Dear Friends and Family,
I find it hard to believe it has been almost two weeks since I last wrote you. Either I am getting used to the roller coaster ride or I have been overwhelmed by the responsibilities of my day job in Park City—plus my attempt to keep our family on an even keel.
It is not easy to live in a hospital room, watching Nancy endure her next round of chemotherapy.
Am I numb or exhausted? Or both?
Many days I don’t know. Anyway, Nancy is laboring along, already one week into this “visit” to our hospital home.
So how did this round begin?
“Now that’s a lot of stuff,” I heard from a voice to my left.
I turned to view the round face of a plump, fortyish woman. Her head was tilted in my direction to get a maximum look at the many items in the extra-large blue storage bin riding on the arms of the wheelchair that I had borrowed from the check-in desk at the hospital. Six clumps of plastic flowers were proudly sticking their yellow, red, and blue tops from the second of our two bins that was being transported to Nancy’s new eighth-floor room. Numerous books, pictures, clothing, stuffed animals, and other various sentimental items were directly visible to this all-too-curious lady’s view. (I bought the bins at Staples at the end of our first hospitalization, and the containers have allowed us to move in and out of the hospital with ease and efficiency, albeit not with much privacy.)
“My wife will be here a long time. Probably a month,” I responded, trying to talk to her and not to the other folks in the elevator who now were looking at the bin directly rather than glancing at it fleetingly so as not to stare.
“Oh . . . ,” the lady replied, shuffling her feet nervously. “I’m very sorry.” The lady literally ran off the elevator when we reached the fourth floor, not meeting my eyes or even saying good-bye. The fourth floor is the newborn floor; she was probably a new grandmother, I concluded. The patient she would visit probably would stay in the hospital two days at the maximum.
Feeling somewhat self-conscious, I looked at the ceiling mirror as I transported “a lot of stuff” the final four floors to the “penthouse.” The other visitors on the elevator marched off at intermediate floors, looking at their feet just like the “curious” lady. By the seventh floor, I was finally alone.
Why do I feel uncomfortable on a hospital elevator?
A month is a long time to be quarantined in a room that is drab and antiseptic by design. Jayna and I have made every effort to fill Nancy’s room with fun things, to add a personal touch to offset and soften the absence of personal decor. We want Nancy to be surrounded in all directions with reminders from friends and family. One card hanging on a wall might bring to mind ten emails or letters I’ve read to her.
(Each of you has touched Nancy’s heart in countless ways; I want your love nearby during the hard times.)
Once off the elevator, I spent the next hour framing the already existing pictures with our bendable plastic flowers, filling the bulletin board with thumb-tacked mementos and cards, and placing Nancy’s growing “herd” of stuffed animals in every corner and on every shelf.
Nancy assumes the director role on “move-in” day and isn’t hesitant to point out, “No, I like it better over there. Like last time.” Though Nancy feigns objection at so much fuss, I suspect deep down inside she likes her room’s renovation.
By the time I empty both bins, the all-white room had been transformed into a menagerie of color. Our plastic flowers offer no smell, but Nancy speculates proudly that our room has as much foliage as exists in the entire hospital. And certainly, it has the most cards and pictures. As a last gesture, Jayna opens a perfume bottle and dabs it all around the room to block out the smell of bleach and soap. I like the fragrant smell almost as much as its name: Eternity.
Each and every one of the staff on our first day back made a comment: “You’ve transformed this room into a garden paradise again. And look at these new pictures. Are they from your party?” Jane, one of Nancy’s nurses during her past two hospitalizations, turned to Jayna and shared an observation that touched us greatly: “Everyone on our staff loves coming to your room. You make it home.”
For the first time in a while, I can remember that things do matter. Earlier I was frantic when I thought I had misplaced the beagle stuffed animal given to Jaret by his great Uncle Hank. “Hushpuppy” is one of Nancy’s favorites. She expects him to be sitting on our tiny windowsill in Room 842, like always.
Funny what really matters on day one of hospitalizations.
Summary: We’re back on the penthouse floor. Room 842. And we brought a lot of stuff with us to make it our home—for now.
With love from Hushpuppy, our many other stuffed companions, and Nancy,
Winnie