RN Organizes Husband’s Recovery Process
Monday November 2, 2009
Print This- Select Text Size:
Comments
Terry Ratner, RN, and her husband Michael
advertisement
I’m wide awake at 5:30 a.m., thinking about my husband, Michael, and wondering how he’s doing. It has been three weeks since his initial diagnosis of adenocarcinoma esophageal cancer; 11 hours since his surgical procedure, a transhiatal esophagectomy; and eight hours since I last saw him. I switch on the light next to my bed and reach for a folded white sheet of paper on my nightstand. The extension for the ICU is written in pencil with the name “Mindy” printed on top. I dial the number on my cordless phone, hoping for a detailed report from the night nurse. I don’t like surprises.
“Your husband is doing fine,” she says. “The doctor extubated him an hour ago and he’s resting comfortably.” I let out a sigh of relief. The fact that Michael is able to breathe on his own gives me some degree of hope.
I don’t leave the house until 8:30 a.m. Chores in preparation for Michael’s return take precedence. I take time to eat a nutritious breakfast, walk a mile with the dog, put in a load of laundry, send a few e-mails, and prepare my mind for what’s to come.
Standing outside Michael’s hospital room, I brace myself before I open the door. “Inhale, exhale,” I whisper while taking an additional cleansing breath and reciting a short prayer. I walk toward his bed and gently slide the paisley curtains back to one side. My husband’s body is covered with a cream colored blanket; his head is elevated and his eyes are closed.
The nurse fills me in on his current condition. “Your husband’s vitals are fine, his lungs are coarse, but that’s to be expected. He’s receiving respiratory treatments around the clock.”
Michael stirred and I glanced in his direction. He opened his eyes and in a hoarse voice said, “Hello.” He pointed his left forefinger at the nasal gastric tube inserted in his right naris.
“Its purpose is to drain the gastric contents and decompress your stomach,” I told him. “The doctor will remove it when it’s time.” I had hoped my explanation might alleviate his anxiety and allow him to cope with the multiple wires, drains, and machinery connected to him.
As an RN, I wasn’t sure about my role and kept switching from “wife” to “nurse.” I’d glance around the room, silently verifying his vitals: blood pressure, respirations, oxygenation, and insuring all connections were intact before pulling up a chair, taking his hand in mine, and once again becoming his wife.
My routine stayed the same for five days. I’d visit Michael in the hospital from 8:30 until 10, work at the hospital until lunch, visit him at noon, finish up my workday, and return to Michael’s room until visiting hours were over. Rigid structure became a necessity, a way to control an otherwise unmanageable situation.
Once discharged, we continued the night tube feedings until Michael was able to tolerate six small meals a day. We were now on his diet. Forget about hamburgers, spaghetti, or tacos; we were on a diet of puddings, bananas, applesauce, eggs, hot cereal, and any other foods in the soft and mushy category. Energy drinks were lined up like miniature soldiers inside the door of the refrigerator.
After four days, he was able to hold down table foods. After the first week, he slept in our bed, his head resting on a 30-degree wedge pillow. As for me, I was able to sleep soundly with my hand intertwined in his, listening to Coast to Coast AM radio through my pillow speaker till the wee hours of the night, no longer needing to adhere to my strict routine, gaining a bit of control over the situation at hand — believing, once again, that we had a future together.
Terry Ratner, RN, MFA, is a freelance writer.
To comment, e-mail editorNTL@gannetthg.com.
Reader Comments
Login
Be the first to comment!