The relationship you build up with these people is a peculiarity in itself. The nature of an Intensive Therapy Unit is such that privacy is near impossible, so every conversation at each bed could be heard from the next. For this reason, those with regular visitors were kept apart whilst those at whose bedside there would be little talk were clustered around much as one would plant trees around a house to shield from the noise of a busy road. Even with such a sound-cushion in place though, hearing the story of the bed next door was unavoidable.
There happened only to be two patients on the unit who were considered long term residents and who had regular visitors and so it was I found myself almost every day seated opposite a guy of around my age visiting what I assumed to be his mother. There stems from this situation a bizarre silent friendship; I watched him sometimes, stroking the hand of the sleeping woman, deep in his own contemplative state and felt real sympathy for him. There were times I looked up from my own stupor to see a similar look from him. The exchange of empathic half-smiles and raised eyebrows of sympathy was our sole communication, yet it often felt as though he were my only friend in the world.
Visiting hours were for the most part ignored within the unit. (as an aside, I found that every hospital we were sent to was quite lax on times, mostly because of the distance I was travelling and possibly in no small way helped by the fact that people on the whole are scared to fuck with a heavily pregnant woman!) but there were obviously times the space needed to be emptied of all superfluous bodies; mainly for deep-cleans, the daily rounds of the mobile x-ray unit and when they reduced the hubs meds to try to elevate his consciousness enough to check all was well – which it obviously wasn’t as they always put the meds back up again! Hence we would all be cleared out and would scatter to far corners of the hospital much like the occupants of a disturbed ants’ nest; some visitors opting to get as far from the unit as possible, others such as myself choosing simply to go to the visitors lounge at the end of the corridor.
I do want to take just a moment to talk about the visitor’s lounge; mostly because I spent almost as much time here as I did at my husband’s bedside, but also I feel a huge deal of thought had been given the fact that people would be spending some emotional moments here. Firstly, there was as one would expect a coffee machine. I know; hospitals have to make money, so you don’t expect free coffee; paying isn’t an issue at all. In my experience (and indeed throughout the rest of this same hospital) the drinks machines were expensive. This one, however, was a paltry 20p a cup. I liked that they didn’t take the piss when you were already down and that you didn’t need to make sure you had £20 on you for a day’s visiting. There was a fish tank in the room with a book taped on the side. The book described the care process of the fish and stated that if you wished to, you could check the book and carry out any tasks which had not been done, just remember to sign the book afterwards. In addition to a television with a dvd and video, the room also had jigsaw puzzles, books and several packs of playing cards which you could take with you were you using the visitor accommodation upstairs and also cleaning equipment “Should one feel the need” as the sign stated. And yes, on a few occasions I did find myself dusting already clean shelves and using the dustpan and brush to pick up a few remnants of another visitor’s nervously eaten biscuit. There really had been a great deal of thought given to the way people pass their time when stressed or worried and I have to say that in spite of the emotion brought up by thinking about this period in my life, just by remembering that room the pain, anguish and turmoil is replaced by a feeling almost resembling nostalgia.The ITU exoduses were the few times there would be others in the lounge. At other times, if asked to leave their patient people would go home or into the city to return later; I had nowhere else to be, so would sit here for a while before maybe roaming the corridors to return; it almost felt like my space and when the others were forced to share it with me I felt strangely violated; I am sure some of them felt the same as we would often be asked to vacate our vigil at different times. We would all sit in silence, thinking over our own situation, glancing at others once in a while to work out which was the person facing that particular situation you’d overheard the nurses talking about and had they been told yet? Who was the one awaiting the helicopter to a specialist unit in Cardiff? What had gone wrong that she was still visiting when there was so much talk yesterday of an improvement and an impending move to the High Dependency ward? Occasionally, eyes met and you would exchange that awkward grin; always aiming for empathic yet not patronising but actually somewhere closer to freakish loon.
The strangest thing about these relationships was how different they would be when we met elsewhere about the hospital. Whilst anywhere within the confines of the unit, we would barely acknowledge the presence of another person, almost as though to engage were to violate the privacy of that person’s circumstance; an encounter elsewhere on the same level would result in a nod of greeting, almost like people hiding a secret relationship – enough of an acknowledgment to show you had recognised them, yet not enough that others would notice; meeting on another floor, in the cafeteria or restaurant or in any of the shops however, there would be a verbal sign of recognition - little more than a simple ‘Hello’ but enough that others around would note that there was an acquaintance.
There was never any consciousness to these moments and they were not unique to myself. In fact, I have since spoken with others who had been through similar experiences and they reported having the same bonds with their co-visitors. Just another symptom of the human condition, I guess.
These bonds were not unique to other visitors. Such intense visiting experiences as we go through under the conditions of an ITU mean that the staff see some very intimate aspects of our lives and relationships with our loved ones. There was a certain strangeness in visiting the unit when my husband had a follow-up appointment at the same hospital; these visits of etiquette to the various wards and units he had attended were for a while regular occurrences and I grew accustomed to standing back whilst he shared memories with the staff who had attended him, yet here he knew nothing of the lengths certain people had gone to for him; no concept of which people had kept him alive; who had been the most thoughtful towards me; who had been the ones I had most dreaded answering the phones when I made my daily check-ins... and as he stood back whilst I was greeted affectionately by people who had comforted me at my weakest, given hope when there was none, shared my most intimate vulnerable moments there was suddenly an awkwardness to these relationships which had not existed before. On one particular such visit, I remember that the moment the nurse manager of the unit hugged me I just felt the strength which had carried me through the months since his release from hospital; through childbirth, through caring for a small baby whilst also tending to his every need, through trying to still be as good a mother to my other children as they deserved; every last ounce left me and I just cried in the arms of this man I really knew precious little about in spite of his knowing everything about me, whilst my husband looked on, confused and hurt that he had been unable to notice so much anguish within me.
I shall return to this topic at some point, I am sure, but for now I shall leave it at that.
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