I'd never been to a Critical Care Unit, and when I first entered, I tried to hold my head down - to give dignity to people whose dignity was probably left on the floor of the ambulance that brought them here. But like a bad accident, it's hard not to peak. And in the past three and one half weeks, I have seen a lot.
A lot of bodies breathing mechanically, each with the same items hanging from the IV rack: the light brown bag is the food that is fed through the nose. The clear bags are the antibiotics and fluids. The white bottle is Propofol - the sedative (and if you aren't familiar with it, just Google "Michael Jackson", and you'll get your answer). Each body has a monitor next to it with numbers. The top two are heart rate. The middle one is oxygen intake. The bottom is breaths per minute. The final numbers are blood pressure.
I pass each one, day after day. I compare their numbers with my mother's. I'm not sure why.
The machines beep, and blurp and hiss and sound more like circus clown horns than ventilator alarms. Each noise makes me jump out of my skin just a little...but the nurses are calm, and don't react until the beeps start to repeat and get louder.
Once in a while, a young patient appears. A woman in her twenties, freckle faced, curly red hair. Her father spends every moment by her side. A man in his fifties, sitting up in his bed, hands propped behind his head. No blankets, feet crossed. He watches football. He looks like he's vacationing. A mom in her thirties, who has a large family rallying for her. Everyone in her room must be cloaked in sterile robes and masks.
But most are old. Grey. Frail. Small. One, a lady who suffered a heart attack while being treated for lung cancer, had her machines disconnected. Her monitor is blank, no flashing lights, no beeping. She lays in the darkened room straining for each breath. Her daughters sit by her side, one is knitting an outfit for a baby. I come in the next day, and the room is empty.
There is a waiting room. Serene colors and comfortable furniture. Sometimes it is a place to have quiet, to cry, to collect. Other times, it feels like a party, with friends and family gathered, catching up, laughing. Sometimes, the hospital chaplain, Monica, stops by. She is gentle, and kind, and wise. She is happy to spend a half hour with us, catching up, listening to us, holding our hands. She's become our friend, part of our inner circle.
Back in the unit, Mom's room sits right outside the nurse's station. And over the weeks the faces are all familiar. The young surgeon who is as skilled with a scalpel as he is with offering words of comfort; the army of pulmonologists who change shifts every four days. The unit secretary who sits at the computer - she's had only one or two days off since we've been here. And the nurses. Oh, the nurses. They take care of my mom, and sometimes, they take care of us. When my sister became overcome with emotion, it was the nurses who offered comfort with an embrace. When we try to put our medical "two cents" in (AKA: reciting everything we learned from GOOGLE) They are respectful and compassionate. Plus they do a lot of dirty work... I couldn't stomach what they do for a moment, yet they do it every day, with grace and professionalism.
The frail bodies lie there, but day after day, you start to notice changes. The woman in 307, who was on a ventilator 2 days ago is breathing on her own today. The frail lady down the hall is sitting up in the bedside chair, with a tray of food beside her. The gentleman next door took a walk down the hall with the help of two therapists. These are the moments I look to, and pray for when I look at my mom. She has come far. She has a long way to go.
As I walk the halls of the ICU, I see body after body, lying in each room. Most are alone. In darkened rooms with bare walls. (How is it that you can leave your loved one alone when they are so seriously ill?) But when you arrive at my mom's room, you see dozens of cards and pictures and mementos on the wall, a constant reminder of all she has to live for. Messages on her dry-erase board from her granddaughters: "We love you!" "Be strong" "Nothing to fear but fear itself!" And she has her family. We are a constant. We are her advocates. We are her cheering section.
She is blessed. Beyond compare.
I hope that our roller coaster ride in the ICU ends uneventfully and ends soon. But I'm humbled to have had the opportunity to have spent the past few weeks of my life witnessing life, death, healing and compassion. I have gained insight and wisdom, and learned that I can withstand more than I knew I could. My greatest wish is that Mom would have never gotten sick, and we'd never have to be here. But since that is not to be, I am strangely grateful.
Thank you to all for the unending love and support.
xx
