Once I had my lightly toasted bagel and cappuccino from the fancy Bistro in the lobby of Danbury Hospital, I made my way to a comfy looking chair next to a tall window overlooking the valet parking. I remembered the last time I was there: my dad was having a second surgery on his broken ankle and my brother Richard and I hung out in that same space. That time, I recalled thinking the lobby resembled some expensive hotel or exclusive ski lodge. I even made up a fireplace in my memory, but there really isn’t one. The lobby was busy that day and I was lucky to find a spot that was relatively private, with a low table between two chairs, only one of which I needed this time.
I had brought work with me and even pulled out my laptop to begin it, but I couldn’t just leave that bagel sitting there…alone. I relaxed into the chair, bagel in hand and maybe exhaled for the first time that morning. That’s when I heard the loud, tinny conversation coming from somewhere behind me. It wasn’t two people talking to each other in another comfy corner, but, as I discovered when I looked around, a young woman apparently having some sort of phone conversation via speaker. With the floor to ceiling windows lining that section of the lobby, any possible muffling of the conversation was limited and it was hard to ignore even as I kept nibbling away at my bagel. Reader, the grating sound of electronic yakking so interfered with the enjoyment of my breakfast, I actually stood up and looked directly at the woman in an effort to silence her with my justified and pointed stare. However, it did nothing to impact the obliviousness of her behavior. I had to try to enjoy the rest of my breakfast with the serenade of what sounded like a job interview. (A job interview! Seriously??)
Fortunately, the next cell phone conversation I overheard was one-way, with a young man who looked like a hospital employee on a lunch break. He was eating tamales and sharing how delicious they were with the person he was talking to. It sounded like a girlfriend or wife and maybe she had made the tamales herself, because he was encouraging her to go have some. But, apparently, a small child was preventing her from doing so and he was understanding in acknowledging her dilemma. After a few minutes he began what sounded like speaking to the child herself, saying, “Hola, hola, Luna” over and over, but with apparently no response from the child, even as the tone of his voice remained patient. It was delightful—and somewhat calming—to hear him speak so gently to his family. Although he wasn’t on the clock, that young man was definitely doing a good job creating a much different environment than I had just previously experienced.
Because, it’s a hospital lobby—the people aren’t there to plan a trip to a local museum or latch skis onto their boots; they’re suffering. Like the other young man I kept seeing in different chairs at different times during the day. He was like Goldilocks, trying out different chairs to sit in—the comfy one near the entrance, a booth inside the Bistro, the more functional chair at a small table. He had come into the OR prep area with a young woman who was bleeding profusely from her nostrils…they both looked terrified. I saw him as he wandered around the rest of the day, trying out different waiting places, looking worried and helpless and clutching the plastic “Personal Belongings” bag containing the woman’s removed clothes to his chest.
Another man stood in another corner of the lobby quietly crying, surrounded by a couple of other men and one woman who embraced him tightly. Despair was written in the limpness of his arms and the slump of his shoulders. Other people moved through that sunny and welcoming space; some I even knew. A man I used to know from years ago was escorting an older woman with a walker towards the elevators. A woman I only recently met and don’t know well was there, too. I didn’t flag her down, but she saw me and confided that her mother had just been admitted and she was bringing her some things from home. It was a really surreal expanse of time, not morning, not afternoon. It was like being in an airport without any connection to the clock. I felt I had been assigned to this place as an observer and tasked with trying to learn as much as I could during whatever amount of time I was there.
What? What was I doing there? Why was I in a hospital lobby being judgy about everyone within earshot and eyesight? Well, I’ll tell you. (You didn’t think I wouldn’t, did you?)
I don’t know how it happened, but almost everyone in our family had a medical appointment in the space of five days—most of them planned. The first one was a round of tests for Annie—planned but not without some concern since we’d find out how the chemo was working. Then Luca visited his new gastroenterologist, and I had a consult with a hand surgeon. My son’s partner had some tests associated with her pregnancy and Angelo had a surgical procedure—at Danbury Hospital.
What ended up happening was a series of unplanned events that tested my resolve to be a strong and supportive member of a family to whom really unbelievable stuff keeps happening. In the span of a few days, we found out that Annie’s tests showed progression of the cancer and Luca’s tests sent him back to the hospital in New Haven for an emergency blood transfusion. He ended up being admitted and being diagnosed with ulcerative colitis for which he needs ongoing treatment. Angelo’s procedure went well, but his recovery took longer than expected, which was why I had tons of time to mill about a hospital lobby and reflect on a couple of significant things that I think I might have learned.
One is that I (finally) realized there was probably a reason that loud young woman was in a hospital lobby—why else conduct such a seemingly important phone call there if she wasn’t there for a friend or family member? (She could still have found a quieter place!) One of the nurses prepping Angelo suggested a place I could wait for him—the Caregiver Center in the lobby. It turned out to be a valuable resource center for people who are—or who have been—in a caregiving role and when I went in to check it out and the woman at the desk asked if she could help, I burst into tears and told her everything that was happening that week. It seemed I learned I needed a little support myself because I would have never gone in otherwise.
When I was driving Angelo home, he suddenly felt nauseous. He had just looked at his phone to find out when the pharmacy closed so we could pick up his prescriptions and it made him a little carsick. But it was enough that he wanted to pull over—you know—just in case. He got out of the car and leaned against the hood appearing as though he was doubled over. I noticed a man wearing hospital scrubs walking towards us across the parking lot of the gas station next to where I had parked. At first I didn’t pay any attention until it became clear that he was making a beeline to us. By then Angelo had gotten back into the car but he still walked right up to the window as if he wanted to talk to us. I rolled it down and he said, “If you’re feeling sick you should go right back to the hospital.” I was shocked that he knew we had just come from there, but Angelo explained, “that’s the guy who was talking to the nurse who wheeled me out.” I assured the man that I was pretty sure it was carsickness and if I thought at all that it was a reaction to the surgery, I would bring him right back. He seemed okay with that and walked back towards his own car—which he had been in the process of filling up with gas when he noticed us. With everything else on my mind, that man’s concern—and action—stayed with me. It was almost as surreal as everything else.
For the third time in the two years since I began posting weekly essays, I missed a week. That week. (That’s why this one is so long.) Since there was so much going on, I mostly operated by rote—I knew what I had to do, for whom, and when. I drove to hospitals, to pharmacies, to take care of animals, to work and—let’s be honest—the wine store. But when I had a minute to stop—and reflect on it all—I’m just grateful I was able to do the important stuff. I’m grateful I can still notice people being kind. I’m grateful I could realize I can be a little judgy—and adjust accordingly.
Also, I’m glad I can realize I might need a little help.
I'm glad you're writing about this - I found if I didn't, everything became a blur. And thank you so much for even considering coming to my book launch, never mind actually showing up. I hope it proved to be a distraction for an hour or so.
Cindy this is beautiful. It is life. It is noticing life as it happens, in good times and bad. Keeping you and your family in my heart.