Waiting

It's still dark here in Portland, Oregon. Even at 7:10 A.M. No sign of the sun. It was snowing a bit earlier. I'm so sick of looking at this five-story parking garage. I am and I'm not. It brings me an odd sort of comfort. I feel like this hospital room is a safe little cocoon, a limbo-land where we can hide out from The Future. I don't want to face this particular Future.

I'm waiting for the sun to come up. I'm waiting for Carrie's oncologist to make his morning visit. I'm waiting for my mom or someone to call and check in. I'm waiting for my husband and son to arrive tonight. I'm waiting, I'm waiting, I'm waiting.

I'm savoring every second I have with my sister.

One thing that is starting to really irritate me is all the pity. I'm so tired of the nurses and doctors and especially the awful "social worker." I don't want their hugs and the I'm-so-sorries. I see a secret relief on their faces. When they're saying "I'm sorry" what they mean is "I'm so fucking glad it's you in that chair and not me." And that's fair. I'd be glad too. But I don't want to hear it. To most of them, my sister is just another patient. Just another duty. It makes me sick to my stomach. The pressure from the spinal fluid has caused my sister to lose her vision. She relies on these people. I refuse to leave her alone in this hospital for more than a few minutes.

Conversely, I'm so incredibly grateful for the few nurses who actually do seem to give a shit. My favorite nurse is her day nurse, Jessica. She's loving and kind, compassionate. She seems to genuinely care about my sister. She stops and talks to me, and helped me figure out what diagnosis to write for Carrie's SSDI forms.

Good nurses are a gift from God.