It’s Friday night and we’re at Urgent Care. Apparently half the South Bay is here; we’re told to expect a three-hour wait. The room is cold. My husband shivers violently, except when he is burning with fever. People around us cough and moan. A large boy in a man’s body rocks back and forth, repeating the same sentences at top volume while his father hushes him.
I am exhausted, bored and a little peeved. I stifle the urge to suggest that this could’ve been avoided with Tylenol and fluids. Two hours and two IV bags of fluid later, we leave with a diagnosis of flu.
Annoyance turns to guilt then to paranoia. I am sorry my beloved has the flu, but I don’t want the rest of us to get it. I spend the night like Goldilocks, moving from bed to bed, trying to find somewhere comfortable to sleep, far from contagion.
If I could slide his food through a slot in the door, prison-style, I probably would. The next morning I tell him that I can’t risk the kids getting sick, so we head out the door. We spend a beautiful sunny day at SeaWorld.
It’s Sunday, nearly 11 p.m., and my husband feels worse. He asks to go to the doctor, which at this hour means the emergency room. My aggravation is palpable. Far from being sweet and comforting, I mutter, “You should have told me this earlier.” It will be a long night; I dread facing 34 students the next morning after no sleep.
During the hours we spend in the waiting room, I learn my husband is the loudest vomiter in San Diego. I also learn that I’m a clumsy wheelchair driver, despite the practice I get wheeling him to the bathroom. He is finally assigned a bed in a hallway under a giant digital clock. I watch the minutes tick by: 2:15, 2:16, 2:17. I read a book cover-to-cover. At 4 a.m. I start texting people: cancelling carpools, requesting a substitute and begging my colleagues to put together work for my students.
I tremble under a thin blanket I snagged from a cart. I make a mental note to dress warmly for the next emergency. I curl into a chair, drifting between sleep and halfheartedly petting my husband.
I ask how he’s feeling. He answers by vomiting loudly. After 11 hours, multiple IV bags, powerful pain medication and a course of antibiotics, we are released. The diagnosis has changed from flu to infection; I’m relieved he’s not contagious.
Exhaustion has not made me a better wheelchair driver but I maneuver him into the car. I am quiet; I feel guilty for being crabby and selfish. I vow to improve my bedside manner.
It’s Tuesday morning. I’m at school getting ready for the day when the phone rings. I hear the words “husband … ambulance … hospital” before my brain shuts down. I scurry to leave some semblance of order before dashing out the door. I assure the principal that I’m OK to drive. I am lying. Decades of Catholicism kick in; I mutter a mishmash of “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers” to keep from thinking as I drive.
In the emergency room I find my husband. He is nearly incoherent. When I ask him about the ambulance, he answers slowly, “It was red … and rectangular.”
I still don’t know why he was in it, but he has exhausted his ability for conversation. I wait for someone to give me information. I try to stave off terror, breathing a sigh of relief as anything horrible is ruled out. Finally he is released, in possession of a very uncomfortable but temporary device, antibiotics and painkillers. I am so thankful that he is OK that I promise myself I’ll be the best nurse ever.
Life for the next few weeks is hard. I learn to change tubes and bags. I move blankets gently. I get up earlier, go to bed later, count out pills, measure out liquids. I help him walk, shower, dress himself. I disinfect the house compulsively. I make him laugh, but not so hard it hurts.
Friends step in to help us out and I am grateful. I’m exhausted at the end of every day. I do not sleep. I remind myself that this is temporary and no matter how bad I feel, he feels worse.
I think about friends I have, people who lovingly nurse their spouses through months or years of severe illness. I am inspired by the example they set. It’s far easier to promise steadfastness than it is to practice it daily, but I am learning.
I hope we’re done with hospitals for a while. More importantly, I hope I remember the lessons I learned about patience and kindness, in sickness and in health.
