My mother-in-law fell and broke her hip. After surgery her condition turned precarious, and doctors zipped her from the surgical floor to the heart floor, and finally to the intensive care floor. It was at this last stop that I noticed the families of patients, and to be honest, they were entertaining.
One family had its father/husband in a room. The group numbered as many as ten at times. They sat in the waiting area next to the elevators, although seating was available outside the rooms of patients. The mother of the group was a short, rotund woman who wore glasses and always seemed to have on the same red polka-dotted blouse and matching red slacks. For some reason she sat in a wheel chair, and other relatives pushed her everywhere. The woman seemed to delight in seeing familiar faces and insisting they stop by to see her husband.
The son of the man was memorable. He wore his shirt untucked, and it cascaded over his large belly. His receding hairline ended at his slicked down brown hair. The man was in his twenties, and he spent much of his time sitting in a chair at the desk in the outer waiting room and holding court with other family members. Often, he walked to the nurses’ station to engage in conversation with the staff. After the first day, nurses suddenly needed to take care of a patient when the son ambled toward them.
Another patient’s condition required staff and family members to wear gowns and gloves. For the family, the throw-away yellow gowns were improvements to their wardrobes. Those individuals wore the same clothing every day that they appeared in the unit. Men with grubby faces and mud-covered boots sat in the waiting areas for long spells. One staff member was overheard saying that the group would benefit from being hosed down; at least that would knock down aroma that was a combination of cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies. Another commented that he didn’t need to wear a gown because no germ could live on him.
One woman in this family was of particular interest to all. She must have injured her right knee for she wore an elastic brace each time she visited. The amusing part was that the brace was worn “over” her jean leg. None of us had ever seen a brace worn that way. The woman had a perpetual smile and glassy look that helped to explain the situation.
The group of which I was a part had its own personality. For one, not enough seats were available for every bottom. We had assembled a small crowd, and some of us were too loud. In fact, my wife Amy “shushed” us on a couple of occasions and warned that the nurses would toss us if we didn’t back off. Most of us speculated about Mary Alice’s condition, but I don’t think a single person had a licensed to practice medicine. Amy was reserved, but polite, and the strain of the situation showed most on her and her Aunt Frances. Her uncle Bruce was silent, partly because he doesn’t deal well with sick loved ones, partly because he has little patience with this bunch of big talkers. Mary Alice’s other sister Georgia sat like a bulldog beside the bed and made sure she heard every word that doctors said.
When loved ones fall ill, families and friends unite. They come faithfully to check the status of the sick person. Then they spend much more time catching up on the latest gossip and just enjoying each other’s company. Most of us can do little for the patient, so we hang around and try to figure out what to do next. Waiting room crowds are fun to watch. Some of them, however, can do more harm than good for the ailing person.
No comments:
Post a Comment