Hospital day 5 (sanity breaking day)
Hospitals are such restful places.
Outside our window there is heavy construction work going on. Huge diggers and trucks and jackhammers pound pound pounding through my brain. A constant drill whirs in the background. Cars fly past. I can’t even hear myself breathe, let alone think.
Inside the ward babies are crying out, their most wretched, ear piercing wails for help because they are in pain, because there is no other way for them to let their carers know that their bodies ache. For comfort, for food, for medicine to pump through their veins to help them recover and rest.
The heartbreaking sobs never seem to stop.
Only because all the children here are distressed and if for an instant one relents to sleep or food or a cuddle, another has already started.
There are cleaners and orderlies. Trolleys of varying sizes trundle up and down the corridor of the ward. Delivering food and cleanliness and dry humour from the weary workers who push them.
Parents of the children who are to be discharged today are set free from their rooms, small babies crawling up and down the hallway and mothers pacing waiting for their release forms, waiting for life to begin again.
Waiting for normality.
Others cry.
Parents who have not yet obtained their healthy child status stare out into the glare of hospital life, wishing for relief, a meal, a toilet break and knowing they are things that will be scarce for today.
The relentless ping of the monitors and distributors, the tools which keep things in order resonate in our small room and in almost every room around us.
Nurses and doctors, characters of various form (clowns, captains and therapy animals) break the seal of our sanctuary and the cacophony of sound flows in like an ocean.
Doors open and close, they sometimes slam, chairs grate along linoleum floors, phones ring loudly, so as to be heard above the people who call out to others they know and some they do not. They cough and sneeze and snuffle and belch, their conversations seem to call for inclusion of my overstimulated mind. There is music and television blaring in the background and I feel the tension in my shoulders and my neck crackling like a growing fire.
I look out to the trees only to be confronted by a large yellow beast baring its scoop to me, like a jagged, monstrous mouth, so I close my eyes and watch the flecks of my soul pass through the darkness like spirits.
Humanity at its loudest.
Hospital humanity.
The girl in the bed sleeps on though, oblivious to the hum of the ward, the din of the construction work and the silent scream that erupts in my mind.
The paediatrician has been.
We still have two more days before we will earn our wings and fly away from here.
Although I wish it were sooner, this place, in all of its chaos is strangely safe.
I know the routine, I know most of the nurses and almost all of the doctors.
There is comfort in this hubub of humans.
My sore head is nothing compared to the fear of a sick child so I will stay put and know that hospital can also be a haven.
I cannot relish in the sights and the sounds but I can stand firm in the knowledge that this is where we need to be for the girl to be well again.
If only for a while.
I can only imagine how hard this is for you Tiff. I wish I could say or do something to help. If I was near you in ‘real life’ I would give you the hugest hug, some chocolates, and a shoulder. I wish I could wave the magic wand, but it is real life after all…
(((hugs))) and lots from us all over here in Scotland, there’s not a day goes by I don’t think of you and yours. xxx
*hugs* I spent so many days in hospital with a sick husband. Different, much different than a sick child, I know. But that experience helps me understand just a bit what you are going through. Hang in there. You are amazing.
Oh Tiff. It never even occured to stupid me that you’ve been in the hospital since returning from your break. Somehow Ivy having pnemonia didn’t knock me in the head enough to know that is where you’ve been all this time. No wonder that troll threw you for a loop. This was so eloquently written thoough. Really puts you right there. Made me think of the Grinch when he talks about the noise and the noise and the noise, noise, noise, NOISE. Which is funny. Your situation though, not so much. At all.
I too wish I was closer to help in some way. Even if it’s just give you a potty break. I do remember what that was like for a good friend, who’s child was in the hospital for an extended period. For those that were close, who the child felt comfortable with, it was heaven to her to have someone ‘relieve’ her for an hour or so each day so she could dash home, shower, etc. Like you, it wasn’t like she felt comfortable leaving for long, but I know it was a huge relief to her to know she had people who could stay with her son for a bit each day. Wish I was there and could do that for you.
Hugs.
I spent a lot of times in the hospital because of my sister.
I can relate to some of your feelings….it’s loud, sad, and scary. Invasive in many ways. Troubling and tragic.
Yet, you kind of grow used to it.
I became attached in some ways. We were there for many weeks…morning to evening. So it became an almost second-home to us.
I wish I had comforting words for — or words that were half so eloquent as yours. But, the most I can offer are my thoughts and prayers for you and for your family.
(((((( Tiff ))))))
I can’t even imagine. Years ago Toto was incredibly ill and we were in an isolation ward for 2 weeks, but I’ve blocked out a lot of that.
Sending all good thoughts your way. And Ivy’s way, of course.
xxx
So raw and so real.. so well written I can feel myself sitting in your chair….
I hope you are home, happy and healthy and quiet really soon
I had hoped you would all be home by now, using a new washing machine (perhaps), getting rid of the hospital from your clothes. I am sad for Ivy that she is still there – I hope her little body is on the mend.
I apologise for swearing about that ‘mean person’ in my previous comment. Some days I just really want someone to piss me off so I can give it to them – give them some of this anger and frustration that I have inside.
Take care…x
I can not believe how many times you’ve been in the hospital. Shocking really!
I loved how you wrote about all the teeny details. Yes it is like that.
I remember not wanting to leave to get a meal. But then no one came to give me one. I took a shower when he was asleep. And prayed for the release date. To go back into the sunshine and feel normalcy again was a treat.
I hope you have that soon.
((((HUGS)))) I really hope that you get home in 2 days as expected. Hospitals are such depressing places.
There really is nothing restful about hospitals is there? The constant monitoring, doctors rounds, cleaners, meals, visitors etc. For me, 4 years ago, a regular ward was a welcome change from the hushed environment of the intensive care unit where my baby grand daughter was in a morphine induced coma to allow her brain to heal. One of them had hit or shaken her, we never did find out which it was or who it was, x-rays had shown that it wasn’t the first time, but it definitely was the last. Family services were all over that family like mould on cheese after that. Happy ending though, she’s 4 1/2 now and a wonderful little girl, although the home environment still leaves a lot to be desired.
Hopefully Ivy is getting a lot better now. How soon is the next IVIG scheduled? They’d have to wait for the pneumonia to be fully cleared first?
{{{HUGS}}}
2 days. Not long and yet, a very very long time if you are counting things in hospital minutes.
Isn’t it ironic? The noise, the movement, the seething masses of humanity. Hospitals are less restful than football grand finals. Not long to go. There will be blue skies, laughing, chattering children, warm hugs, sloppy kisses and endless cups of steaming hot tea. Familiar noises, noises that give the soul comfort- restful noises of health and happiness. Not long to go.
Oh Tiff, my thoughts are with you xxx
Huge hugs Tiff! {{{{{xxxx}}}}}} There is such poetry in the way that you write, even with the sadness and emotional exhaustion showing through.
Our thoughts are with you & Ivy (and the rest of the family of course!) as always.
I pray for respite for you and for Ivy. And pray. And pray, again. I can do no more but hold you in my heart and mind and pray. and I do.
I love the title of your post–funny in a hollow, poetic sort of way. Praying for you. Believing with all of my heart that the sounds you will hear soon are only those created by the patter of your children’s feet on the floor of your home and the rumble of their laughter as they are all together again.
Don’t know what to say. You’ve seen so much of that place, and I wish it were different.
Lots of love. Hoping Ives is doing much better today. xx
Keeping you in my thoughts and prayers.
I so hope you leave soon and it is a long time before returning.
I hope you will be heading home very soon. I hadn’t really thought of hospitals in the ways you’ve worded but I now see them in a truly different light… they are noisy, restless places…
Sending lots of get well quick vibes to Ivy, and lots of sanity vibes to you.
This is heartbreaking, and so beautiful, Tiff. Incredible piece of writing.
Oh Tiff, stay well, all of you.