Room 321, the man with a wife, and what I wish I'd said

From the journal archives:

 

"Code blue room 321. Code blue room 321."

 

I heard this on two separate occasions today.  We had the door to room 325 closed, so we couldn't hear the sounds of the nurses on the floor responding to the code blue.  After looking at each other and saying, "uh-oh," we returned our attention to the upbeat romance playing on the TV that hung on the opposite wall.  But my thoughts drifted to the man in the lounge downstairs who had initiated conversation with me a few hours earlier.... 

 

When my phone had died in the cafeteria in the early afternoon, I relocated to the one open chair I saw in the surgical lounge with an outlet.  Sitting catty-corner to me was a man in his early 60s, no book in hand, no magazine, no bag of odds 'n ends, no deck of cards, no iPad, no smart phone, nothing to distract or entertain himself, tapping his foot on the floor and glancing nervously towards the double doors through which men and women in scrubs occasionally entered as they looked for someone's family, whom they all remarkably knew at a glance despite never having seen before.  As I sat down, he glanced at me and nodded.  I gave a small smile back and plugged in my phone, not particularly wanting to make conversation.  There are times I'm a talker and times I'm not, but hospitals are generally a time I'm not, especially if a family member is on an operating table.  For this gentleman, however, it became clear that making conversation wasn't simply a choice.  It was a coping mechanism.

 

"How are you doing?" he asked.  It's a phrase that everyone has heard more times than they can count, but it means something different when asked in a surgical wing of a hospital.  It ceases to hold its place in the English language as an obligatory greeting that just as often as not expects no response.  It instead becomes a rather intense personal question.  I smiled and said I was doing fine, aware that that was a woefully inadequate response for him, because the word "fine" was clearly not in his vocabulary at the moment and he needed to talk about it to someone who understood that.  I asked how he was, not really wanting to hear the answer just then because I was intent on staying fine, but knowing he needed to say it.  And, tapping his foot and nodding, teeth chattering, he replied, "My wife just came off bypass, so we're over the big hump. Waiting now...."

 

I wanted to give him a hug, but I had no words for him.  I was thinking how thankful I am that the surgery my person was having wasn't as risky as a bypass surgery, that it rarely has major complications, that we had a rock star surgeon who's performed this procedure 1000 times with no major complications; I was thinking how I wished I could wave a wand and make his wife better and send them on a second honeymoon; I was thinking I wonder who his wife is, how they met, what they're like together, who their kids are, what photos of them in carefree days 25 years ago when they felt invincible look like.

 

But of course that would have been all wrong to actually say.  And words failed me.  And all I came up with was, "Yeah, I'm just waiting, too."  As I racked my brain for the rest of the words in the English language that had just abandoned me, he called someone on his flip phone and told them the same thing about how his wife was off bypass, so they were over the big hump, and now he was waiting.  The conversation clearly wasn't as long as he'd hoped it would be, and he hung up, tapped his foot some more, and bit his lip, and I was about to say something, though I don't know what, when a widely-smiling nurse approached us.  The man looked up expectantly, but the nurse's eyes fixed on me, and she said I could come back and see my family member now.  My voice caught as I felt a weight fly from my chest, and I was painfully aware of how this man wanted nothing more right then than to hear those same words said to him.  I wanted to tell the man I hoped his wife was okay, but I didn't want to say the wrong thing.  And before I had time to figure out the right thing, I was in the hallway beyond the double doors, following after the nurse.

 

I wish I had said, "I'll say a prayer for your wife."  That's what I wish I had said, what I should have said.  I'll always regret not saying it, because I could have offered a small comfort to a scared and alone man in pain, and I didn't.  I left him floundering in a sea of fear with nothing to grasp on to, and tears spring to my eyes when I think of how I pulled inward when he needed me to reach out.

 

On my way out of the hospital at 9 o'clock tonight, I glanced at the white board behind the nursing station.  The slot for the name occupying room 321 was empty, its guest's name erased.  I don't know who was in there, but I hope they just went to another part of the hospital.  And I hope it wasn't that man's wife.

 

And I said a prayer for her.