Viewing the Hospital from a Different Perspective

Today I viewed the hospital from a different perspective.......as a patient.  I nearly fainted at home and then vomited and had my husband (my love and deer in headlights) drive me to the ER.  I arrived at the hospital doors frightened, even though I was completely familiar with every instrument, medical jargon and procedure.  I heard the familiar words "big stick", and "ready-I'll pull this tape off quick" and "we are waiting for your results," all coming from Nurse Lindsey--not me.  It seemed a good lesson to know the sensation that comes along with the words-yes it is a big stick, yes the tape being pulled stings, and yes it seemed an eternity lying on the stretcher waiting for results. 

The whole experience made me keenly aware of how kind words and warm blankets can make all the difference in the world.   I felt cared for and about even though Lindsey was busy, because she maintained good eye contact, did not back out of the room while I was speaking, and took the time to frequently ask about my comfort.  My call bell was answered promptly and with a smile.  In fact it was a blessing to view nursing from this perspective and although Lindsey will probably never see this blog, I send thanks to her and all nurses. 

This poem is from the perspective of a stroke patient, Patricia Celley Groth, from her book Wild Apples, Stories From the Motherline.  I was honored when her husband presented me with a complementary copy.

Baby Steps

In the space between one night and another

I am thrust back into my childhood,

my babyhood, even.  I was surprised

this could happen to me; not scared,

surprised--and angry.

At first I could not walk or talk.

Waking up in the hospital like that,

I was embarrassed I was there.

I pretended every thing was just fine,

and I was holding court

from my high bed

just as my mother used to,

nodding my head a little

to say it was all right.

At first I could not swallow

so the food was ground up for me.

I didn't like it, and not being able

to reach for the spoon

with my hand this way,

I spilled most of it on my clothes.

I had to wear a bib

just like my baby granddaughter.

She, the baby, takes great pleasure in walking

with her one hand held tightly in her mother's.

I finally walk too, my hand

grasped around the head of my cane,

or my husband carefully steering

my elbow to places

I would no longer dare to go.

The time is all full of first days:

when I go to the bathroom I forget

the tubes fastened to my arm

and they are firmly shut in the door.

The nurse gasps to see what I have done.

When she straightens me all out

I say, Thank you, like a good girl should

and these are my first words.

I can only imagine the therapeutic value that Pat found in writing her poetry.  I met her for only one day, but I will remember her energy and spirit forever.  I am truly moved by her perspective.