Thoughts on Good Friday, Scintillating Moments & Code Blue in Room 236

Day thirty-seven at Kindred Hospital.  Good Friday, 2015.

During this soiree, and our week at Methodist Hospital in Sugar Land, Jean & I have experienced both scintillating & stormy days.  Some days are diamonds, some are stone.

Today did not begin as a sparkling day – even the sun hides behind the clouds &the air hangs muggy with just enough humidity to suck the energy out of your body & soul.

Jean’s primary care physician of many years returned after a brief trip out of town.  As always, he asked Jean how she was feeling.  On each of our prior days in captivity, Jean’s reply has never varied.

Until this morning.

This morning, instead of her standard I am good or I am well, or I am fine, Jean told Dr. Patel:

I am mad.

I looked at Jean & Dr. Patel looked at me before asking her Why are you mad?

Because they poked & prodded & pricked me & it hurt.

Dr. Patel asked Jean if the nurses drew blood & when she said yes, I got up & looked at her arm.

Blood is drawn from Jean’s picc line every few days to monitor the level of antibiotic her body is absorbing.  If the level falls, the pharmacist increases the dosage.

This is Jean’s third picc line in thirty seven days.  The first stopped working, its replacement caused an infection.  For how long, no one can say.  But early after its insertion, nurses were unable to draw blood from the picc line & began poking & prodding & pricking to feed the vampires I am certain are sequestered in the hospital lab.

Shifts came & went, & every time blood was drawn, Jean was pricked & poked & prodded several times before the blood gave itself up to feed the ravenous lab dwellers.

Jean’s veins are tricky.  Deceptive in appearance, they disappear at the approach of a needle.  More often than not, if an IV is successfully inserted, the vein blows in defiance of the invasion.

Jean’s tricky, elusive veins are selective about whom to entrust with the life product they carry – no phlebotomist fails to draw blood with one prick of the needle.  Nurses & doctors seldom experience success the first or second or third attempt.

Her second picc line developed an infection & had to be removed for a vacation of several days.  But when multiple attempts to insert an IV into her arms failed, her doc ordered a third line.

After a week of watching the nurses at Methodist Hospital in Sugar Land struggle to draw blood & replace IV lines – & watching Jean’s eyes brim with silent tears of anger at the invasion, tears of frustration at what she perceived as a lack of nursing skill, holding her breath & wincing in pain – I wanted a prick & poke & prod & pain free six weeks for her at Kindred.

Why the nurse assigned to Room 229 last night decided to draw blood from Jean’s arm instead of the picc line, I still do not know.  Uncharacteristically, I slept through the incident.

I obsess about why the nurse was unable to draw blood from the line – is the line functioning?  Is there another leak?  Did the nurse have a brain freeze & not use the line? I embark on a vain search for a supervisor.  Dr. Patel assures me he will find out why the nurse took blood out of Jean’s arm.

I gather my tote bag of empty plastic bags & an empty pitcher brought with us from Methodist (it took two weeks to get a pitcher of less quality & durability from Kindred) & head to the first floor, to procure ice for the morning.

Sometimes I drive to the nearest convenience store & pay almost $3 for a ten pound bag of ice – past visits to Kindred have left me gun shy about asking a CNA to bring me ice from the only source of ice on the second floor – a machine behind locked doors.

But this morning, I do not want to play nice.  I don’t care about trying to live my life as a kinder & gentler Jaki Jean.  I am angry at the nurse who hurt Jean, I am angry at myself for sleeping through the incident; I am angry because the supervisor’s office is dark & empty of human form.  I am angry at every infraction, every slight, every error, every real & perceived neglect & mismanagement in my mother’s care during our stay at Kindred.

As I near my destination on the first floor, compiling & editing & no doubt embellishing my list of grievances, a voice comes over the hospital’s loud speaker:

Urgent Assistance needed in Room 236.

The voice repeats the call several times until the required assistance is more than urgent:

Code Blue in Room 236.  Code Blue in Room 236.  Code Blue in Room 236.

The door to the Conference Room flings open, white coats flying as the bodies inside them run to the elevators.

My heart falters, my list of grievances turns to dust & I realize that I don’t know who is in Room 236, which is across the hall from our space in 229.  Room 236 was empty for weeks & I was oblivious to the arrival of a new resident.

I say a prayer, wishing I were Catholic so I could cross myself.  I remember that it is Good Friday & I shudder at what a loss during a holiday weekend might mean for the survivors.

As I gather ice, I think about the only other Code Blue I have heard during our weeks at Kindred Hospital – Code Blue in ICU #5.   I wonder about the outcome of that call & realize that I have immunized myself against the call to ICU #5 – ICU is on the first floor & out of my sight.

But the door to Room 236 is in my sight, visible from my spot in Room 229 unless I draw the curtain to block the outside world without shutting our door.  I say another prayer for a family I do not & will never know & walk slowly back to the elevators.

On the second floor, I round the corner to our wing.  Our part of the wing is spacious, with three large windows at the end of a wide, uncluttered corridor.

 

The space is empty of human forms, the crash cart usually stored against a wall outside our room is gone.  The door to Room 236 is closed.

As I unpack my stash of ice, I see that the valve used to connect Jean’s nebulizer to Oxygen is gone, the nebulizer flung on the chest of drawers next to Jean’s bed.  I hear a voice cry out over & over again.

No.  No.  No.  No.  Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The grief & pain are palatable.  I can feel the loss in that cry fill the empty space, feel it cross the corridor, breaching my body & my soul. Calling forth memories of other cries, other losses.

My mother holding my father’s lifeless body, asking Jack, don’t leave me.  I remember how cold his skin felt when I touched him face & hands.  I feel & remember my mother’s reaction to the news of her own father’s death.  My father Jack rushing to Jean’s side to gather her up in his arms as she fell against a wall.

The door to our room is open.   A housekeeper is cleaning.  I gather myself, watching Jean, who cannot yet hear the cries from the hall.

A voice cries out Mama & this time Jean can hear it.  I don’t want her to feel it, to feel the grief & recall other times of grieving so I move to close the door.

A case worker is holding a stricken daughter, holding her tightly, absorbing every cry & every sob.  The case worker’s eyes meet mine & I begin to weep for a woman & a daughter & a family I do not & will never know.

I close the door quietly, desperately wanting to give this woman a semblance of privacy in which to absorb & mourn her mother’s death.

As I try to compose myself so that Jean does not absorb my inexplicable empathy with the woman in the open space outside our room, the housekeeper watches me, her face stoic, eyes curious.  She does not stop sweeping a dry mop across the floor.

Because she is watching me, because I cannot compose myself & want to openly weep, I do what I always do when I cannot compose myself.  I speak, attempting to explain my reaction.

It is hard, it is just so hard.

Without missing a stroke of the mop, the housekeeper shrugs & says:

We’re used to it.  We see it all the time.

Her words cut the cord connecting me to the woman still weeping in the hallway.

I wonder about this young woman cleaning our room.  Who, what is she?  What kind of a being is so hard at so young an age that any, every death does not diminish a piece of her own soul?

Eventually it is quiet outside our door.  I need to go to the store to get chocolate pudding for Jean – she does not care for the vanilla pudding offered her as a set-up to mix with the probiotic granules she takes three times a day to combat an onslaught of C-Diff.

Opening our door, I see the family of the woman in Room 236 has begun to gather.  Room 236’s door is open & I hear muffled cries.   As I walk away to set about on my errand, I can distinguish exclamations of anger & disbelief mingled with words of comfort & strength – all the components of sorrow & loss are present.

Later, when Jean’s lunch arrives, the space in our corridor is populated with family members.  There are no chairs in the open space – people settle on the floor, against walls, against one another.  Room 236 is not as large as our room – we have one of the rooms that used to hold two patients. 

I know the death has been reported, because I saw the Sugar Land police leaving the facility when I returned from my errand. I wonder why no one has come for the body.

It is new to me, this gathering of family & friends to visit the body at the hospital.  I have never experienced it.  But I have learned from my friend Jermaine, who works in the cafeteria downstairs, that it is not unusual for a body to remain for hours before being removed to a funeral home.

Jermaine tells me that the deceased woman & her daughter were recent arrivals to Kindred.  But not new to the facility – they had spent their own soirees together at Kindred.  He told me :  Her daughter is like you.  She stays with her mother all the time.

Jean’s favorite pastor from Sugar Creek Baptist Church, Jay Myers, arrives for a visit & I tell him about the recent death.  Jay asks me if there is a Chaplin on staff at Kindred. 

I tell him that I have never seen one & what was once the chapel here has been converted to an office.  I have seen a priest from time to time – I noticed him because he is so tall that he has to duck when he enters the elevator.

As Jay visits with Jean, I think about the first time Jean & I were at Kindred for the pressure wound.  We were in this same corridor, a few doors down in Room 232. 

We had a CNA (I no longer remember her name) who prayed with Jean every time she came to the room.  I learned her story over our weeks that October in 2012.  She was a transplant from Louisiana, one of the victims of Hurricane Katrina who decided to plant new roots in Texas.  She was recently married – a good man -  she met at a Bible Study she conducted among her fellow refugees at the apartment complex in which they both lived during the first months after leaving their temporary home in the Astrodome.

I know very little of the story of the women who resided in Room 236.   I know one was a mother, one a daughter who cared for her mother & who, according to my friend Jermaine in the cafeteria downstairs, always had a smile & a cheerful greeting.   And I know that a community of family & friends is diminished by her death.

Later in the afternoon, the corridor of our wing is empty, the crash cart returned to its storage spot outside our room.  A nurse is tending to it, rearranging supplies.  Patrick from respiratory arrives & I tell him that the Oxygen connection he uses for Jean’s breathing treatments is missing.  I found the nebulizer on the chest next to Jean’s bed.

It was needed across the hall.  I will get another.

I look out the window & the sun has made an appearance.  Sunlight filters through the window in our room.  I look out our door & sun rays fill the now empty space.

Scintillating, a scintillating moment.

Room 236 is being cleaned.  The family & the body are gone & with the sunlight, I remember that it is Good Friday.

A day when others are attending Good Friday services, watching & participating in re-enactments of the Stations of the Cross, remembering the Cross & the Sacrifice of our Lord.  Revering the enormity brought about by Christ’s death.   A day of praise & thanksgiving.

At last I think about that Friday thousands of years ago, when Christ called out & gave up his spirit.  The earth shook,  rocks split, tombs opened & the veil in the Temple separating man from the place where God dwells was torn in two. (Matthew 27: 51-52, NIV – Jean’s preferred translation.)

Mankind restored to Grace, restored to God.

This Friday a woman occupying Room 236 of Kindred Hospital gave up her spirit.  The world she exited shook, hearts broke, a stone rolled away & her restored spirit went home.

And I whispered another prayer, humbled by this day & that Friday afternoon before a long-ago Sabbath.   Grateful for scintillating moments ofSelah.