I find myself sitting in Panera, eating an Apple Chicken Salad and reading “The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle”, a Christmas present from my daughter and her family. Only this Panera is located in Vanderbilt Medical Center. Soon I will return to the darkness of Room 7 in the ICU and wait.
I’m fairly certain it’s at least midnight, although my phone assures me it’s only 7:33 PM. Time passes slowly in hospitals, a place in which I don’t normally (fortunately) find myself. But Monday my daughter and I waited as surgeons repaired an aneurysm in the aortic arch of my husband’s heart and replaced a valve that had the misfortune of being too close to the scene of the crime. It was a scheduled surgery, meant to avoid an emergency in the future. They started at 2:20 that afternoon; by 5:19 they were through and at 9:00 that night we were allowed to see him.
He's doing well—as well as one can who’s had their sternum separated and then screwed back together. But we’ll still be here for several more days (5 – 7 was the original estimate) and, as the sun sets on day 2 of the hostage situation, it’s becoming evident I’m not good at this sitting in a hospital and waiting thing.
But obviously, waiting is exactly what one is supposed to do in a hospital; otherwise, why would they have rooms created just for that purpose? The one we occupied was whisper quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional ding of a text message update from the OR. As we anxiously awaited our progress reports, a lovely woman came over and asked if she might join us. It wasn’t a request made of necessity; there were plenty of empty chairs available. It was a request for companionship—a seeking of someone other than medical personnel with whom she could have a conversation that didn’t center around the handling of the next crisis.
She has been here for 53 days. Fifty-three days filled with life and death decisions, with anxiety and fear and anger and exhaustion and battles on behalf of the man she loves . . . battles he does not appreciate because of the ICU delirium he is experiencing, some of which is compliments of medications that have been administered without realizing his pre-existing conditions prohibited their use. He had also arrived for an aneurysm repair, only on an emergency basis rather than a procedure scheduled weeks in advance. He had complained of pain for days and she had begged and threatened and attempted bribery, only to have him obstinately refuse to see a doctor. But the night he staggered into her room, she threw him into her truck and flew to the nearest hospital. They offered her Memphis or Vandy. And now here we both were. Surgery revealed not one but three aneurysms requiring attention during a 12-hour operation. That was followed by a cascade of complications. Blood filled one of his lungs. He developed a bowel blockage. There was pneumonia. Each situation demanded medical intervention. And each intervention required her understanding and then her permission. For 53 eternally long days with no end in sight.
It's no wonder she asked to join us. We have been blessed with a multitude of thoughts and prayers and calls and text messages inquiring as to my husband’s well-being and his progress. I have a feeling that concern changes drastically as time passes, and 53 days in, I’m not sure there are text messages or calls. Probably not even thoughts. We shared stories of our experiences and our lives. Kathryne and I told her tales that made her smile and, occasionally, laugh out loud. She left us at one point, having been called back to his room to discuss the next day’s plan of action. And eventually we took our leave because the ICU staff felt comfortable enough with Joe’s condition to allow us to visit.
I know her first name and the general vicinity from whence she came. And that’s all I know, except that I wish I knew more. More so I could text and call. More so perhaps she wouldn’t feel so alone. But she had disappeared by the time we left, and I have a feeling the nice HIPPA-enforcing ICU people will not share her personal contact information with me no matter how nicely I may ask.
Everyone needs a support system in this world. Life—and Death—throw too much at us for it to be any other way. Some of us are extremely blessed in that regard. Others of us, not so much. If you’re one of the lucky ones, please understand how fortunate you really are. And if you don’t need one right now, then please be one.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
