July 16, 2014 (cont.)
Instead, I opted for calm and to find the humor where I could (I was trying to follow Dad's lead, as I have--with very limited success--my whole life). God saw the need for a little levity as well and sent us Dad's nurse, Gloria. Gloria's face and demeanor seemed more suited to the morgue...on a slab. She exhibited all the enthusiasm of bug on a windshield and the speed of a three-legged dog with one of those cones around its neck.
It is my custom, of course, to wait until someone is out of earshot before I whip out my observations of their shortcomings (it's a real gift). Fittingly, as Gloria stepped out after the second or third unimpressive stint of "caregiving," I looked at my family and said, "Gloria certainly appears to love her job."
Dad had an IV in the crook of his left arm. The connected machine would at times beep with ferocity that might indicate code blue. It took us a while to figure out what was happening, then Gloria enlightened us. She strolled in as if going to visit perhaps a sour mother-in-law or a convict and pressed a button on the machine. In bored monotone, she said, "that happens when you bend your arm." And she left. As the door closed, I wondered aloud if she might get more excited were something really critical to happen, and did my best imitation of Gloria: "don't bend your arm" in a near mid-snooze. My 9-year-old found this delightful and began to then repeat the phrase "don't bend your arm" for the duration of the hospital stay...including the time we passed her at the nurse's station (while Gloria's head was nearly resting on the computer keyboard in either exhaustion or true disdain for the contents of the screen or the contents of her life...probably both). I shushed him but couldn't blame him. He also began referring to her as Miss Sunshine (although this he reserved for times when she was not present--like mother like son.) I'm an excellent role model.
On the day of Dad's dismissal, we had been promised he would be out in the afternoon (lies!). So it was with amusement that I watched him guarantee the little gal who came to take his dinner order that he would not still be around for dinner. The poor, meek hospital worker stood in the doorway, pen-in-hand. As if I could read the thought bubble above her head, I knew she was thinking "there's no way he will make it out before dark. Doesn't he know the belabored, unnecessary waiting involved in any impending escape to the outside world?" But she was such a tiny little thing, and Dad was sure it was true (or he was willing it to be so). Finally she suggested with great hesitation that perhaps he order some culinary delights just in case the hospital's timetable didn't jive with his. Dad looked as if he was asked to eat knives, but he acquiesced. The relieved cafeteria gal took his order and left quietly. I would imagine she sprinted once she rounded the corner.
To Dad's credit, he narrowly escaped the dinner hour with his freedom. If she was the one to deliver the meal to the empty room, I'd like to think that she muttered "Damn!" with admiration and incredulity.
All's well that ends well (from my mouth to God's ears). As usual, Dad struck up a conversation with the cardiologist that resulted in the doc calling the cell of the specialist we needed. And Dad's heart returned to a steady rhythm with the help of medicine that will hopefully keep it steady until the next necessary procedure.
As we headed toward home with palpable relief, I thought of Gloria. Somewhere in that hospital some poor schmuck is bending his arm.
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