Friday was a standard day for the clinic. I was able to leave on time and drove through sporadic rain showers that promised a change in seasons. Traffic was relatively light and the car was able to drive itself all the way to the parking garage. I’m learning the patterns of staff and visitors and if I time it right I can usually choose my parking space. Waiting on the elevator to come up or down is the most interesting experience. It jolts and clangs and often stops at each floor instead of going straight to the only chosen level. There are nights with buttons have been pushed on upper floors and the other lift gets to the signal first, but my elevator still dutifully goes to answer the call. Sometimes the door closes and the ride hesitates, like it’s thinking. I count the tiles on the floor and listen to the cable whirring around the pulley system. A man gets on, carrying his coat and umbrella, dressed in a suit with polished shoes. He’s well- heeled and confident, has business to attend to, is in a hurry. The doors press closed, we rise to the first level, the box we travel in suddenly jolts, stops, we hear a clang, a groan, a pause …and then we’re rising again. He makes eye contact and almost giggles, nervous and probably embarrassed that his spontaneous ‘oh!’ had harmonized with mine. Chit chat for a second and then he’s gone. I walk the maze again, passing the conversations and wondering why humans tend to waddle as we age. We often rock from side to side, slow and laboring, grunting as we move in double file toward the doors to the plaza. Side by side, almost touching, but intentionally ignoring each other and disengaging from the line that is together but not connected. Pedestrians heading for the same building that stacks rooms of people side by side and floor to floor but remaining autonomous and isolated in the crowd. Staff does not look up to greet me as I pass quickly by their nest. Honey is at the toe of their boot shaped unit and I prefer to save my conversation for him. He’s impatient with me as I gown and glove and talks to me through the door to the hall. He has things to do and needs to be met and I hurry to get in. He “needs his glasses, can I give him tissue, did I bring any cards, he needs to sit up, turn off the light, move my legs, help me up, I’ll sit in the small chair, just lift me, I can stand….”. I give him the call button so that he can call the nurse…he needs to get used to getting help when no one is in the room. Heavy bandages patch across his back and I tie the strings to his hospital gown to provide him some semblance of dignity. He’s sitting up on the side of the bed. I brace him with pillows. He can’t adjust himself. He has tubes and wires and strings and connections coming from both arms, hands, chest, head and I have to be careful not to move too fast or he’ll disconnect and he’s frustrated and wants to move before the staff arrive. I can’t lift or support him. I feel his angst and want to help but I have nothing to offer. I tell him that help will come soon. Time is slow in his room. He tries, but can’t twist to see the clock. 30 minutes later a tiny little waif comes to the curtained door. “Did you need help?” I grit my teeth to chew up the sarcasm that wants to snap out at her. This is not her fault. She is a nurse or aide who has been hired by an unknown corporation manager to make money for the shareholders. Again, my head goes back to Jack N’s character in the Bucket List. “I’m not running a hotel, I’m running a hospital and we’re here to make money”. She has a line of patients up and down the hall who are not able to turn or feed themselves, who need soiled linens changed and medications given. Most seem worse than Honey when I catch glimpses of them when I pass half closed doors. This unit is not a happy place. It’s not a place of light and hope and fellowship. It’s like a warehouse filled with returned packages that have been dropped and dented, torn and soiled, some have been opened and re-taped shut to return to sender. I smile and assure the responder that we’re fine and tell her what he wants and she gathers staff and equipment announcing almost as a threat, “you’ll be up about 2 hours.”. I’m confused. Instead of a chair, another bed is rolled in. Honey is put back in bed and I see his face. I think he’s going to cry but he submits and I watch. The waif adjusts and fits both beds together and locks them in place. I ask questions that she doesn’t have time to answer and go with the flow. Honey is pulled, bedclothes and all onto the new shelf and tied down after some minor positioning adjustments. The beds are pulled apart and waif starts pushing buttons and pulling levers and in seconds the new shelf is reshaped into a chair complete with arm and foot rests. I’m very glad I had bitten my tongue. Honey, sitting high above us on this transformer throne, relaxes and after another pedal is kicked, is brought back down to a social level. I help change his bed, he watches the clock. I file his nails, he watches the clock. He’s uncomfortable. I move his leg and he cries out. “just stiff’ he says when I put his foot back down on the rest. He wiggles but can’t get adjusted. I comb his hair. I shave him, “don’t try to cut my hair”. He barely tolerates the grooming. “I want to go back to bed” It hasn’t been an hour, but I hand him the call light. He pushes the red button with the white cross stamped on it and we look at each other. He can read my mind but doesn’t comment. He knows my heart, but is silent. We wait. I look out at the empty hall. I listen to pages and footsteps in another area echoing in the tunnel outside the curtains. We wait. I wash his face and gather linens. We wait. I chit chat and bore him with my nothing talk. We wait. He watches the clock. I try to get the chair to reverse. It doesn’t work for me. We wait. I finally lean close to his ear and tell him that I love him, that it will be okay, that God has a plan, that I will not leave him and he tells me that he loves me. He does not hug me or try to comfort the storm…he just waits. Finally a different staffer comes and together we get him transferred and as comfortable as possible. He’s very tired and comments on how uncomfortable the tubings are, but does not whine. It’s a statement that is put back in its box again. The IV machine beeps without mercy, the brick wall outside the window stares back at our reflections, the pseudo chair is rolled away and we are left alone to our goodbyes. I hope that he sleeps, but know that it’s not likely. He misses his cats that curl up on his chest and legs in the night. He misses the familiar noise of his own house and calling me early in the morning to see if I’ll stop by. I hold his hand, we pray, I leave. It’s becoming a standard day in his clinic.
Posted on: Mon, 06 Oct 2014 19:11:43 +0000
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