I started this month's Slice of Life Challenge thinking it would help get me into a more regular writing routine. Instead, Life sliced me! March has been a doozy in Bachmania...job loss, school struggles, snow storms, surgery, canceled travel plans, and now a lengthy hospital stay. The good news is there is just over a week left in this horrid month.
As I'm sitting here next to Honey in his hospital room after a very scary day yesterday, I'm counting blessings. I have a lot to be grateful for and I want to dwell in gratitude instead of in fear and annoyance. We have a comfortable home, a full refrigerator, and beautiful, happy children; I am healthy, and Honey will be soon, too. Nothing else really matters, does it?
I've lost count of the number of times I've sat in a hospital with my husband over the course of our marriage. Every time has seemed dire. And every time he comes home healthier and our marriage gets stronger. I have to keep reminding myself this week. This is temporary suffering.
But, through all these hospitalizations, I've learned a lot about what the person at home needs - and I'm starting to learn how to ask for it.
For example, the guy in the hospital gets all the pain medicine and all the people taking care of him. The people at home get hours sitting in uncomfortable chairs, mushy cafeteria food, and frustrating calls with surgeons and specialists. The person at home needs a massage or yoga session, a decent home-cooked meal, and an ear to listen at the end of the day.
Yes, the guy in the hospital is in pain and is scared, but the person at home is, too. The person at home has to remember each morning to simply put one foot in front of the other. They have to organize and prioritize and compartmentalize in ways that most people wouldn't understand. The person at home needs you to be patient, to understand that tonight's Cub Scout meeting is not top-priority and that the early morning call tomorrow needs to be rescheduled.
The guy in the hospital is surrounded by top-notch minds who are working the case on his behalf...but the response is rarely immediate (and if it is immediate, that means the problems are dire! A whole other scenario.) These top-notch minds are in high demand, after all, but it's hard to be patient when your life has been upended and the man you love is writhing in pain, in and out of consciousness. The person at home may be frustrated that answers aren't coming quickly and treatments aren't working fast enough. The person at home may need help advocating - but that doesn't mean you should pepper them with questions based on you quick Goole search. Please do not throw unusual "I wonder if's" or suggest an expensive test because you've seen something interesting on House or ER. Trust me, the person at home also has access to Google and has also watched hospital shows! And every scenario and option has already been turned over in their mind. What the person at home needs is calming, steady reminders that the hospital is the best place for their guy, that top-notch minds are at work, that modern medicine is astounding. And humor! The person at home needs your humor. Send cat GIFs or New Yorker cartoons any time you feel the urge to make an armchair diagnosis.
When the guy in the hospital is well enough to come home, he still has days or weeks of recovery time ahead. That means he’ll be sleeping a lot, cranky when he’s awake, and out of work. It means the person at home is now also a part-time nurse - in addition to all their other daily responsibilities. The recovery time may likely be the hardest time for the person at home. They have to remind him to take medications, sit up with him in the night, keep the children quiet when he's sleeping, even clean up wounds or give shots. Instead of saying things like "Oh, thank God he's home," offer to bring over a meal - or better yet, take the kids for two hours so we both can get some rest.
Once this has all passed and the guy is on his feet, back to work, and life is back to normal, please resist the urge to ask what the prognosis is or whisper "he looks so thin" to the person at home. The person at home is aware of his thinness, they see him naked, after all - they are fully aware of the ribs poking through and the hollow in the arms. They don't want to think about long-term prognosis or go through the story of the hospitalization again. The person at home would love to just breathe deeply and put their arms around their family, and be hopeful. Instead of asking questions, please smile at the person at home, show them that you understand and you're happy that things are looking up, and keep praying for healing and normalcy. Above all else, healing and normalcy are what the person at home craves.
As I'm sitting here next to Honey in his hospital room after a very scary day yesterday, I'm counting blessings. I have a lot to be grateful for and I want to dwell in gratitude instead of in fear and annoyance. We have a comfortable home, a full refrigerator, and beautiful, happy children; I am healthy, and Honey will be soon, too. Nothing else really matters, does it?
I've lost count of the number of times I've sat in a hospital with my husband over the course of our marriage. Every time has seemed dire. And every time he comes home healthier and our marriage gets stronger. I have to keep reminding myself this week. This is temporary suffering.
But, through all these hospitalizations, I've learned a lot about what the person at home needs - and I'm starting to learn how to ask for it.
For example, the guy in the hospital gets all the pain medicine and all the people taking care of him. The people at home get hours sitting in uncomfortable chairs, mushy cafeteria food, and frustrating calls with surgeons and specialists. The person at home needs a massage or yoga session, a decent home-cooked meal, and an ear to listen at the end of the day.
Yes, the guy in the hospital is in pain and is scared, but the person at home is, too. The person at home has to remember each morning to simply put one foot in front of the other. They have to organize and prioritize and compartmentalize in ways that most people wouldn't understand. The person at home needs you to be patient, to understand that tonight's Cub Scout meeting is not top-priority and that the early morning call tomorrow needs to be rescheduled.
The guy in the hospital is surrounded by top-notch minds who are working the case on his behalf...but the response is rarely immediate (and if it is immediate, that means the problems are dire! A whole other scenario.) These top-notch minds are in high demand, after all, but it's hard to be patient when your life has been upended and the man you love is writhing in pain, in and out of consciousness. The person at home may be frustrated that answers aren't coming quickly and treatments aren't working fast enough. The person at home may need help advocating - but that doesn't mean you should pepper them with questions based on you quick Goole search. Please do not throw unusual "I wonder if's" or suggest an expensive test because you've seen something interesting on House or ER. Trust me, the person at home also has access to Google and has also watched hospital shows! And every scenario and option has already been turned over in their mind. What the person at home needs is calming, steady reminders that the hospital is the best place for their guy, that top-notch minds are at work, that modern medicine is astounding. And humor! The person at home needs your humor. Send cat GIFs or New Yorker cartoons any time you feel the urge to make an armchair diagnosis.
When the guy in the hospital is well enough to come home, he still has days or weeks of recovery time ahead. That means he’ll be sleeping a lot, cranky when he’s awake, and out of work. It means the person at home is now also a part-time nurse - in addition to all their other daily responsibilities. The recovery time may likely be the hardest time for the person at home. They have to remind him to take medications, sit up with him in the night, keep the children quiet when he's sleeping, even clean up wounds or give shots. Instead of saying things like "Oh, thank God he's home," offer to bring over a meal - or better yet, take the kids for two hours so we both can get some rest.
Once this has all passed and the guy is on his feet, back to work, and life is back to normal, please resist the urge to ask what the prognosis is or whisper "he looks so thin" to the person at home. The person at home is aware of his thinness, they see him naked, after all - they are fully aware of the ribs poking through and the hollow in the arms. They don't want to think about long-term prognosis or go through the story of the hospitalization again. The person at home would love to just breathe deeply and put their arms around their family, and be hopeful. Instead of asking questions, please smile at the person at home, show them that you understand and you're happy that things are looking up, and keep praying for healing and normalcy. Above all else, healing and normalcy are what the person at home craves.
Comments
Post a Comment