ICU

The day and the night have such different figures. They are scarcely similar aside from the objects they encompass and the light they reflect. Despite the same actors, the play is interpreted distinctly. This change and dramatic shift is something I find fascinating. When we find ourselves in situations outside of our normal functioning, I often realize that too much change can make my mind find alternate solutions. In a most recent case, I was in an ICU room with one of the most important people in my life lying in the bed, as I just waited. Afterwards, I jotted some thoughts down. They are here, presented with the moment-by-moment emotion as they whizzed through my mind.

Here you are, alone, it seems, in the ICU. She lays on the bed without speaking, without blinking--asleep, hopefully. You watch the rise and fall of her chest, thanking God for each movement. And after a while of sitting, you start watching the other things in the room. All of a sudden, the wallpaper flourishes have never seemed so interesting. You follow the swirls with your eyes, outlining them, as if you were a carpenter. You study everything about the room, like you you’ve never seen it before. The clips and boards, the doors and hinges. They all become known to you. They are familiar friends, snuck in unbeknownst to the cameras and attendants. You take note of the slightest things—the weather, the grain in the wallpaper, and of course the tiny details of change in her. You see the slightest expressions as she sleeps. Pain? Confusion? Was that a smile? Her face looks better today, if only by a slight pink that is creeping its way back. Her tubes still seem to be constraining, and yet, they have become a little bit easier to see, and hopefully for her to feel. Her hands still feel cold. And though the doctor says that’s good, you wish she could just give you a squeeze back. Alas, you settle for dialoging with the sounds and sights of the room as your partner for the day.

You plead the monitors with your eyes, willing them to decode themselves and speak words, keeping you moment-by-moment, living with her. Lines and jumps and numbers galore, all in codes and acronyms, meaningful only to the ones who have the key. They are constantly-changing pieces in her puzzle of recovery. Up and down they go, solid and void. Then you flinch against your concentration as the piercing beeping arises, followed by little flashing lights. And as no one comes, your heart begins to race. Looking from her to the monitor and back again, without any indication of relief, the Beep! beep! beep! barrages you. The cords, multi-colored fluids and medicines dangle tangled in and out of the rods, barricading her in, winding maliciously into the arms of your loved one. And after what seems like hours, someone walks in, reassures the machine and continues on their day, leaving you as an audience member of the unfolding drama.

You make best friends with others in the ICU, like kin in a hospital family. You share and talk as if you’ve known each other for years. And when you just can’t sit any longer with no information, just staring at the machines who refuse to speak, there is comfort in the walk to your brother’s room, in the “How is it today?” and the idle conversation, showing the humanity that the nerves have hidden away. The little things unite us all. You trust the nurse with the Packer’s scrubs, telling her you’ll watch the game and keep her updated throughout the day. The game plays in a few rooms and you feel the consent to raise an arm to share the victory of the most recent point with the man across the hall. What simple and yet completely complex things bring us together.