When spring finally arrived one day in late May, it felt more like summer than spring. I sat in the car in the parking lot, baking in the afternoon sun with little appreciation for the small SUV’s driving visibility. The sun was more than equal to the AC as I sat there, so I shut down the engine and walked into the big building seeking a cooler space. That there were several clean bathrooms inside made the decision a no-brainer.
I had waited for about two hours and would have another two to go. The two-story medical building is spacious and modern, having the open feel of an airport concourse or a new shopping mall, but without the crowd. On the second floor, empty chairs outnumbered waiting patients and their companions 50-to-1, but there was a steady trickle of people slowly coming and going through the many entryways to the various treatment centers in the building. This is where some of the sickest among us come to receive the kind of care reserved for those who, without it, would perish.
What strikes me about this place is the sheer openness of the waiting area. It feels unconfining and free, with glass walls at the ends of the building that fill the space with natural daylight. Large potted plants, some more than 8 feet tall, are neatly positioned throughout. To a patient, the area has none of the cold, sterile feel of a hospital. Still, this place would not be mistaken for anything but a medical facility.
For a time, my wife and I would become caregivers for a good friend who lives alone and without family support. A serious cancer has limited his independence, and appointments, hospitalizations and chemotherapy have sapped his strength while adding more stress to his body and mind. There’s nothing to talk about; he’s coming home with us.
Having survived two major cancer bouts with surgeries and chemo, I have some experience on the patient’s side and my wife has the caregiver side locked down. I now have a very deep respect for caregivers. It ain’t easy.
Oh, in my head I knew it wasn’t easy; my mother was a nurse and I’ve had plenty of time on the receiving end in the last 20 years. But for the average person who isn’t a medical professional, taking on the role of at-home caregiver requires an unfamiliar mindset and a suspension of normal behavioral and social expectations. Our relationship remains intact as we do what needs doing to support him.
Our guest would have serious setbacks, ultimately requiring transport by the Orr’s and Bailey Islands Fire Department and a lengthy stay in the intensive care unit at Mid Coast. Late-stage cancer and a serious blood-borne bacterial infection would shorten his first stay with us. Our efforts would change from active care to being his voice for the far-flung friends and business associates wanting to be kept current on his status.
The outpouring of concern and love was overwhelming at times. Getting current information from his hospital caregivers and managers was difficult, but not impossible. Hospital staff were answering dozens of questions from untrained civilians and taking time from more immediate responsibilities. As the acronym indicates, the activity in the ICU gets intense.
In his darkened room were several machines whirring, beeping and clicking a steady rhythm. Four smaller gizmos hung from a chrome tree beside the bed with wires and tubes running down the tree and disappearing under the hospital bedding. His sleep was interrupted by a nurse rolling a small cart with another electronic device and packages of meds and mystery items, at which point I was asked to leave. Happy to oblige, I said my farewells, left the room and headed to my truck.
Driving home, I thought about the whirring, beeping and clicking sounds that the machines in his room had been making, audible indicators of something important being measured, pumped, timed or recorded. I thought about the dozens of colored lights, numerical displays and computer screens, each with a vital piece of information, and how those pieces, when put together, lead to an overall picture of a patient’s condition. Nurses enter the room, glance around at the various displays, flip a switch or turn a dial, check a drip, and in seconds know what they need to know. Damned impressive.
And I couldn’t figure out my home’s voicemail system.
We got the good news that his “numbers are way up,” so it wasn’t surprising that there was mention of a transfer to a physical therapy facility. It will take a whole lot more prayers and medicine to make that happen. I’m doing my part. The hospital nurses and doctors have demonstrated a tenacious desire to get him well enough to move forward on the path to recovery.
In this case, recovery means well enough to take on the cancer treatment. That’s a fight this household is familiar with, and with a record of 2 wins and 0 losses, we’re ready for the next bout.
