BY MYSELF TO BE MYSELF
BY MYSELF TO BE MYSELF
By John Tuft
There is a rhythm to the hospital. (Well of course you knew this was coming.) It is neither a comfort nor a catastrophe. There are periods of barely controlled chaos and a parade of pokers, prodders, takers of blood, givers of pills, endless questions. Meals arriving, rooms cleaned, visitors coming and going, shifts changing. Day after day regardless of the reason one is there in this vestibule of vulnerable perishables. It is a place associated with gut-level feelings and emotions, the most basic of human bodily functions and base bodily failures. The Lynchburg General Hospital, my abode for four days recently, is no exception. Over 400 beds and growing. As it so happens I have been in many different hospitals so I’m something of a connoisseur. From the venerated medical centers of Pittsburgh to Keyser WV and Bedford VA and points in between. And now Lynchburg VA.
It can be a bit disorienting to be looked after so closely. To become intimate with the numbers used to describe your own state of being. 143/90; 16per minute; 67per minute; 8 pain level; 108, even with the apple pie; back in 6 hours to check it all again. The entire establishment runs on people power. Sure, there is a boatload of specialized equipment for keeping track of everything but what still stands out in my mind is after finally getting the strong meds directly into my bloodstream for the pain at level 10, the nurse laid her hand on top of mine for just a few seconds. Human touch. Good medicine. Every so often the intercom scratches to life and a voice calls out different codes. I’ve been around long enough to know the significance of a code red disturbance with the scuffling of security personnel, code Dr. Firestone with all the heavy doors swinging shut seemingly of their own accord, code amber with the sounds of footsteps in stairwells, and the anxiety inducing, whispered prayer of a code blue.
August is a month of memories in propinquity to the surface of my daily meandering thoughts. I found myself alone with those thoughts on the Sunday I spent in the hospital. I found myself considering the breadth of time spread before me that day outside of the prescribed procedures of the medical. I found myself in an all too familiar setting of pain and physical deterioration. I found myself with readily available distractions in the palm of my hand. I was ostensibly by myself. I faced a choice. Distract myself for a time. Or be by myself to be myself. Not exactly an earthshattering decision. But an important one, nonetheless. How would John Tuft be John Tuft in the moments before me? The most ordinary, daily decision that all of us confront. So, I went with it. With no audience in mind, no bevy of readers keeping track, no Presbyterians on Facebook on the lookout for trigger warnings, dear decent and orderly souls that they are.
In the month of August thoughts of my mother and sister are always close at hand. It is the month of their birthdays. Both have now passed from this realm of hospitals and family dinners, poverty and outrageous sunsets, graves and loyal puppies. At one point when my pain was at a 10 and the nurse delivered the mercies of the opioid dilaudid directly into my bloodstream, I lapsed into a contented state where I was exploring my childhood home in great detail. My mother, Irena, and my sister, Susan, were close at hand. Later at home, sitting in the evening stillness of my back porch, I recall those moments with great clarity. By myself I can hold their memories close in a simple moment of sacred transfiguration.
That Sunday afternoon, John Tuft being John Tuft with no audience, I wanted to take a walk. That is one joy that I’ve been robbed of by the chains of pain. I was on an oncology floor with a yellow “Fall Risk” flag outside my door. I told my nurse of my plans. She set aside her cart of mysteries and mercies and said, “I’ll go with you.” And she did. We had a joyful walk around the corridors of that wing of the building. We talked about our families, our professions, the beautiful summer day, simply as two friends on a stroll. I received a gift from her. Thank you, Maria. You told me to watch for you at Kroger’s or Walmart. We will.
After that I spent the afternoon in the lounge near the large front desk to the oncology department. Cleaning staff smiled and greeted me with familiarity. Unit clerks nodded. Visitors to patients paused and wondered at this almost 70-year-old man sitting there, without a care in the world, listening to music coming from the iPhone on the arm of the chair. Time passed whether we wanted it to or not. I chose to use it by myself to be myself. Later I was in great pain. Maria came and administered the necessary mercy. As they rushed in, she squeezed my hand. “Call me if you need me” she said. “I’m right outside.” She was just being herself.
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
