The Cool Hands

by Liz Flaherty

I'm writing from what is for me a unique place right now, so I'll probably wear it out. Sorry, not sorry. As I've mentioned ad nauseum, I am old. The experiences that go with this are myriad--some good and some awful. The invisibility is real, being referred to as irrelevant is real, hearing sneers in voices saying hey, boomer is real. But those are the tip of the iceberg, and they're not the biggest pieces of ice by any means.

So this week, a couple of times, I'm writing about having surgery. About not being well. Thanks for your patience. If you have experiences or laughs to share, please do. We'd all enjoy hearing them.

The Nurses

One of them, Amanda, said people asked what nurses did while they were working their three twelve-hour shifts a week in the cardio-vascular ICU. Did they sit around and play cards at the nurses' station? She said she hadn't seen any cards there during her three AM to three PM time. I saw her every half hour or so while I was there. Doing for me. For other patients. I didn't see any cards, either.

I watched through ICU windows as nurses and techs helped each other to help us. They called me honey, which seemed weird at first and then drew me in like a cool hand feeling my forehead for fever. They anticipated not only my needs but my wants. They responded to my incessant questions with thoughtful answers. When I may have been intimidated or maybe even a little fearful, they talked to me. They laughed with me.

During the night, when I couldn't sleep, they told me about how they'd chosen their profession. They talked about working during COVID. About how it was. What they did. How tired they were. How people died. And lived. About grief. About how the pandemic changed nursing, changed them as nurses and as people. It changed how they felt about some other people, too, and they had to find their way around that. I can relate, can't you?

In another hospital a few days later--it was a very interesting week--a nurse named Scott waited until 5:55 AM to wake me for vitals and meds and "stick out your tongue, move it side-to-side" because his shift ended at 6:00 but he didn't want to wake me until he had to. It had been a restless night and I was finally sleeping well.

We have a lot of nurses in our family. Two of my husband's sisters, several nieces. Another niece is a social worker specializing in elder care. Others in the family also advocate for elders, for people with needs. We know not to underestimate the value of these caregivers.

My sister-in-law cared and advocated tirelessly for her mother, sister, and stepdad in their final days. My great nephew, a respiratory therapist, sat with his grandmother, watching her breathing, holding her hand. Watching. Watching.

They are the cool hands of comfort on anxious foreheads.

The Techs, the Kitchen, Housekeeping, and any healthcare department I've left out.

When a patient wants chips as a snack before trying to fall asleep, they bring them to her. When the patient is whining or making a mess or being maybe a wee bit scared, they talk her through it. They fetch yet another bag of ice. They answer more questions. They make you laugh and laugh along with you. More chips? No problem. When you want black olives on your pizza, they steal a little cup of them from the salad bar and bring them with your lunch. They'll deny it if asked, but they did it.

The Doctors

"I'll yell at you. I just want to warn you."

"We'll put something in there so you won't get sick."

"I'm Dr. Thomas."

"It was ugly, but now it's beautiful."

I guess he did yell at me. It was part of the process. I don't remember it. I will not be overly dramatic and say that he saved my life, because I don't know, but he fixed something that was broken. He made me laugh.

Dr. Thomas is a very nice man. He's helpful and informative. I couldn't remember his name to save my life.

I didn't get sick from anesthesia. I'm still ... I think ... a bit influenced by it, but not sick. Not even once.

It has been, I can say with great articulacy, a week. I have been buoyed by the love and prayers of family and friends. My gratitude cannot be overstated, although I probably will. After all, I never say once what I can repeat a dozen times.

I am late today, and aware that the Window is somewhat askew this week, as if I propped up one side and the other began inexorably to sink toward the sill. I'd apologize yet again, but I'm so happy to be here that I just can't bring myself to be sorry for a crooked Window. Thank you for reading.

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.