A Moat of Tears

Two days before I returned from vacation, a nurse at work, L., collapsed and was taken to the hospital. Without going into medical details, it looks like she had an internal brain injury. She has been in the ICU and minimally responsive ever since.

Various nurses from Homeland have been visiting her and returning with reports, "she seems better," "she squeezed my hand," and so forth. I have to say that she and I have opposite personalities, so in the past, occasional sparks have flown. I looked at her as a golden-retriever-type; she thought I was a cold and snappy bitch. Eventually we have come to understand each other much more.

The issue came up yesterday that she might be admitted to Homeland to recover; the social worker asked the aides who were on duty at the time how they would feel about personal care for a staff member they have worked with. Later, the information faxed to the facility regarding any prospective admission arrived at the nurses' station, with three nurses in a small circle quietly reading pages of the information, and then being reprimanded for it by the social worker, which hurt some feelings.

Yesterday was a watershed day for discussing L. all day, and how would we feel if we were incapacitated and had to stay in a skilled nursing facility. The response was universally 1] I would be deeply embarrassed to receive personal care from people I knew, but 2]we all feel Homeland would be the best place to receive care, and 3]we would be receiving care from people who knew us and cared about us. We all ended up in tears.

I mentioned something about L. resuming her position in the facility. Another nurse, who has been to see her, said she doesn't see that happening. I find that difficult to accept, and decided to pray very hard for her recovery. When I got to the point I could no longer concentrate on my work I went out for a hamburger. But the good thing was feeling part of the rest of the group. A fellow earthling.

Today on my day off, at last I took time to go to the ICU and visit. L. She was recognizable, although her hair, usually kept rather wild, was pulled into improbable ponytails at the top of her head. She lay on her side with one arm above the covers. When I walked in, wearing the silly anti-droplet mask I was given, and said, "Hi, L.!" her eyes opened, I swear I saw a flash of recognition and irritation. I took her hand, which she released after a few minutes. She didn't do any squeezing. She kept her eyes closed most of the time.

This was an awkward place for conversation. I said the stupid things I always say when speaking to someone who isn't likely to answer me back or give clues what to say next. In my imagination many times I had carried on with sparkling wit, told scintillating stories about Homeland, or prayed aloud. I did none of that. Finally I told her that I would stop hovering over her and looking at her, go sit in the corner and say prayers in my head, so I wouldn't bother her.

Twice when her eyes flashed open and she looked right at me I thought I saw a smile. Her mouth twitched. I wasn't sure if it was irritation or an attempt to smile. Finally I said goodbye and left the hospital. I had difficulty with the automatically locked exit doors from the ICU and a moment of claustrophobia. And then I was out. Driving away, I thought, Why do I have to cry? Can't I just stipulate that I'm sad and move on?

For the first time I'm seeing that the castle that I'm in doesn't have to have such extensive walls or such high ramparts. I might be able to lower a drawbridge once in awhile and feel one with the rest of the human race. And if people see me cry it's not the end of the world.

I'm just afraid I won't stop.