The detours life hands you. My photographic file for the month of May moves happily from scenes of church, to the beach, to blooming flowers in my neighborhood—and then to images like the one above.
Then: a hospital room, albeit with a view; I spent two stays in Kaiser’s new hospital, the first for five days – two days home—then four more hospital days. My maladies were pneumonia, a salt imbalance, and atrial fibrillation.
Now “on the other side of it all,” I’m still trying to make sense of what happened to me. A learning experience? Oh, yes, though not at all the way I want to be taught. Not only was this my second such stay of 2025, but in its strange way, a remarkable and grueling experience. Being a “patient” is hard work, and yes, a journey in itself.
The hospital itself is quite new (five years, I think) and beautifully appointed; when the orderly who was to take me to my room said, “Oh, you’ll love it, it’s like a hotel room!” I didn’t believe him. But the rooms (I stayed in three) are all singles and there’s a big window and lots of space. Some days I was fortunate to be well enough to realize my position; one room caught so much sunlight that I could almost fool myself that I was sitting on some harbor, one sunlit evening. The views, however, were mostly urban model layouts with clumped artificial trees.
Still, I was pretty privileged and presented (I think) the least fraught nursing job for the wonderful nurses caring for patients on the fifth floor. And “wonderful” is the word for them. My respect for nurses is sky-high. The standouts were Nannette, the most lovely, kind, thorough professional in her work that I have probably ever have met. Richard, dedicated, thorough, and solicitous. Jessica, cheery and a bit gossipy, fun to be around. Nick, a sprite, if you can imagine it, energetic and encouraging— though I feel sure that he’s calm and very seriously involved when it’s needed. Jose, a former Army nurse who exuded a benign spirit and utter calm as well as intense care for me. Svetlana, a graceful (she must have studied ballet) and sweetly gracious nurse. And Stephanie, whom I saw briefly, who confided her dismay at a difficult, hostile patient she’d just come from and even asked my advice. I guess I seemed calm and accepting.
But oh, my, you surrender your body in the hospital. Now, my body is so much happier, especially my arms (only one bruise left) which endured all those needles and IV ports. And I am still feeling anew, every night, the pleasure of a smooth bed that I slip into as if it were an envelope. Plus no limitations when I get up at night. For rules require that the beds be alarmed from when you sign off at night until about 6 A.M. (You must call a nurse to accompany you to the bathroom.) For that first five-day stay, getting used to this caused me to clench my body inward. This was augmented by a drastic fluid restriction, part of a campaign to address a major sodium deficiency—and I was so watched and often reminded of this that I came to feel a relentless Big Brother patrolling even the few extra swallows I took. Also, thank goodness for Altoids! After one night of terrible dry mouth, I came to rely on them.
In addition, there were times when I thought bitterly “Take up your bed and walk” has no validity here, kid. Your bed is all that’s yours. Stay. You’re rooted to the spot. Face it kid, you got limits. In my brief time home (two days) between my hospital stays, I stretched and reveled in bodily freedom, and when I had to go back, worked consciously to release my tensions, making another kind of effort to accommodate better on my second round of four days.
And then there are those long evenings which stretch out a long, long way. I read a lot. In some ways, for a bookworm like me, that’s good, of course! But even that and phone calls, and Facebook and email, can’t disguise that you can’t move around much, you are here and here only, and it gets lonely. And then you’ve got that night ahead. . . though melatonin helped me sleep, still there are long stretches in the dark when you can’t and are truly “alone with your thoughts.” I tried not to stress about the national situation but had to pray about it; I prayed for friends and family; I’d mentally reminisce and it helped if something jogged my memory and brought up fresh rememberings. More than one night, I went through all the people in the church choir with whom I sing, then the faces and souls of my friends in the Thursday morning discussion group. I visualized them, then prayed for each and wished them all well. Many nights I also prayed for, and felt myself part of, a particular group of close friends and relatives whom I imagined as a wreath around me, a circle of warmth and love.
One particularly bleak night, I was helped by an inadvertent angel, a sweet nurse who came in at midnight to get a blood sample and blood pressure. She’d heard that I used to be a music teacher and it soon became clear from her reverent tone and shining eyes that she regards music teachers as close to the Gods. After she left, I started thinking about those years, all the kids I’d taught, and some funny incidents came back to me, and eventually I relaxed into sleep. I also listened to music, often to compose myself for sleep, my beloved Brahms (Opus 118, #2), Joplin’s Solace, and Dvorak chamber music. Another evening, the Brandenburg Concertos got me through.
By the way, I quickly made a personal rule: if you don’t know the performer on YouTube, always select the longest performance; otherwise you and the composer are in for music raced through, usually in dire need of an expansive mood or real Romantic sensibility.
On my final night, knowing I’d probably go home the next day, I finally felt good enough to take some pictures. But a hospital room is a pictorial challenge: how on earth here to find anything worth photographing?
Finally, after twelve days, it was over. Though cardioversion didn’t work to still my (very) skittery heartbeat, after about four days at home, my heart settled down to a steady and reassuring beat, the desired sinus rhythm, confirmed by a doctor at post-hospital appt. And the pneumonia, after all those rounds of antibiotics, was gone, with its horrid noisy deep chest cough which had started all this.
HOME. Oh, there is nothing like it! Home where you move about freely! Home where the food is decent and graciously served, often delicious. Home, where the bed is smooth and cool, and when I get up in the night, I hear Andy’s baritone in the dark, “You doing OK?” Home where I can cuddle up to the warm body next to me. Home, where kind church friends brought us meals for four nights, delicious food! Home-made rolls, lemon rice, home-made minestrone, to name a few. And my cousin brought us wonderful croissants!
I am so grateful for the care I was given. Fine doctors who explained much, though it was never predictable when they’d appear, hard on my daughter Katherine who acted as my medical secretary and watch dog. The whole business was stressful for her and son-in law David, whose car had just given out, bringing them down to only one vehicle. And grandson Rowan came, too, bless him; hospital visits are not easy on a young teenager.
And Andy just plain missed me. Terribly.
Once home, I rejoined the world of growing things, color, nature, the outdoors! Though San Diego is now in what’s known as “the June Gloom” —overcast skies, dampness, chilly days—I have been happy indeed. For this gloom creates morning fog, almost as heavy as rain, and the local spiders offer up their webs to be decorated. About three days out, I walked in our back yard to capture some of the show; as I walked, feeling all the while, that I’d come through.
“Tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.”
