For a week in December, my time at the hospital was presided over by the Ceiling Nurse. They looked down upon me unceasingly, somewhere between a guardian angel and a judgmental neighborhood watch member.
Apparently, hospitals will color code your gown—mine was bright yellow, meaning I was a fall risk and not allowed out of bed on my own. Several times when I was just shifting position, it would trigger a sensor and my bed would turn into a car that someone had bumped into, an alarm blaring in protest of my movement.
This was only after I’d been in the ICU for a couple days—when I was there, I didn’t move, for anything. They could even do X-rays, right from the comfort of my bed. An all-inclusive stay-cation! Literally! (emphasis on “stay”)
It was eight days that were an utter blur. I’d been having trouble breathing over the weekend, noticing that I was panting when I was simply walking—I chalked it up to recovering from my recent surgery. But when I almost passed out, it was time for the Emergency Department.
“You have large blood clots in both your lungs.”
Doctors never said “large.” That couldn’t be good, right?
“It’s really good that you came in when you did.”
That was unnecessarily ominous.
“The next twenty-four hours will be critical.”
I stared. Wasn’t that doctor-speak for “you’re probably going to die?”
Even before the flurry of doctors and nurses began preparing me for the ICU, I knew it wasn’t good. I could barely breathe while sitting up—if I was laid flat, my head started to swim and my vision blackened around the edges. I’m no stranger to passing out; my heart has gone into cardiac arrest three times on record and I’ve honestly gotten used to waking up on the floor. Yet, this whole experience was a new way that I was facing death.
During those eight days, I’d need an emergency surgery to evacuate a massive hematoma, and I’d spend a great deal of time staring at the ceiling. Now, over a month later, I’m just barely beginning to feel as if I’m starting to recover. I have appointments with hematology and pulmonology. (I’ve nearly filled up my bingo board of “branches of medicine that I visit”!)
Living with a severe, life-threatening cardiac condition, I’ve spent my share of time in a hospital. And, unexpectedly, I’m getting quite fond of Ceiling Nurse. I’ve been in multiple hospitals and they all have some version of it, presiding over the residents. The first time I saw her, I glared. But this time, as I was rolled into my room, I laughed.
After all, at least you’re never alone with Ceiling Nurse watching over you.
