My roommate, April, had been throwing up and in distress by the pain. Earlier in the day, she had her appendix removed. Her parents and the doctor told her she would be fine. She was still groggy from the anesthesia when she realized she most certainly was not fine. I left the room to go to the nurse’s station, since I knew that pushing the call button by the bed usually yielded no response. The nurse reluctantly got up from the chair and sauntered off to check on April. It made me feel better to be of use to the novice patient. Besides, I was eleven at the time and felt very grown-up.
After accomplishing my mission, I wandered into the day room of the hospital, dragging the IV pole and trying to protect some dignity despite the hospital robe and floppy slippers. After 8:00 at night, all visitors had left and the brightest lights turned out in the hope that some would sleep.
Even the children who were my age or older had never been in a hospital before. For me it had become routine; I felt almost as comfortable in the dayroom as I did in my family’s living room. Long ago I had learned where they kept the graham crackers, milk and Jello snacks on the ward. I could help myself without troubling a busy nurse. I had also picked up the language spoken in hospitals, the cultural cues of what was acceptable behavior, and what was taboo.
The tropical fish tank gave a soft glow to the room and the lights of the city were visible from the large glass windows. I was glad for a little quiet time by myself and so I sat with my legs curled under me on a chair thinking about what I would do once I was released and home again. A
young man in a white lab coat, probably an intern, came in and sat in a chair. He didn’t seem to notice me; his eyes went directly to the fish circling slowly in the water. Whether it was perception or projection, I will never know, but I sensed that the young man was deeply sad. He sat and watched the fish for what seemed like a very long time. His shoulders drooped; I was afraid he was about to break one of those unwritten rules. I watched him intently, just as he was watching the fish, thinking about how odd it was to see a doctor looking hopeless. In my experience the staff of the hospital were all business, some did their jobs quickly, some were slow to react, some were comforting and good about explaining things but they never ever showed their own feelings.
young man in a white lab coat, probably an intern, came in and sat in a chair. He didn’t seem to notice me; his eyes went directly to the fish circling slowly in the water. Whether it was perception or projection, I will never know, but I sensed that the young man was deeply sad. He sat and watched the fish for what seemed like a very long time. His shoulders drooped; I was afraid he was about to break one of those unwritten rules. I watched him intently, just as he was watching the fish, thinking about how odd it was to see a doctor looking hopeless. In my experience the staff of the hospital were all business, some did their jobs quickly, some were slow to react, some were comforting and good about explaining things but they never ever showed their own feelings.
More amazing to me is that on the few occasions when I have cried a nurse has leapt to my side offering medications to calm me or a Chaplain to bolster my faith when a simple “There, there” and a tissue would have been more appropriate. I doubt that the medical system would be weakened if crying was permitted. Who knows it might be healthier for us all.
My Turn 