Outing On The Third Floor

I grabbed my rolling cart of bags, while John took my right arm.  “Take it slow now,” he said.  “This isn’t a race.”

The pain was incredible; I was stiff from lying down for 6 days; luckily, the incision from the surgery was so bandaged up, I could only feel the tape that seemingly covered my chest.

As soon as I stepped onto the hallway, I was greeted by one of the floor nurses.  “Glad to see you’re up and moving,” she said, walking past.  “About four times a day, and you’ll be going home in no time.”  John and I looked at each other and laughed.  Four times a day?  I couldn’t imagine.

A sunroom for visitors and patients was about 30 steps away.  “Let’s head down there,” John said, pointing with his free hand.

“I don’t think I can make it that far,” I said.  “I’m about to pass out.”

“Oh, you’ll make it,” he said, more telling me than comforting me.  “The sooner we get you moving, the sooner I can get you out of here.”

Slowly, deliberately, we stumbled our way down the hallway, bags following closely behind.  Thank God John had brought me some sweat clothes!  Otherwise, I’d have been hanging out on all sides!  Funny, the things the run through your mind when you’re trying NOT to think of what you’re doing.

After what seemed an hour, we reached the visiting area, and of course, there were no available seats!  There were several groups laughing and talking, and they all turned to look at me like I was a green polka-dotted elephant!  “I think you’re being told to walk back,” John offered.  “Want to turn around?”

“I can’t right now,” I gasped, out of breath and rubber-legged.  “Can’t we stop just a minute?”

I looked to the right.  There was an elevator bank, and on the other side, an additional visitation area.  “Let’s go there,” I said.  “I’m not ready to go back to the room.”

Slowly we turned toward the elevators.  “Take your time,” John said.

“I’m afraid the chairs will be full by the time we get there,” I managed, chuckling.  “And believe me, I’m going to need a short break.”

As we entered the second area, I locked my eyes on a sofa right by the window.  “Hurry,” I said, “let’s go there.”  We shuffled just a few steps and I fell onto the couch.  “Ah, that was fun,” I commented, “can’t wait to do it again.”

For several minutes, we watched as other patients did just as I had, stumble, shuffle and stroll down the hall, each wih their own selection of rolling bags, all the while looking for a place to land.  I observed each one looked very similar; pale, weak, but determined to get through the exercise.  I realized at that moment there must be 100’s of people going through this same procedure all over the country — I also realized I really wasn’t that special – I was just another fortunate bloke who’d made it off the table.

Staring out the window, I saw several people walking down the street in front of the hospital; that would be me again, I thought, someday soon.  The worst part of this nightmare was over!

“You ready to head back?” John asked, bringing me back to the present.  “You can order your dinner, get a little rest, and then we’ll do it again when I get back from getting something to eat.”

“Gee, thanks, Nurse Ratchett,” I laughed.  And from then on, that became his nickname.  But you know, without his pushing, prodding and stubborn refusal to accept that I was done, I wouldn’t be writing this today.

It’s amazing to me how much you learn through an experience like this. I was surprised at the multitudes of people I thought had been my friends, that I never heard a word from. Additionally, I was equally surprised at the people who came to my rescue; people I thought wouldn’t have had the time.

Any life-threatening disease is a chance to learn, as I had seen first-hand over the last couple of weeks. The human compassion I saw from the staff was overwhelming, yet they all acted as if that was just the way it was supposed to be.

It was the same with those that came to my rescue; though there were far fewer than I had imagine, it taught me something. If you give your live out, you’ll get it back — not at all from where you thought, but then, does it matter?

On the way back from the sunroom, my mind wandered. I was beginning to realize, (though not at all how much) how this health disaster was an unfolding of a brand new life. And though it was one I had no idea the destination, I was here for a reason – the Universe had seen to that.