Time Enough

The room is at the end of the hall on the 3rd floor, and I worry about how often the facility staff will check on our new patient. Just outside the room is a small, windowed meeting area with a round white-washed dining table and 4 matching chairs, the mid-morning sun washing over it all. Her room is to the right just before it.

This is my first nursing visit with her. We had met yesterday, but that introduction was more for the family. Reinforcing that we are a team, not some shadowy service they only hear about, or from, over a telephone line. Greetings shared, I do my best to use small, simple movements, and tell myself to never mind the sweat beginning to form on my brow. It actually is too warm in here, the thermostat set to 78, something to keep in mind if a fever shows up later. I urge calm into my voice and complete the clinical assessment.

She’s not where we expected her to be. At least from the initial reports of the daughter and son-in-law, but the clinical picture painted is without question. Most of the boxes checked and measurements entered, there’s time enough to stay a while and listen. We pass the time with conversations about her home in Louisiana, her and her late husband’s trip to Bermuda, and her love of sweet tea. Her daughter obligingly chimed in and said, “The sweeter, the better. It’s more like ‘Would you like any tea with your sugar?’” Simple enough, but it might be nice for her. I’ll bring her some Red Diamond’s Sweet Tea. I’ve heard its pretty good. We can discuss its merits, or, how it doesn’t come close to her favorite. Which I figure has a bit of lemon in it, at least mine does.

Yesterday’s patient had a neurogenic bladder, among other things, and laying him in bed helped him void more easily, at least currently. I figured there’s time enough to sit at his bedside for a while, so I did. His wife had bought and placed two black aluminum folding chairs conveniently against the sidelong wall. I dimmed the lights and settled myself into the thinly padded chair, pleasantly cool on this hot, Texas afternoon. I had worked here before and knew that it helped soothe him, having someone there as he rested, someone close enough to call. And, of course, the staff doesn’t mind one less somebody to watch. The hallways are long with too many blind corners, just the right setting for an unwitnessed fall to occur.

It didn’t seem like he had anything else on his mind, and I was told that he had urinated earlier that afternoon, so I wasn’t worried about that. This was just a break. We do like to encourage frequent rest breaks and the pacing of activities. Where better than in his own bed? Plastic wood-like panels and full bedrails aside. He rests with his head slightly elevated on his thinner for a reason pillow, the black felt-lined jacket and dark blue jeans blurring his outline in the darkened room. He adjusts the brim of the hat he wanted to keep on, same as his glasses, which he straightens. His movements still, soft, shallow breaths easing over time.

In those moments, when the lights are doused, and a regulated calm falls, I wonder if he knows I’m there? As if listening, I see his eyelids quiver as they lift, just enough, to make sure.

Her daughter is in tears, being strong… as strong, I guess, as anyone could be in the same situation. I am standing next to her and facing our patient, her mother. She wears a soft, brushed pink top over sleek, grey running pants, shoes nearly pristine except for the miles they’ve run. Her voice is clear crystal, and cuts through the space between with tempered intent. Her eyeliner’s original stroke transcribed to her hand and tissue, skin taut and folded, muscles tensed and weak. She holds herself erect, but she is weary. She is at the edge of herself, and very nearly lost.

Her mother is wearing an autumn colored birthday sweater and leather sandals, fine silver hair held back by a thin tortoise shell band. This morning has been rough for her. It started off better, sweeter at the least. She had had bites of syrup soaked pancakes and sips of fresh squeezed orange juice for breakfast. She had even surprised staff, walking to and from the dining room using her rolling walker, the caregiver at her side present only for her own safety. But that was hours ago.

Now she is caught in the time before her cancer diagnosis, when she looked forward to her follow up appointment and the test results, and wonders when they’ll make the trip to Houston again. She has been told, repeatedly, carefully, plainly, bluntly, and every so often she remembers on her own. It seems the distance between the knowing and the un-knowing ebbs and flows like a too fast tide.

She holds on curled up on her tall, wing-backed chair, legs tentatively perched atop the surprisingly still matching ottoman. The furniture is new, but comfortable in its quality, her family doing well in making her a home this past weekend. I sit knees forward, and at the ready on the sectional opposite. I’ve encouraged the couch, I’ve wedged myself into the corner to give her space, and yet she declines, the sliver of a slight side eye peering, waiting for me to leave. By the end of it, she’ll tell me to tell her daughter that we were friends again.

It’s 7 o’clock and still dark out. I’ve been awake for a while, showered and dressed for the day. I’m wearing my navy blue cotton ripstop scrub top and narrow black pants made of a soft stretch fabric. The clothes have softened through the years, but it’s going to be a busy one and I need their pillow soft assurances. 7:15am, bag in hand, keys at the ready, I check my work email for anything pressing before I go. First one. The huddle call is cancelled; we had had a death.

Work goes well that day. There’s time to ease into my morning coffee, and consider a breakfast; I decline. I schedule and plot several education events, complete my pending notes, and plan the next week. At some point, I rise from my homemade, personally dimensioned desk, heaving a well-earned sigh, and go to my kitchen for a snack. I pause as I open the refrigerator door…

Sitting alone on the uppermost shelf, vibrant in its shades of honey brown, blue and red despite having been forgotten, sits a small, cold bottle of Red Diamond Fresh Brewed Sweet Tea.