I can’t say I’m
surprised that every time I think of her, I get a huge lump in my throat. I’ve
wished her away, I’ve wished this feeling away – full knowing that she will
never go away. Why is she so important to me? I’ve asked this over and over and I still don't have an answer.
I seem to recall that she was middle aged and had a
liver disease. Apparently, she just got a bad liver. That’s some bad luck. The
first time I met her, she was in what we call the “short hallway” at the
hospital. And if you ask me, the room to which she was admitted always had the
patients that wound up receiving a poor prognosis. Her nails were painted, her
silvery hair was styled, and she had bright red lipstick. She could wear that bright
red lipstick well. It looked good, no amazing, and it spoke to me
about her personality. The message her bright red lipstick sent was clear and
accurate. She was fire.
That day, her belly was full. She was often an inpatient so
that she could get relief from all the fluid in her belly. She would “inflate” in the nursing home where she lived. She couldn’t
really get around anymore, she was incontinent and you would never had guessed
it had you just laid eyes on her. I would’ve guessed she was out dancing the
night before. In any case, that was her situation. At best, not good. We got to
know each other. She knew my name, we knew about each other’s lives. Her
husband was on the road a lot for work. He could not be with her much because
he was out earning money. I’m sure a lot of it went towards her care. We know
he loved her despite his absence. She talked about him often and called him
often. I imagine him filling some lonely miles with the sound of her voice. She also
mentioned her son. Who later, I would discover, was a tall, strong young man. I
never doubted he loved his mother either, but both father and son, as much as
the love was there, didn’t really know what to do with Mom. She was lovely, but
a remnant of her former self.
She came and went from my unit. I lost her a little with each
visit. Sometimes her abdomen was the size of a beach ball. Sometimes she forgot
me. And when she “got her marbles” back,
we would reengage as if nothing had happened. I thought, “Welcome back, I
missed you". We went through this pattern several times over the course of a
year or a year and a half. This was my first year as a nurse and she was “that
patient”.
Each visit, I saw her worsening. Once, she was tearful. I
knew the wastes were just accumulating everywhere in her body. I sat with her
as she bawled, calling her husband (who probably was in the middle of nowhere)
to tell him how awful the staff was, how we didn’t clean her up, how we didn’t
care for her. Her lipstick was gone, her nails were dirty and her hair wasn’t
shining or in place. She was crumbling right in front of me. I wanted to jam a
syringe in that beach ball. The image of that…a massive leak and sigh of relief. She handed the
phone to me and I spoke to her husband. “Do you think I need to be with her?”
he asked. Really, he was asking, “Is this it? Is this the end"? I told him no -
I would be with her and he knew it was true. He trusted me and he knew I loved her. I felt
that he knew. Our conversation ended there and as I hung up the phone and
turned to reassure her, she said, “Girl, your hair looks like a rat’s nest!" She was back for a moment. THAT was her. Thank
God for that horrible liquid medication that she willingly gulped down despite the
taste and consistency. Miracle in a medicine cup. We had a good laugh and I confessed
to her that I had not combed my hair that morning. Who could tell me my hair
looked like a “rat’s nest” and not offend me? She could. She could’ve
physically punched me in the stomach and we would’ve had a good laugh. As it
turned out, the figurative punch was harder to endure.
The next time I saw her, I swear she was in that dreaded
room again. I always requested to have
her as my patient. No lipstick, no hairdo - only yellow. A lot of yellow,
all over: in her eyes, her skin, and her nails. Her hair was that rat’s nest
and she was yellow like I had only seen in a box of Crayolas. We barely had any time to chit chat before her pulse suddenly
jumped, her blood pressure dropped and she vomited blood. There was the red
again, but this time, so unwelcomed. She didn’t stop vomiting, the smell of
old blood and new blood filled the room. She sputtered blood at me when she commented that this
situation was bad. There was no bullshitting her, yes, this was bad. Her
heart didn’t stop racing and we raced her over to the heart unit and
eventually, they raced her to the ICU and finally, they slowly rolled her to that last room on our hallway.
Sometimes you’ll get this room because no
other rooms are available. It has a nice little suite attached: sink, microwave
and bed …a little extra room for your visitors. If you’re lucky or unlucky,
depending on how you look at it, you’ll go there to die. That’s the room designated
for death. And that’s just what she did. I didn’t have her as a patient on her
last day. Maybe that was a stroke of luck? Her family was there - her son, her husband and a few others. It was the end of my shift and I couldn’t walk away. That
room is down the long hall and the long hall must’ve been longer that day, at
least, it felt that way. I selfishly
could not leave her and so I entered the room and introduced myself to her
husband as we had never met in person. But, he knew me - he knew my voice. He quickly rose, offered a kind
handshake, various introductions, and he held on to my hand all the while (maybe I was just hanging on to his). The hand holding wouldn’t last as it
evolved into a hug that gave more comfort to me than to him. My God. It was
time to go. I hugged her empty shell and moved all the tubes out of my way to give
her one last kiss on the cheek.
And that’s how it is
sometimes….suddenly the bed is empty and you think they’d float away
from your memory, too, but they don’t. Sometimes you can't let them go.
