from
My ICU Family
in
Saying Goodbye to Daniel:
When Death is the Best Choice
by Juliet Cassuto Rothman
Continuum
We all recirculated the same magazines. Everyone was under so much
tension, I don't think we even realized that we were reading the same
articles,
over and over. I read one about a man rescued by a dog somewhere cold in
the Reader's Digest at least three or four times before I recognized that
I had
read it.
Toward the end of my stay, I became a ruthless thief. I decided it was my
personal job, my mission, to see to it that new magazines, filled with new
stories, new ideas, new pictures, were available. I stole them from
anywhere I
could. If I saw a magazine lying around somewhere in passing, I picked it
up. I
picked magazines out of the trash baskets outside the hospital. I made
occasional forays into the main waiting room next to the lobby, rolling up
magazines and walking out with them under my arm. I cleaned out Leonard's
supply every weekend when he arrived from Annapolis with the latest mail.
I
must confess, I even stole some magazines from the Ronald McDonald House,
which had a wonderful supply. Over the weeks, I piled up more and more,
and
even threw out the old, dog-eared ones.
"This is my legacy," I would tell the others, "magazines for
people to read.
New ones. Fresh ones."
People lived in the ICU waiting room. This meant they ate there,
too.
There was a name of one or two restaurants posted on the board, that
delivered to the waiting room. At mealtimes, everyone ordered in, or
unwrapped sandwiches brought from home.
There was one table, with three Brewer chairs. We all took turns,
waiting
until someone finished, cleared their mess, and sat down at the dirty
table.
When we finished, we got up so that the next family could sit down. When I
was with Leonard or the kids, we ordered Chinese food, or subs, and waited
for our turn. By late in the day, the stale, uncirculated air of the
waiting room
reeked of everyone's breakfast, everyone's lunch, everyone's dinner.
When I was alone, I skipped all my meals and just ate junk from the
machines. Often, I couldn't decide what to get. My mind didn't seem to be
working right. I would stand in front of the machine and stare stupidly:
did I
want the Ritz Bits? the Twinkies? the chocolate chip cookies? the sour
cream
and onion potato chips? Sometimes I gave up in disgust, and just had a
diet
soda.
Sometimes doctors would come by and find people in the waiting room,
family members with whom they needed to talk. They would perch themselves
on the back of a green plastic chair, and, in full view and hearing of the
entire
waiting room, proceed to discuss their patient's condition. Everyone tried
not to
look, not to hear, not to pay attention. The times that it happened to me,
I felt a
terrible sense of violation. It was as though Daniel's condition,
problems,
progress, or lack of it, was common property. Often, it was the head of
the ICU,
himself, who violated his patients' and their families' privacy in this
way.
Most families came and went. The turnover was quite rapid, it seemed.
People came in as worried groups. Mostly, they left after triumphantly
announcing, to the rest of us beleaguered souls, that they were being
“transferred to a floor.” They noisily gathered up their things, and made
their
way to the door, pausing at the threshold for one last, lingering look
back.
Far fewer were the families that were called to the little room off the
main
waiting room, to wail and cry and emerge, red-eyed, newly bereft. These
sorry
people were forced to walk through the full waiting room, knowing from
their
own experiences waiting there, that every scream, every cry, had been
heard
by all. A silence followed them, and a path was cleared. Was it respect,
fear, or
some mixture of emotions too difficult to analyze that kept us rooted,
quietly
staring?
|
