Misery Train

Hospitals, whether patient or family, are never a linear experience for me. It' just hours of sitting, waiting, staring at walls punctuated by little bursts of activity from doctors, nurses, therapists social workers and everyone else. It all just sort of morphs together as one big chunk of time with a few moments that I remember.

The good news is that my brother showed up. My brother for some unknown reason has disconnected himself and his family(wife daughter and son) from everyone. I've spoken to him 3 times in 10 years, usually when one of our parents is sick; he didn't even call me when I was in the hospital a few years ago. But whether it's genuine or just an act he does play the "good son" when there's an emergency.

When I walked in he had just talked to the discharge nurse who is really essentially a social worker who decides when and how you go home. In this case there was a question of whether mom could go home or to a nursing home for a few weeks. But he really didn't know enough about my parents situation so that was left up in the air for a conversation with me.

Then the doctor came in and told us what she knew (Dr. Lindsay is a fantastic doctor and very patient). My brother is a school principal and has affected this whole cool teacher look with a goatee, John Lennon glasses and a cool looking suit. I was wearing my grimy clothes from the night before( I had planned to do laundry this day), I hadn't shaved and my eyes were red from no sleep. She directed most of the conversation at him which irritated me since I was the one who had been there and would be there later.

The bad news is that he left a few minutes later with promises of keeping in touch and offers of help etc. But here it is the following Monday and I've left a half dozen texts with information and received one terse message back "thanks for the info"

Aside from that it was mostly boredom and sitting around. Her room was small so I spent a lot of time in the tiny waiting room which also doubled as what I started calling the "sad room". That usually meant a doctor, a social worker and family members having quiet sad conversations about hospice care or advanced directives; I was hoping that room wouldn't become the sad room for me.

When it wasn't the "sad room" it was the Misery Train depot. People who had just heard terrible news about a family member shuffling off the elevator with tired, sad eyes and slumped shoulders. The bathroom was in there so when people would come by we'd exchange brief nervous hellos and then they'd shuffle of to their loved ones rooms. It was a shifting parade of people, some terrified of what was to come, some happy to be taking their loved ones home, some who would never see their loved ones again.

(to be continued)