For the most part, Sam’s unit is full of old white people.
Young nurses assist elderly men as they walk slowly down the halls, holding onto a strap at the back of their chest so they don’t fall. They listen to stories of long and happy lives lived – their children, past vacations, hometowns, where they met their wives. Glimpsing through the parted curtains along the hall, spouses can be seen sitting next to sleeping patients on their phones, watching tv and eating meals out of white paper takeout boxes from the cafeteria. Most visitors are grown children, often with families of their own. They come in quietly and don’t stay long. Though there have been a fair share of older patients, in and out for one thing or another, generally, right next door to us has been an exception. During our first long stay here, a young Mom named Trish stayed next to us. She was sweet. She had hair when she came in. She told us it was her first time going through treatment. The nod of understanding from Sam was not comforting to her – that he was back for a second time around. She told us when they were giving away free ice cream, suggested games to play, and complimented the decorations in our room. I met her husband a handful of times grabbing coffee or waiting at the elevators. Trish had visitors all the time, including her young kids. They stayed so positive and were happy to see her. Her husband looked increasingly stressed from shuttling them back and forth to the hospital when I’m sure he just wanted to stay there with his wife. I can’t imagine how much harder it would be to go through this with kids. When Trish was discharged before Sam, she seemed upbeat and determined as her husband took her away in her wheelchair. We saw her in clinic a few weeks later with a beautiful scarf on her head, hanging in there and taking it day by day – as you do. I think about her and her kids so often even though I barely know her. This time, we had another next door neighbor who broke the mold. A Little Girl with a big family. I never met her personally, and never introduced myself to any of her family members – there were so many of them, I wasn’t even sure who her mother is, and many of them only spoke Spanish. They’d congregate in the family lounge – easily 20 people. The toddlers ran and played, teenagers sat on the couch in front of the TV and looked at their phones, and the adults served homemade food, talked, and entertained the young ones. Little Girl, not more than 13, would sit in her wheelchair in the middle, hooked to her IV pole, and take it all in, quietly smiling. Lately though, the gatherings for Little Girl became more solemn, the voices hushed. Brightly colored, home-knitted blankets were brought into Little Girl’s room, and relatives went in two or three at a time. The kids stayed in the lounge and waited. Little Girl had a butterfly on her door when I left for breakfast and an errand this morning, a sign of respect for the dying. Cleaners are in there right now, mopping and chatting, oblivious. I am heartbroken. There are so many aspects of living in the hospital that are hard. Aside from the obvious pain of watching my person suffer, disrupting our lives and waiting constantly for progress and good news, I'll be honest and tell you that I hate much shallower aspects of all of this too. I hate that easily 20 people see me from between the time I roll out of bed (a cot in sam's room) and first go to the bathroom in the morning. I hate taking showers in the Trauma and Life Support family waiting room bathrooms. I hate eating alone in the cafeteria and feeling lonely when Sam sleeps 20+ hours a day. But the worst part is listening to hushed phone conversations in hallways and lobbies. “Waiting for white blood cells,” “platelets are low,” “biopsy results will be back on Wednesday,” “side effects from the chemo” are uttered, through stressed and patient voices as they explain what the news means to the family member on the other side of the line. I hate understanding what it all means, and not being able to help. I hate the sigh when they hang up the phone and immediately recognize that I do the same. Folks, if you are praying or vibe-sending for Sam, please add Trish, her kids, and the family of Little Girl. It’s a hard place to be. A place where many of us hope to experience as quickly as possible, and erase it from our memory even faster. But for Little Girl’s mother, this place will forever be the last one she got to spend with her daughter, and I can’t imagine what that feels like. ~Healing thoughts to Sam, continued strength and determination for Trish, and comfort for Little Girl’s many loved ones~
Cheryl Edwards
11/10/2015 06:01:22 pm
So many prayers being sent not only for Sam but for all the patients and families.
Bev Mangerson
11/10/2015 08:21:27 pm
Healing thoughts and prayers for all
Dawn Allen
11/11/2015 02:41:34 am
Prayers for you and Sam and others. Love and miss you!!
marilyn tucker
11/11/2015 05:29:44 am
Hope it is a good morning for you Jen and Sam - meaning that the dr was in with good news - I continue praying for the both of you and just know God is hearing me and all those that are sending the same message
Danielle Schroder
11/12/2015 05:25:53 pm
Thank you for giving us a glimpse of what it is like where you are. I will be praying for Sam, Trish and Little Girl. Comments are closed.
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