any patient, every patient
Today didn’t go as you planned.
Perhaps this morning you woke up, fed your cat, walked your dog, got yourself ready for work, snagging a coffee or breakfast on the way.
Perhaps you kissed your loved one goodbye, briefly discussed dinner ideas, fully expecting to see them on the other side of the day - yet here you are, almost on the other side of life.
I’m rearranging the tangle of your IV lines, snapping closed the buttons of your gown, looking down at your expression. You’re grimacing, so I work with your drips to give you comfort, although I’m also wondering what’s really going on inside there.
Perhaps you began this day also in pain, although you were just learning to live with it, tolerating it, and going through each day with subtle symptoms, maybe some not so subtle, and you squelched the idea that it may be potentially serious.
Perhaps you had an inkling something was terribly amiss, and you ignored the signs, as really, aside of that nagging pain, you were in good health.
I’m looking at the site where they cathed you - and I consider what your plans may have been for tonight instead, yet here you are immobile.
Perhaps you were going to meet friends, family, perhaps you were going to a yoga class, the gym, or indeed putting off activities and saving them “for another time,’ figuring there was always a tomorrow.
I pull up the mobile nursing station, a chair, and document while in the room - today it’s far too noisy out by the nursing station, and I’m having a tough time thinking about all the patients I’ve taken care of who’ve ignored symptoms, those who haven’t understood the magnitude of them, or those of whom haven’t had the access to good preventative health care.
I consider the patients who go through their ordinary morning routines, in no way expecting they would land in a hospital bed by day’s end.
I consider all the patients who blew off doctor’s appointments for another time, and went on until symptoms cascaded into an irreversible state, thinking the worst would never happen to them.
I think of all the people who hold on for better things someday, put off joy today, put off happiness as they look forwards, instead of the blessing of what they have in front of them today, and I think about all those who just never saw this coming.
I consider how many people have been rolled down the hospital hallways, fearful as they look up at the ceiling, incapacitated, in many cases unitentionally stripped of their dignity, forced to place their lives in our hands, I consider how it feels to move through these stark hallways, often with no idea of what comes next, unfamiliar people hovering over them, poking and prodding
I think about how you, my patient, any patient, every patient, may have lived alone, and perhaps had animals that no one knew about, animals who are waiting patiently for you to come home, feed and love them, I think about how sometimes people forget how devastated animals are when their owners disappear.
I think about how you began this day with hopes, dreams, or just the promise of an ordinary day, and now here we are.
I think about how many people who you care about have no idea what happened to you, or are on their way, or perhaps you are alone in this world.
I may not be the person you expected to meet this morning, but while you are under my care, you will be my world.