A tense ride on 93-S to Boston. Why at 10:00 am is there
such a backup? Tom alternates between vomiting, moaning, and falling asleep. We
try to hold his hand while he vomits. We try to make sure he’s breathing, that
it’s genuine dozing, not unconsciousness. Not that he’s ever slipped into
unconsciousness on our watch, but you never know.
It all started a couple days ago with a peculiar headache.
Localized to above the left eye, this came on out of nowhere. While it was
uncomfortable, Tom was able to go to school and also get to a couple of
appointments including physical therapy. But by Friday morning, the pain became
intense, the intensity brought nausea, and then vomiting. Early morning call to
Boston, they say to bring him in to the clinic office (as opposed to the ED,
where he’d sit for too long).
High blood pressure was suspect. Now Tom has never had
problems with either a headaches or high BP until this week, so this is all
new, and frankly, quite scary. One of the first things Tom whispered to me in
the early morning was, “do you think I’m having an aneurism?”
Dear God, I flippin’ hope not.
Hours later, Tom is resting in a room on 10 South, his usual
floor. And to think that just three days previous, he and I were visiting a
friend recovering from surgery on the Northwest wing of this same floor. I know
Tom was enjoying being a visitor for a change, instead of a patient. Now he’s
the one in the bed. Again.
Oh look, a uniformed officer stands guard at a patient’s
doorway in the room across the hall. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a cop or
hospital security standing in the doorway of a room, either on a floor or in the
ED, you know, big city hospital and all that. (It’s never clear though, exactly
who is being guarded, the patient, or everyone else and darn-it, I’m too polite
to stare.)
I’ve been in this place many times, to paraphrase Leonard
Cohen, “I know these rooms, I’ve walked these floors”. My moods are variable,
and yesterday I was more depressed and on edge. I am taking a lunch break in
the lobby, and I stare with half-focus at the constant stream of people walking
in all directions, to and from elevators, main doors, the CVS, etc.
I guess they all fall into different categories, but there are certain visitors that cause me to drop my gaze, avoiding
eye contact. These are the moms and dads with paper name labels stuck to their
shirts. These labels have just a last name, and it means that they have a child
undergoing surgery upstairs on the third floor. Sometimes these parents look nervous;
actually they almost always look nervous at some level. But there’s another
look I sometimes see, something I read as their whole body shuffles along in
slow motion. They are shell-shocked. These are the people I can’t bear to
watch, because I see myself reflected in their disorientation, in their fear,
in their exhaustion. I don’t want to be reminded of my own pain.
I definitely have no problem reaching out to someone who
needs help. I’ve joined in the 60 second elevator commiseration thing with
random people. I’ve had long conversations with other parents in the surgical
waiting room. I’ve compared notes with a dad in the common kitchen while we
were searching for the last grape Popsicle –
Me: “yeah, my kid has a nasty GI infection”
Him: “my kid has no stomach” (said with no anger, just matter-of-fact
grace).
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| "Watching the Machine" Sculpture by George Rhoads. Manhattan, NY. - Beyond My Ken. |
But when I’m really in the tense frame of mind, I have to be
selfish and turn inwards. As I side-step the stroller-bound kidlets staring up with
mouths agape at the somewhat annoying perpetual motion machine, as it clanks and
chimes, clacks and dings, I get weary of the sameness of the routine. As this huge
sculpture perpetually entertains new crop of patients and their families – I just
want it to be all over with – I want at least a diagnosis, and at most – to not
be here at all.
I feel trapped inside that huge 12 x 6 x 14 cage of wires,
balls and brightly colored shapes. I’m moving on a path not of my own
design, and there’s no natural conclusion, just the same thing, over and over. Or maybe another way to look at it,
the path is NOT clearly laid out, the way it is in George Rhoads’
sculptures. Sometimes it feels more like Disney World’s Space Mountain. Huge
dips and swirls, but it’s all in the dark. I don’t know that’s ahead.
I don’t know which is worse.
