Portraits from My Hospital Stay, Part Three

A young man comes in to check my electrodes. He has an accent and a large silver crucifix around his neck. He asks if I have children. I tell him that I have twins who are eight and a younger son that is six. He has twins, too. His are seven. We talk for a while as he deftly sweeps electrodes around under my breasts and all along my belly and chest. His family lives in another state and he only sees them on the weekends. He is hoping I can give him advice on how to get his children to respect their mother when he is away. He feels that he probably should "beat" them, because the bible says to do this. He says that was how he was raised in Africa. I tell him that is how I was raised, too. He asks if I beat my children. I tell him that I do not. He asks if my children are fresh. I tell him that they are more often than not. He does not want to beat his children, but he does want peace in his home, and his wife needs help, and he is very stressed and concerned.

I'm not able to tell this man not to beat his children even though I want to. I tell him that he has to listen to his own heart, and if it does not feel like the right thing to do, then he should not do it. I try not to argue with other people about what their gods tell them to do, but he is clearly so conflicted that I try to find a way to help him. He looks like he is going to cry. He asks how I get compliance in my home. I tell him that I take things away from my children when they are fresh, things that they find important, like video game or TV turns. He says he doesn't allow his children TV or video games. I tell him that I wouldn't either, but that it is helpful to have things to take away when you need to. All my years of mindfulness parenting boiled down to this rather weak, very capitalistic and ultimately disappointing little trick. He thanks me. I ask him when I can get the IV out of my arm. He asks if it is hurting. I tell him that it is. He says that I should have mentioned it and they would have found a better place to put it, but then I would have had to have gotten another needle stick. We decide to leave it where it is. He leaves but says he will be back when it is time for me to be released.

I take a nap. I can't remember when I have slept this much, sleeping mostly through the night except for the periodic visitors, sleeping late, taking naps. My chest hurts.

The nurse comes in and says they are hoping to have a read on my stress test soon. She leaves. I get up and look out the windows. They look across a small rooftop into other people's hospital rooms. The sky is crystal blue. The new shift of doctors and nurses have all commented on how cold it is outside and how lucky I am to be in here where it is warm.

I check my phone. Nothing. I check the TV. Nothing. I flip through the book Fred brought me earlier in the day. The first paragraph is beautiful. I want to read the book, but the words aren't sticking around in my head. I prop my sore arm up and drift back to sleep.

A small young doctor wakes me up. He says he's checked my stress test. He says it looks fine. He says they aren't sure what was causing the chest pains but that it probably isn't my heart. He says to follow up with my primary care doctor in a week or two. He says the nurse will be back in to help me get ready to leave. I look at my clock. It's a little past one.

Agitated and ready to go, I try to sit and wait. The nurse finally comes in. She has papers for me to sign. I don't know what they say. I sign them. She tells me to keep taking ibuprofen for the pain. She asks me if I have a ride home. I tell her no. She says I should get a cab and not take the bus. I say ok. She says someone will be in to take out my IV and then I can leave. She leaves.

I wait. Even more agitated. Finally, the man who doesn't want to beat his children comes back in. He thanks me for my earlier advice. He says the Italian woman down the hall told him he definitely should beat his children. He says he probably will when he sees them again. He is resigned to it. I tell him he doesn't have to, even if god and the Italian woman down the hall say so. I remind him that he should listen deeply to his own heart. He reminds me that he needs his wife to be happy. He shows me pictures of his children, and they are beautiful and precious. I tell him that I can see how much he loves them. While all of this is happening, he is removing electrodes from under my breasts and from my belly.

He asks why his wife is so hurt by his children's harsh words to her. He asks if my children are able to hurt me with their words. I say sometimes, but that I always know that they love me, just as I know that my harsh words can hurt them sometimes but I hope that my children always know that I love them. He asks if my husband is the disciplinarian and I laugh. He says that he could tell, and maybe that's why I'm in the hospital.

He removes the IV. My arm still aches, but the pain is sweet. I'm still bruised there weeks later. The man thanks me again. I wish I could help him more. He tells me to gather my things and wait for the nurse.

The nurse is there quickly. She says she will walk me to the cab waiting area. I grab my things and we head off together. She reminds me to take a cab and not the bus. She says goodbye.

I call a cab. They say it will be a while. I wait inside the hospital for a bit, but then feel strongly that I need fresh air, no matter how cold it is outside. I head outside to wait. It's cold, but not too bad, really, and the air is a lot better out here after being locked down in a hospital for 24 hours. Another guy comes outside to wait for a cab. We wait near each other.

A cab comes up. Two older people get out. The cab driver yells at me and the guy that he's not picking up any fares and that we are going to have a long wait because all the cabs are at the airport. He squeals off. The older couple says we didn't want to take that cab anyway, that that guy was crazy. They go into the hospital.

We wait and wait. About ten buses have gone by in the time that we have been waiting. I give up. I tell the guy he can have the next cab. I go to the bus stop across the street. I hope the nurse isn't watching. I feel very naughty. A bus is there to pick me up within minutes. The cab guy is still waiting.

I take the bus a couple of stops, but the sun is calling to me and I have nothing but time this afternoon, so I get off at the next stop and walk the couple miles to the kids' school. I get there right at pickup time. Fred is there waiting, too. We all walk home together. It's Friday night. Homemade pizza night. Game and movie night. Everything is all right.