The smell hits me when I step off the elevator - strong rubbing alcohol mixed with cleansers. It is a cocktail of equal parts rubbing alcohol, bactine, and betedine. While this scent permeates all patient floors, it seems strangely absent from the lobby and cafeteria, both enveloped with wafts of warm bread and gravy.
I have never been to this floor before and the labyrinth of corridors is confusing. My father recently had his right hip replaced, so there is not the urgency or desperation I have observed in other wards. This was, by modern standards, a fairly uncomplicated operation. Under the doctor's code it even states “elective.”
While my father’s condition is not critical, it reminds me of when others in our family were in more critical wards. I remember other rooms on the way to my father’s. Mostly I remember my beloved, Irish grandfather’s room in the oncology ward at Presbyterian St. Luke’s downtown. Thankfully this is a very different place.
Here the carpet is two shades of green – moss and forest run down the hallway like a distinguished runner…leading you to someplace. The walls are painted a light cream color, white…but not too white. The modern sensibility of creating a warm atmosphere only carries so far. Cleanliness and disinfection are still important.
My father and I have not had a perfect relationship, but it is one of the best father-daughter relationships I know of. He is a large presence, an attorney and part-time actor - he is not shy. His over-achieving nature is hereditary and I tried, but failed, to live-up to some imaginary standard I thought he set. Once I realized he was happy with me just being his daughter our relationship seemed better - easier and more relaxed.
He has a loud, strong deep voice that carries well anywhere. To the untrained ear, he may sound like he’s only yelling at times, but I can recognize the tick of irritation, strength of anger, or depth of happiness in his voice. This voice coaxed, instructed, and corrected me throughout my life; he cushioned many tough blows and calmed more fears.
He called me after his surgery when he finally got to his room. The bellow and strength that epitomized my father’s voice was horse, raspy, and almost a whisper. His strong cadence slowed with a slight slur, the effect of pain medication not to mention three plus hours of major surgery. As I looked for his room I was reminded he is another patient here, not just my father. Here he is monitored for signs of infection. Here he is subjected to forces and individuals outside my realm. Here he is vulnerable.
I walk down the hall and the nurses silently pad by me with their lime green pants and green flowered pattern shirts. They are the knowing keepers with secret information here. They know when patients are supposed to perform bodily functions, how much pain medication they take, and how to get out of this place. Their eyes are focused on names of patients and room numbers. Not one of these individuals meets my eyes; I am not a chart or a doctor so I do not fall within their realm of responsibility.
I accidentally take the long way to my father’s room and walk towards the far end of the floor. The hiss and swoosh of machines are most concentrated on this darker end of the hall. It is winter; the sun had long set even though it is only 5:30 at night. The single window at the end of the hall seems futile. It casts a gray cold glow across three wood chairs with ripped orange cushions and an end table with outdated magazines. I wish someone would pull the blinds… the light reminds me of winter and passing.
The stench of antiseptic is stronger at this end of the hall, the air seems less fresh and every sound is amplified. In one room I hear the strong cadence of Tom Brokaw mixed with the halting whisper of a woman. A man is sleeping in his bed. He wears a blue top with tiny red and yellow flowers and a white collar under the thin white sheet and yellow blanket. Tom Brokaw is telling a story about the recent election with his usual sly smile. He seems further away than usual, just a tiny head in a fake wooden box suspended at a sharp angle from the ceiling.
The man is asleep in his bed, both arms above his sheet. I am a well-trained civilian now and see he has two IVs, one in each arm, a catheter bag hanging on the left side of his bed, and an oxygen hose hooked behind his ears. A machine pulses with a tiny beep about every 10 seconds and an oxygen machine moans and hisses.
I cannot hear much of her conversation, but I hear her say “presents” and, for a minute, I desperately want to leave this place. Colors that would never be together in anyone’s bedroom are thrown around with abandon here. Blue, coral, yellow, green, and fuchsia curtains hang between beds to give the illusion of privacy. Clothing - green for nurses, solid blue for orderlies, white for doctors, and blue with flowers for patients - segregates individuals. Nothing here is normal, but this woman is trying to bring some of that to this place that rejects it flat out.
Carts that would normally make horrendous noise on tile floors are silent as they are wheeled around heavily carpeted corners and in and out of rooms here. Wheels still make tiny squeaky sounds and it comforts me. It reminds me of the outside.
I find my father’s room. He looks smaller here. He has his blue-flowered nightgown on and is sitting up in a chair. A thin waffle woven blanket is thrown across his lap and I see he is wearing compression socks and tiny slip-proof booties in the brightest white I have ever seen.
“They’re for my circulation,” he says of his socks. His voice seems diminished. The whisper effect has caught on here.
Luckily, he is alone, no roommate to try to be civil to under the worst circumstances. But just as bad, the spare bed seems to be the surplus storage for every frightening device the hospital has to offer. Shiny silver traction devices, spare trapezes, and what looks like miles of tubing litter the bed with the pink blanket next to him. I walked in on my own two feet and they even scare me.
A man brings my father dinner of roast chicken, salad with a vinegar dressing, and pudding for dessert. He has two miniature cups of apple juice and he works to pull back the foil lids and pour them into his cup. As he opens them, the vacuum seal breaks and they each make a little whoosh as they are freed. The man who brought my father’s dinner is also the man who has been helping him walk that day. His name is Lucky - I take it as a good sign.
I sat with my father for a few hours that night. He was still spaced out on morphine and the yellow-colored drip that ran into his arm relieved me, even though it took my father away for a while it would eventually bring him back. I sat in a huge wood framed chair with tough pink cushions and looked out on the parking lot. I could feel the clear cold winter night even in the hot, almost tropical feel of the hospital. It reminded me of the line of a song, “the smell of hospitals in winter...” which made even more sense to me now. Hospitals do smell different in winter, they are hotter, their smell of healing permeates everything, the sense of isolation even more pronounced. While the whole world is bundled to the hilt this population exists in short sleeve shirts light cotton pants and tennis shoes. Words have a stronger weight, too.
My father was hearing about the traffic on the expressway as if it were the subway system in London. The woman down the hall was detailing her Christmas excursion to her recovering husband as if she were on safari. The women at the nurse’s station were discussing their holiday party in loud voices, only to be silenced by the buzz of a patient. Here is where battles for life and death are fought every day; people sit in these uncomfortable chairs day after day telling their loved ones about the plumber or cable guy to keep them in the loop of their lives. We tell them small details of the outside world to remind them of it, to remind them they are needed.
As my father drifted in and out of a sleep while watching Channel 11, I told him about the insignificant details of my day – where I parked in the lot, how my tires were doing, how long it took me to get there. I left it to his team of nurses to ask questions of pain and recovery.
After his dishes were cleared away he rested and began to fall into a deep sleep. “I’m going to go now, dad,” I said in a hushed tone. “I love you,” I told him.
“I love you, too,” he said in a hushed voice, but I still heard his strength and love. I knew that he would come back.
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