8/3/2011

The machines made low beeping sounds, the one with the hose whooshed in a rhythmic way. I could hear the chatter of the nurses and doctors out in the nurses’ station, joking and laughing. I held my dad’s hand. It didn’t squeeze back, it was limp, like a doll’s hand. Soft, almost rubbery. These hands held me as a baby, guided my bike down the road as I went for the first time without training wheels. Held my hand as he walked me down the aisle to my husband. Now it was still, he was still. He looked peaceful at least. It did still look like him. I was glad. I’ve seen some people whose face got so swollen that the tape and tube for the vent made them unrecognizable. I looked at his face, really stared, a way that you never could normally without fear of the person waking up and catching you staring at them. I wanted to memorize him, his face, even the smell of his shampoo and aftershave combo that made a unique scent to him. This might be one of the last times I ever see him. Someday, maybe this week, he might be buried forever and I’ll never see him again. That thought made me gag, almost wretch, I couldn’t imagine never seeing him again. Never hearing his voice. I was somewhat relieved when I realized I still had a voice message from him on my phone.

My hand was soaked. I didn’t realize that I was crying, it was an ugly cry too. My hands, his hand, my lap from sitting, all soaked in tears.

8/5/2011

Lessons Learned as a Nurse, Now Family Member

As she moved around his bed she never acted as though I was in the way. She treated me as an extension of him, that I was right where I was supposed to be. She was smart, thoughtful. But there was a delicacy of touch, a softness in her manner. This didn’t make her weaker or less competent. I was ashamed looking at her. I thought about all the times I was more concerned that the patient and their families understood that even though I was the nurse and not the doctor, I was just as smart. I didn’t want to be relegated to “just” being in charge of sponge baths and making beds. My stomach sank as I remembered being so irritated that a daughter asked me if I was going to shave her dad because he didn’t like looking scruffy. I explained at the time that it was far more important to ensure that the pilot balloon for his breathing tube not get accidentally cut as I had seen once happen. That had been a rare occurrence and could be avoided when I really thought about it. I was a pompous ass. My dad right now had a nice smooth shave and fresh tape for his tubing. His hair was combed just like he would normally have it. He had a light scent of lotion. His nurse hung another bag of antibiotics quietly. She didn’t interrupt my time with explaining all she was doing so I knew all the “important” things she was so busy with. I vowed right there that I would change my attitude when I went back to work.

8/6/2011

Running felt good. It was like a release. I blared the music in my headphones and let it pump through my core. My breath filled me, almost pushed everything else out. It felt good. The waiting room, the phone, the constant talk about strokes, brain, bleeding, rehab, funeral plans, they were behind me. I ran from it and pushed the questions, plans, anxiety out of my head. I concentrated on the breaths, the footsteps, the trees and houses. The sweat started to flow, purging my system. No one could talk to me here, ask me questions, tell me stuff. No numbers, temperatures, vital signs. The song rocked louder, I ran faster, pushing myself. This will undo all the sitting in the waiting room, the muscles that continuously shook my leg when I was anxious. The constant pumping of my leg up and down while waiting around. The rest of my body just tensed. The waiting room. Waiting for what? I now know the expectant glances that I was used to whenever I just walked by at work, not realizing that every time I passed someone held their breath. Wondering is she coming for us? What’s going on? What do we wait for in that room anyway? Is it control? That anything could happen if we were at home but since we’re here in the building our loved one won’t code, won’t have post-op complications, won’t start bleeding again? I know no one’s going to come in and say “Hey, it’s all just been a nightmare. Your dad is fine, you can wake up now.” We wait. Your body sits, tense, anxious. That’s why these runs are such a release. Move the static out, pump the blood, run.