The Hard Stuff

I am in a surgical waiting room. I am not the patient. I am what is called “the visiting contact.” I am here alone, but so many are here with me through their prayers and good wishes. It’s a palatable sense of family and community, like being in a fog but you know others are around you. This is heady stuff for a writer since our characters often seem like they’re watching from the clouds waiting to jump into the story. Frowning when we edit their big scene. Clearing their throats when we give them dialogue that they would never ever say…

I just received a text…

The patient is in the recovery area.

You will receive another message when the patient is ready for visitors.

Reply STOP to opt out.

No way am I opting out.

I’ve had a double latte. The woman at the Starbucks in the hospital gift shop told me to stand to the right not the left. There was no one in line but me. I did that. I’d come for coffee, not to question. When I paid she said, “You have a real good day now.” She meant it. I nodded. My eyes got teary. Two days ago I attended a communion service at a church with pastors I didn’t know. When it was my turn to take the bread, the pastor smiled at me: “What’s your name?” he asked. Normally this doesn’t happen, especially in a big city. “Joan,” I said. My eyes teared when he said, “Joan, this is the bread of life…”

I am in this waiting room sitting close to the check-in guy who repeatedly says his script as people come forward:

Date of birth…

Have you had any Covid-like symptoms?

Any travel in the last month?

He’s said this a zillion times, but he says it with a caring smile. There is a NO FOOD/NO DRINKS sign on his desk and we all sit here drinking coffee.

I’ve gone to the bathroom twice. I’ve prayed while scrolling. I’ve had such memories. I am texting with dear ones. My hope is high. Everyone in this waiting room is at a crossroad.

I check my phone. No new text. I have to go to the bathroom again, but I won’t in case they call my name. All during this process I’ve been writing down the names of people helping us at the hospital. Noir. John. Dr. Lee. Laurie. I am getting used to wearing a surgical mask again. A new text pops up:

The patient is now in recovery.

A few minutes later: You can can go to recovery now.

Okay. Right. I gather all my stuff that I didn’t need to bring, and the guy at the check-in desk actually walks me down the hall, past the Purell hand sanitizer pump bottles on the wall. I remember a story about a hospital in Massachusetts who was having an outbreak of staph infections because the doctors and nurses were so busy they weren’t always washing their hands. A consultant was brought in who asked: “What’s preventing you from doing this?” Such a good question. Their answer: “We don’t always have time to get to the sinks.” The following week, Purell bottles appeared on the wall. I follow the check-in guy down this labyrinth of a hall; he stops at B3. I push open the curtain. My husband is sitting in the bed, looking pretty cute, considering. The doctor who performed the biopsy explains what she did. It will take 5-7 days to get the results. Did I have any questions?

I ask a low-ball question, she answers. She checks things. Vitals are good. A discharge nurse comes in. No nonsense. I’m glad. I want no nonsense now. Somehow in the process of leaving the nurse and I talk about home — she is wondering if she should return to her home country after living here for decades. Her eyes get teary. We hug. Friends for the moment.

The patient is in the taxi now.

The Lords of Taxi Land decided that what people want when they are sitting in the back seat of a vehicle that has lost its shock absorbers, are videos that you cannot turn off. How close are you to burning out? Scan Here for more information. Want to advertise on Taxi TV? A young kid in big pink earphones walks slowly across the street screaming at the universe. I read the Post Anesthesia/Post Biopsy Instruction pages. Watch for headaches, severe pain (which is different than regular pain, but I’m not sure how to know). Coughing up blood is bad. I think of three questions I should have asked the doctor.

But now comes gratitude — rushing in like whitewater — gratitude for the best parts of medicine, for good people who show up every day whether they feel like it or not. For family, for friends, for a marriage that survived 9-11, umpteen surgeries, a car accident, a trip to Spain when I brought five suitcases… like a grape vine Evan and I have been whacked down at times, but our branches always come back stronger and heavy with fruit.

Thanks for being here. Please help spread the word…