Faces of Life

Some people go to the hospital to die, some to recover, some to figure out if either one of those options is reasonable, or if something in the middle is more their speed. Most patients in a hospital are rather grim. This is understandable. The place smells like bits of death got stuck under the industrial gray paint hiding the cracks and seams opened by the erosion of a hundred years of life and death flowing by. But hospitals are also a great place for anyone with a great sense of humor to spend a few hours - or, as in my case, a few weeks.

I ended up in the hospital as an "Option B" patient. I was there to recover. I wasn't sure how or when that would happen, but I knew when the neurologist came in that I a) had a brain (I knew this because he had pictures of my brain with him) and b) I wasn't going home anytime soon. I didn't meet any other patients on the 6th floor. This floor was somber, hushed. You could feel the weight of the effort of recovery from serious injuries and surgeries and illnesses of the brain. These types of calamities required tremendous energy, and it left an electrical charge in the air. The nurses were professional and efficient, bustling in to assist me with toileting, bathing, and dressing. I was embarrassed to have these complete strangers seeing me in these very private situations: But they, in their professional efficiency, didn't bat an eyelash when my gown fell in the toilet, when my bare bottom hung out after my shower, when I moved eternally slowly to the bathroom in my walker, terrified of falling as my useless legs defied my commands to move. The room was so small that every time I used the bathroom, the nurse had to move the wheelchair, shower chair, and guest chair into the hallway to make room for me to navigate my way to the bathroom. It was like being in a storage closet with a great view. The stream of doctors and nurses and medical assistants and dieticians and social workers and physical therapists and occupational therapists flowing through my room was a constant roar. These folks have no concept of "do not disturb". Hourly vital sign checks, and nightly pokes by the phlebotomists, followed by early morning visits by overly chipper nurses who seemed to think I WANTED to have them inject burning liquid into my stomach. After a couple of days, I put out a sign-in sheet and made everyone sign in. I told them it was to help me remember their names, but it was really so I could remember who to come back and haunt after I died. Only one signed it. And she was a physical therapist I actually liked. This disappointed me. I really wanted to start building a good haunt list.

On day 6, I was moved to the basement. Literally. When the elevator opened, I feared they were taking me to the incinerators. We proceeded through a maze of narrow, low-slung hallways with concrete floors and open ceilings, the exposed pipes dripping with old pipe insulation and condensation. I expected to see Freddy Krueger around every corner. "Are you sure you know where we're going?" I asked the nurse pushing my wheelchair. "Yes", she replied. "We are going to the rehab unit. It's just up here." We went down a ramp,  through a set of double doors, and entered an open, carpeted, brightly lit hallway. I relaxed. I wondered if I would be placed in a ward like those I had seen in 1950's movies, with long rooms filled with beds separated by a thin curtain. I wondered if the person in the next bed would snore, or like watching Fox News (which would put me into a Code Blue within five minutes), or drool so much I would slip on their slimy puddles the next morning while trying to wrestle my body to the shared bathroom, where a stroke patient would be brushing her teeth in the toilet. Fortunately, none of these fears materialized. My room was private, spacious, bright, with a lovely view of the river, and a private bathroom and cable television. I learned quickly that here, like upstairs, "private" was a relative term and that the purpose of having a television in the rooms on this unit is still under investigation. There is no time to watch them. They start you off at 5 am with a poke in the arm by the vampires. This is what we called the phlebotomists. I am pretty sure that these well-trained individuals would prefer to be called "phlebotomy specialists" or "Pathogen Containment Professionals", but since we saw them as blood sucking creatures who swooped in during our most active hours of REM sleep, shine bright lights in our eyes, and demand a good vein, we weren't feeling very generous in the area of proper designation. None of us liked them. We had a pool going to see which one of us could make them cry first each morning. But those phlebotomists are tough characters, used to being tricked and insulted and harassed by those they disensanguine. They laughed in the face of our adversity, so most of us gave up and threw a blanket over our faces and an arm in the air when they walked in. It was just easier not to fight. At six am, the VS crew made the rounds. These are the cute and bubbly girls who come bouncing in, announcing they are there to take our vital signs, and do I have a preference which arm they use. I didn't think it wise to give them the arm that had just been drained of blood moments before, so I would often have to manually flop my legs over so I could turn to my other side to give them my other arm. They would wrap the cuff around my spindly limb four times, and then push the buttons. The machine would purr as it tightened the cuff, and then beep repeatedly for several minutes as it registered my blood pressure. When it came back showing my blood was, indeed pumping, and she had sufficient proof that I wasn't dead, I sent her off to bother someone else, and let her know that no, I did not need to pee, and I did not need a refill of my ice water. At seven, the day nurse would skip in in with a cheerful "good morning!" and an announcement that it was time to shower and receive my abdominal stabbing. After I threw whatever I could find at her, I would sit long enough to throw my legs over, flip my hips so my back was facing the door, and go back to sleep. She wasn't deterred by this. She was used to dealing with ornery 80-year-olds and my feeble attempts to get rid of her weren't even registering on her radar. I was heaved out of bed, rolled into the bathroom, stripped of my clothing, and left under a shower that felt more like two midgets spitting on me than a waterfall. I used the milky substance she left for me, the stuff labeled "Mountain Mist Shampoo/conditioner", but felt more like melted chalk, and smelled more like mountain gorillas, to wash my hair. And then I washed the rest of myself with the same substance. The nurse poked her head back in, plugged her nose, announced I smelled like a gorilla, and handed me a hot blanket to wrap myself. Then she rolled me back out to my bed, and helped me get back to sitting on it, where she handed me a gown and a pair of scrub pants that were designed to be worn by King Kong. I was beginning to suspect this portion of the hospital might once have been a gorilla sanctuary. At quarter to eight, she wheeled me down to the dining room.

It felt strange to be eating with the other patients in the dining room - like I was in a psychiatric hospital. All but a few of us were in gowns and brightly colored non-slip socks. We all wore bright pink transfer belts around our waists, and we all looked dazed and confused. For some of us, this had been a normal thing before our arrival, for others, it was a result of the trauma of the afflictions that brought them there, and the uncertainty of what would happen next. We were a hodgepodge group. I was the youngest by far. Half of us were in wheelchairs, some in walkers, others were walking of their own accord, but still had the bright pink transfer belts decorating their waists. Some were in neck braces, others had limbs missing, others had IV poles accompanying them at their spot at the table. The nurses handed out trays and medications, scanning wrist bracelets and administering injections and pills and food. Every time a nurse looked at us, they had to scan our wrist bracelet. I was beginning to wonder if I was on the Alzheimer's Unit, if the nurse's were the patients, and if we were just the practice to help them keep their memories sharp. After awhile, I started raising my arm every time a nurse came near me. I stopped when one of them asked me if I had Tourette's. I told her I did not, but that I had recently acquired a bad case of Scanitis, and wondered if there was anything I could take for that. She said she'd ask the doctor, who entered my room solemnly during his rounds and asked me about my Scanitis, and if I could share with him any information about treatments I was already on for it. I told him it was incurable, and the only treatment was an ingredient found exclusively in Skittles candy, and it was important that I get this candy with every meal. His eyes shrunk to slits, and his lips pursed, and he shook his head. Then he laughed. "You got me", he said. It isn't hard down here. They are very easily amused. After another day or two of constantly being scanned, I started answering people in dollar amounts when they asked me how I was doing each day. "I'm $.99 today" meant I was feeling pretty crappy. "I'm $10!" meant I was feeling pretty darn good. If I said I was in the free bin that day, it meant I was hiding in my room and don't bother trying to find me. Most days I was $5.99. Plus tax if I had a good breakfast.

By the second day in the rehab unit, I started getting to know the other patients. There was Kenny, a retired physics teacher and former WWII paratrooper. There was Ben, a retired engineer and avid birdwatcher. There was Butch, a retired maintenance supervisor and proud cat owner. There was Mary, a retired school teacher and lover of life. And there was Steve, a retired CPA. Ted, whose life work I never knew, but who introduced me to his entire family, even stopping by my room with his newborn great-grandaughter one evening. He rarely spoke, but his love for his family did not require a single word. It was in the sparkle in his eyes whenever they stopped by. There was Eldon, who could barely hear a word, but always had a mischievous grin whenever he saw me. There was Phyllis, whose devoted husband never left her side. There were others who struggled in physical therapy alongside me, but whose names I did not know - these are the injured, the unfortunate souls who are stapled, pinned, and glued back together - their necks, backs, heads and limbs encased in metal, plastic, and plaster. These folks are re-learning how to move, walk, eat, and, sometimes, speak. They did not eat with us in the dining room. The time they spent in physical therapy was all they could muster the strength to do. I admired them just for trying. But they always offered high-fives when we passed in the hallways, or if we were sent for additional tests in another part of the hospital. We were comrades on the same battlefield. Nameless allies in the same fight. And we stuck together.

I started building my upper body strength by racing my wheelchair up and down the hallways of the unit, as well as the ramp outside the unit in the scary hallway. I preferred to go fast in the labrynth outside the unit - the hallways echoed, and there was rarely another soul down there. It was a very creepy place for someone who couldn't walk - but if I could blaze away from the zombies I just knew were hiding around every corner, then I knew I could survive an attack. So I practiced my zombie attack getaways. And practiced, and practiced, and practiced. I learned how to take corners without slowing down, how to stop on a dime, how to manage inclines and declines with finesse and confidence. The one thing I couldn't get comfortable with was sidewalks. I was afraid to roll along them outside the hospital without another person with me. Sidewalks are built for drainage, not manual wheelchairs - so they are built at an angle. This is really frightening when there are hundreds of speeding cars whizzing by less than twenty feet away. I managed to avoid becoming a hood ornament by having my physical therapist push my wheelchair for me. I allowed myself to be lazy, but didn't learn to navigate sidewalks, which will not serve me will long term. I worked on getting a physical therapist to agree to come home with me for the promise of homemade banana bread and the opportunity to get two ornery kids ready for school in the morning. I couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to jump on that offer. And yet, no one did. My haunt list is growing.

Mealtimes became my favorite parts of the day. Not only had I befriended the other patients on the units, but their family members as well . We teased and cajoled one another, complained about the bland hospital food that was actually pretty good, and generally just spent the time laughing. Laughter was not the first sound you expect to hear on a hospital ward, but in that dining room on floor B, it could be heard reverberating through the halls morning, noon, and dinnertime. Kenny was a fast ally in my practical jokes. When I tied all the clothing protectors together (fancy name for bibs), he sat straight-faced as we watched Butch take the top one and crinkle his face as the entire pile pulled out of the basket in a terrycloth rope. Then Kenny and I burst out laughing and helped him untie one for himself. The nurses put up with me, although they gave me the nickname "Trouble". When Eldon, who was nearly deaf, passed me in the hallway, haltingly walking with his physical therapist as I zoomed by in my wheelchair, he would yell, "if we keep meeting this way, people are gonna start talking!". "Only if we start dancing!" I yelled as I rounded the corner and continued on my laps. Mary and I had long talks about life, love, and the virtue of patience. She waited 30 years to marry the man of her dreams, and he died six and a half years later. That was thirty years ago. She still wears her wedding ring. She said those were the happiest days of her life, and her wrinkled, centennarian face lit up when she said it. Her watery blue eyes were depthless, and her mind was crisp and sharp. She was a joy to talk with. On evenings when I didn't have visitors, she and I spent the evenings talking about our pasts, never talking about the future. She knew hers was short, and we didn't want to venture there. The sun would sink outside the windows surrounding us, its fading rays glinting off the river. And we would talk and giggle like schoolgirls until six o'clock, when it was time for her to go back to her room and get ready for Wheel of Fortune. Once Mary went to bed, I went roaming the hospital, practicing my zombie escapes in the quiet hallways, haunting the cafeteria, stocking up on fritos and pretzels and Diet Coke to take back to my room. Sometimes the nurses would come in my room and hang out with me. We'd share stories about kids and family and life. It helped pass the time in those long, lonely evening hours.

On my final day in the rehab unit, I awoke fearful. I was ready to go home, but not ready to leave. The hospital was safe. It was an insulated environment where I never had to worry about getting stuck, falling down, being unable to accomplish a task, or running out of food. I could easily roll to wherever I needed to go, and if I got tired, a hospital volunteer was never far away and always willing to push me back to my room. The outside world was scary. I could no longer drive, so I was now going to rely on others to get me where I needed to go - a serious infringement on my prized freedom. I was scared I wouldn't be able to manage the stairs, the snow, movie theaters, and restaurants. Life was altered....and I wasn't ready to leave, because leaving meant facing it head-on. I went to breakfast, trying to hide my tears. The others weren't buying it. "So you get to get out of here today!" yelled Eldon. I nodded sheepishly. "You'll be fine!" he shouted. Everyone else in the room nodded in agreement. I felt better. By lunch I was feeling a little stronger. I had talked to the doctors and social worker and had my discharge plan in place. I felt confident everything was going to be okay. Then I rolled down to the dining room for my final lunch. On the way I passed Jeremy, who was laying on a cart being pushed back from some test elsewhere in the hospital. Jeremy was one of the broken patients who never came down to the dining room, but I had developed a kind of kinship with him through the walls of our adjacent room. We were both insomniacs: He due to pain, me due to sheer boredom. We heard the unintelligible murmurings of each others' voices through the wall as we talked to our nurses long past midnight. It was comforting, a sign of life on a unit that, after dark, usually sounded like a morgue. We had never had more than a five second conversation, a word of encouragement in physical therapy, a nod and "good morning" in the hallway, but we knew more about each other from what we didn't say directly to one another than we knew about many people we come in contact with each day. Hospitals do that to people - it brings them together under difficult circumstances, and tests the most basic elements of their humanity. As I passed him on his cart, covered with a white blanket, his cast-encased feet poking out the end, he asked how I was doing today. I told him I was $10.99, because I was going home, and that I hoped he got better quickly. He promised to do so, told me he wouldn't let me down, and wished me luck. He disappeared into his room as the nurse pulled him in, and I continued rolling toward the dining room. There were some new faces there. A new admit, and her family. I had met the family in the elevator on the way down, and assured them their loved one would be well-cared for in the basement. I sat with Mary and Steve. Mary was nauseated, and vomited in a plastic cup as we waited for our food. She sat the cup of vomit on the table and continued talking with me and Steve, whose wife had joined him for lunch. We talked about my release, and what would happen next, and the tears began slipping over my lower eyelids again, despite my best efforts to stem the tide. They all reassured me I would be fine. Then Steve asked how it could be only eleven o'clock. I looked at the large clock on the wall. It said 12:20. "It doesn't say eleven o'clock. What is in that meatloaf your eating, Steve?" I answered. He peered at the clock again. "Well, I'll be. It doesn't say eleven o'clock at all". he muttered. I told him that was a great condition to have. He could tell police officers that the Stop sign had been a Go sign five minutes ago, so he really couldn't be held accountable for hitting that other car. He laughed and told me that a stroke does funny things. I told him the stroke had nothing to do with it - being a CPA for 40 years is what probably messed his brain up. We all had a good laugh. My ride arrived, and it was time to go. I hugged Mary and Eldon goodbye. The new family had asked me to say hello to their sister, who had been admitted that morning, I rolled over and greeted her. I said to her, "Wal-Mart has greeters, so does the rehab unit at this hospital. I am the rehab unit greeter." and I grinned at her. She looked at me with slightly crossed eyes and said, "I work at Wal-Mart.".

It was the perfect end to my stay.