Hospital Roomies

Upon arriving to my assigned hospital room on the night of Saturday, June 5^th, I was groggy and unsteady – having just spent the past 24 hours in the ICU following an arduous 14-hour surgery to have a tumour removed from the right side of my face. While I knew I had roommates – it wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I had two of them. And both were male.

Strange? I’ll say. Uncomfortable? Yup. I asked one of my nurses (one of the good ones) if this was standard and she said they did their best to avoid a situation like this one, but sometimes it happened.

Since I was laptop-less, tv-less and phone-less and really wasn’t up for all that much reading – I spent my days as such: moving from bed to chair and chair back to bed; shuffling to and from the bathroom; ambulating the ward from time to time; and eavesdropping. A lot of eavesdropping – which almost (almost) made up for not having my laptop.

Henry

Roomie #1 was “Henry”. Henry’s bed was situated almost directly across from mine. He was 80 years old and had a growth in his abdomen that made it difficult for him to eat and caused him to be nauseous – often at night. Poor Henry spent several nights vomiting for the better part of two hours while nursing staff whispered gentle encouragements to him and rubbed his back. As much as my heart went out to him, it didn’t change the fact that there was no sleep in my future until his nausea subsided. On the days after, I would catch brief glimpses of Henry snoozing deeply to make up for the events of the prior evening.

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Henry made two phone calls on his cell per day – one in late morning and the other in the evening – usually both to his wife. And I should mention that both calls were on speaker phone pressed to the highest volume possible.

I gathered he was a quiet, respectful man. He was soft spoken when talking to his nurses and doctors and even to his wife but always polite and congenial. His wife on the other hand seemed to be a real blabber mouth. She’d tell him about her day-to-day activities – which really weren’t all that interesting – unless you considered running to the grocery store, then forgetting to buy sour cream and having to return to said store – the epitome of enthralling. Henry would listen politely not saying all that much.

One morning, his wife told him how a neighbour on their street had been kind enough to come over with their lawn mower and cut the grass for them and she was so taken aback by the kindness that she could not stop gushing. Later that evening, during phone call #2, the other shoe dropped. Henry’s wife called on the verge of tears.

Henry’s wife: “Oh my God! Oh my God! Henry I’m so upset – I’m just beside myself – I just don’t know what to do! That neighbour that cut our grass this morning? He came back today and told me I owe him $50! Can you believe this? I didn’t know what to do so I paid him. And now he says he’ll be back again in a few days to cut the grass again! Oh my God, Henry – what do I do?!”

Henry: “You go over there and tell him ‘Thank you very much – but we don’t need your lawn services anymore.”

Henry’s wife: “I can’t do that! I just can’t. Henry – you’re the asshole – not me! Do you see why you can’t die on me!? Do you understand why you just cannot die. I need you!”

Henry whispered some calming reassurances into the phone and then hung up. As he lay in bed afterward, I could see him sitting up and chuckling to himself.

I made two realizations after listening to this exchange between Henry and his wife. First – that I liked Henry. And second, that I have some pretty awesome neighbours myself – who would never pull an opportunistic and downright self-serving stunt like that one.

It’s been two months. I hope Henry is at home with his wife, back to being the asshole she so desperately needs.

Ryan

Roomie #2 was in the bed to my right – separated by a mere curtain. He was 20-years-old – nothing more than a kid. When his doctor came to chat with him, she would put his mother on speaker phone throughout the conversation. Once in a while, I’d see him as he made the short trek from his bed to our shared bathroom, each time a box in hand that was connected to a chest tube.

Through my mad eavesdropping skills as well as a brief conversation with Ryan’s mother, I gathered more of his story. Two weeks prior to my arrival, he was experiencing horrible chest pain so his parents had rushed him to the ER to discover that one of his lungs had collapsed. He was immediately admitted and had remained ever since.

The doctors had hoped that the portable tube would inflate the lung and that would be that. But things didn’t prove so simple for Ryan. Once they removed the tube, his lung deflated. This meant surgery.

I listened as the doctor outlined the plan: following surgery, Ryan would be hooked back up to the portable chest tube for several more days; then it would be removed and if his lung remained functioning, he’d be free to go home. The doctor was confident that the surgery would be successful and she did her best to assure Ryan and his mother of this fact.

The problem was that Ryan’s case was not considered urgent because he had the portable tube. This meant that he was unable to eat all day – on the off chance that his doctor could squeeze his surgery in at some point throughout the day. Then at 9pm – with surgery safely off the table, there was a three-hour window for Ryan to eat something, before beginning this exhausting process once again.

Even though I never actually spoke to Ryan, I knew his spirits were getting down. After day two of no eating until 9pm, he was rarely leaving his bed. The nurses were trying to encourage him to get up and walk around and he wasn’t having it. He was barely even watching anything on his iPad.

How awful for this kid to be trapped here inside a hospital room, faced with the most difficult moments of his young life and navigating it on his own. I couldn’t help but think of my own daughter – only a few years younger than him – and be thankful that it was me in here – and not her.

Every morning, Ryan’s doctor would appear at his bedside and I could hear him pleading for the surgery. She would tell him she would do her best before continuing on her rounds.

One day, his mother arrived to visit him. As she breezed by my bed, I could see she was a pretty woman – smartly put together and nicely dressed. I could hear Ryan quietly weeping and make out her firm and unwavering pep talk: “Listen, you have to be strong now. The surgery will be soon, I promise. Maybe even tonight. Then it’ll just be a few more days and you’ll be able to come home. Okay? I promise you. We’re gonna get through this.”

Oh man – my heart was breaking listening to this. I was in awe of Ryan’s mother’s strength – there wasn’t a hint of sadness in her voice as she spoke to him so matter-of-factly. She was offering her kid the comfort and reassurance that he needed right then and there – and somehow, in some way, she was able to hold it together in front of him and be the strength and support he truly needed.

When her visitation was up, she breezed back out of the hospital room – and I just knew that she made her way back to the parking lot and probably broke down in her car where Ryan couldn’t see or hear her.

Later that afternoon, Ryan walked by to use our shared bathroom, carrying his portable tube. I sat on the edge of my bed attempting to type. I thought about saying something to him, reaching out in some way so that he knew that even though his parents weren’t here, he wasn’t alone.

Had this been a Netflix original movie, I would have said something quirky and he would have responded to this middle-aged yet amazingly cool woman and then I would teach him how to play Gin Rummy. But I didn’t say anything. I left him alone in his private medical bubble and he did the same for me.

About an hour later, Ryan’s doctor came by to tell him (and his parents on speaker phone) that his surgery was scheduled for later that evening. I was relieved for him. Both his parents were permitted to come back to see their son off.

At around midnight, Ryan was brought back to our room. His jostling stretcher passing by my bed woke me up. I could hear him mumbling softly and indistinctly to his night nurse – a young man I never caught the name of. His nurse went and found him some suitable food so that he could eat something before retiring for the night. And with each of Ryan’s mumblings, the nurse would respond softly and kindly – answering his questions and laughing softly at what was surely some crazy, coming-off-of-anesthesia nonsense.

When Ryan’s nurse was buzzed by his other patients on the ward, he would ask another nurse to take care of it for him so he could remain at Ryan’s side. I heard him tell Ryan: “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m right here next to you. I won’t go until you fall asleep, okay?” And he did just that. Stayed next to Ryan, just on the other side of my curtain – for the next couple of hours.

Just before dawn, I saw a young man in scrubs standing outside my door writing in a file. I asked him if he was Ryan’s night nurse – he was. I told him what I knew Ryan’s parents would tell him – had they been there, bearing witness to his patient and loving care of their son. That he was the most amazing nurse I had come across in my brief hospital stay. That had my child been in hospital, requiring care – I would hand-pick him as their nurse – based on what I had heard throughout the night.

I was due to go home the next morning – but I hoped I would see one of Ryan’s parents before being discharged so I could tell them about the wonderful nurse assigned to their son’s care. I didn’t get to see them and Ryan was still sleeping when I got my official okay to leave the hospital.

I think about Ryan every once in a while. I imagine he’s doing what a typical 20-year-old is doing – hanging out with friends, getting excited about school, working a part-time job.

I hope he outlives us all.

On Monday April 26, 2021, my life changed forever when I heard the words: “You have cancer.” This blog post is the tenth in a series entitled: Cancer Culture and revolves around my personal experience surrounding this devastating diagnosis.

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