Sunday, December 20, 2015

somebody

The thing about hospitals is this - no matter how much coconut cream pie they serve in the cafeteria, no matter how many rainbow windows they have, or even how many anesthesiologists they have working on a Sunday - the fact remains:

Nobody wants to be there.

It's not like people are sitting in bed tonight going, "Hey, Mary, I've been looking at some brochures. Where should we take the kids for Christmas? Aspen? Cancun? Med Surg Unit at Mayo?"

I've mentioned before how many wonderful people work there - we are lucky to know a few, but still - it's a hospital - it's not anybody's ideal.

And as wonderful as people are, as highly regarded as any place might be, I have spent enough time in hospitals to say this much: If you ever find yourself in that bed, you better damn straight have somebody who loves you in that room with you. Nothing is foolproof. Hell - there's even an official sign in each ICU room that says so.  Something like: "Hey fam, let's be real - you know this guy wayyyyyy better than we ever will - help us make a $#!++y situation less $#!++y. Pull up the covers, give him a back rub, cut up his food, refresh his water  - we're all in this together."

When somebody forgets to turn the pressure cuffs back on (and they will) your "somebody" can flip the switch or stick their head into the hall and ask for instructions faster than your nurse can get there.

When you need a drink of water and your nurse is busy attending to a code blue down the hall, your "somebody" can ditch into the dietary room and get ice water.

When alarms are going off like crazy in your room for ten minutes and you think you might be the next code blue, your "somebody" can look at your monitors, take the remote control out of your hand and reposition that little oxygen reader on your finger.

When four nurses have been in and out over the past six hours but nobody has noticed that your IV hand looks like a grapefruit with five little smokies growing from it, your "somebody"will check your extremities and grab whomever happens to be walking past your room and ask them to remove the IV that has fallen out of your vein and threatens to explode your favorite set of fingers.

Your "somebody" can straighten your pillow as many times as you want.

Your somebody can hold your hand all night, even when the nurses say "you can't sleep in here." They'll just bring a book into the room and pretend to be reading all night.

Your "somebody" loves you best of all.

Right now - Rico's "somebody" is home - and not happy about it. Though it will feel good to sleep in a bed, hug my kids, eat some grapes from my own fridge - it's the little things.  I'll be back tomorrow - and he better damn well have both of his hands.




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