Dear Family and Friends,
A lot has happened in the past day. Nancy has received multiple transfusions—red blood cells to correct her anemia, platelets that contain the clotting factors to help stop the nosebleeds and bruising, and fresh frozen plasma that contains the blood products she was sorely missing. In addition, she received several liters of IV fluid because she was so dehydrated. At least temporarily, Nancy is feeling considerably better. The doctors and nurses simply shake their heads in disbelief when Nancy tells them, “Yes, I did work the whole day before my admission,” and “Yes, I drove myself from the airport to the emergency room when I was finished working.”
As I write, Nancy is peacefully snoozing in a cozy hospital bed. Sitting in a brown fake-leather hospital chair next to her, I am stroking the back of a delicate hand while avoiding the attached IV for the antibiotics and medicines she is receiving. Nancy has a clear plastic tube attached to her nose to administer oxygen, and there are wires extending from her chest, legs, and arms to three different monitors checking many of her bodily functions. Intermittently, one of the monitors will make a loud, irritating beeping sound indicating that Nancy is not breathing fast enough or that her heart has missed a beat. Each time one of the alarms sounds, my heart skips several beats even though I know that the alerts rarely reflect a serious problem. Nancy does not awaken for the alarms.
It is so different for me to be holding a patient’s hand to give comfort rather than to feel a pulse, inspect a rash, or examine some form of irregularity. I try to ignore the monitors, the bedside chart numbers, and the conversations between the many nurses, lab technicians, X-ray specialists, and doctors who constantly enter our room unannounced to check on Nancy’s status. My forehead sweats and I swallow my words so that I don’t offer an observation or give advice. When one of Nancy’s nurses asked the respiratory therapist a question this morning, I almost raised my hand like a middle school student. I am clearly out of my element.
Critically, sitting in this room is not about me. I focus on Nancy and not only stroke the back of her hand but hold it lightly between both of mine. I am pleased that her hand is no longer hot to my touch. For much of the day yesterday, I ran cold water over my own hands before holding Nancy’s. She smiled once between naps and said, “You really feel good, Winnie.” Despite her eyes closing before I could reply, those were the best words I heard the entire day.
I silently wonder as I watch her sleep, “What are you thinking, Nancy?” Though she looks peaceful, I worry about the fevers, the subsequent body aches, and the weakness she must feel. I lament, “What is it like to know you are facing terrible, terrible odds?” When I adjust Nancy’s head on the pillow in hope of making her more comfortable, she often doesn’t even awaken. A singular question lingers in my mind: “What more can I do?” It echoes time and time again. I am panicking.
But you know my Nancy well. There is a wisp of a smile on her lips, her face is serene, and her forehead is smooth. She is a rock in the face of our storm. Before drifting off today, she tapped my shoulder to motion me closer and then whispered as if telling me a secret, “Winnie, I’m worried about you. You need to eat something. You need fresh air. I’ll be all right for the half hour it would take to leave the hospital. Didn’t you notice? There are others who can watch over me. Isn’t that why we’re paying all these hospital workers who keep interrupting my TV shows?”
That’s my Nancy. Only she could incite my first laugh in over two days.
Summary: The resident doctors just walked in the room. I will write more and summarize later today.
Hurriedly yours,
Winnie