit post-surgery. I know where the nurses' station is and how to get to both elevators. I know how the rooms are laid out, that there's a fold-out fwin murphy bed in each room where you can take a nap. I've watched the big analog clock on the wall in Dave's room. Time moves not at all, and then swiftly, all at once, hours pass. Time has different rules in the hospital.
When or if I'm hungry, my steps automatically take me from the unit to the cafeteria and back to the room. I know where to wave my hand to open the electronic doors. I know a water feature with a bench where I can sit and talk on the phone, or just hang out for a bit outside. I've sat on the wooden pews inside the tiny chapel and tried to meditate or pray.
Today Dave slept a lot. I think it was pain medicine, but I'm not sure. But even with him asleep, I mostly stayed in the room. I didn't want him to wake up and wonder where I'd gone. So I did embroidery, chatted online with friends, listened to music on my phone (with earbuds). I felt calm overall. He's stable, even with the issue that brought us in, and he's not in ICU or anything.
It's when I look into the future and don't know what will happen that I feel myself tense. When I think of what would happen if Dave caught COVID, when I think of being in the hospital, COVID central, even though the unit is far from all that. It's when I wonder if he'll need to have surgery again, if he's strong enough to survive it if he did.
I don't want to think like that, and then I'm back to OCD thinking. Will thinking he might not survive make it happen? Will thinking make it not happen? What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do?
This is the line of thought I shouldn't entertain if I want to get some good sleep (which I do).
So...stay in the moment. Tomorrow I'll get up, get ready, go back to the hospital.
There are other things to write about, but this is the story that I'm mostly living.