Hospital Blues
It was my lot yesterday to accompany my father in the hospital. He just had to spend the night, but the chemical smell and the monotonous hallways took their toll on me in the first hour. The room door was open during most of the day and I could hear the television in other rooms and see people shuffle by and hear snippets of conversations. The nurses' trolleys clattered and rolled by from time to time, punctuating the hours.
In the hospital, time is ruled by nurse visits and mealtimes. Just after eating lunch I found myself eagerly awaiting the afternoon merenda to take another trip out of the wards, down to the cafeteria. At times I would walk to the end of the hall, passing closed doors and open doors where I could see a microcosm of worry, hope, pain, relief, and despair. There are between two and three beds in each room. Two or three stories of illness and interrupted lives taking time off to dispell sickness.
There are the better stories, like ours, where a brief intervention needed twenty-four hours of observation and then we could say good-bye to that place. Then there are others' stories, like that of an acquaintance I saw in the hallway during the afternoon, whose 90-year-old grandfather is fighting the last battle against the pain of a hungry tumor eating up his insides. Too many stories are unsolvable.
One of the worst apects of hospitalization in Spain is that a family member is usually expected to stay with the patient, even at night. There are armchairs that fold out but only encourage a fitful, unproductive sleep that leaves one only more tired. That's a holdover from a time when the familiy had to look out for whomever was sick and even bring food. That custom has been fostered so as to keep the number of nurses down, probably, by involving the family in patient care. To me it should be optional and not the norm. Families are increasingly smaller and most members have jobs they simply can't leave for an indefinite amount of time.
This morning I couldn't leave the place soon enough. I am grateful for modern medicine and how it has saved so many lives that would otherwise have been lost, but I prefer to try to stay as healthy and as far away from a hospital as possible.
In the hospital, time is ruled by nurse visits and mealtimes. Just after eating lunch I found myself eagerly awaiting the afternoon merenda to take another trip out of the wards, down to the cafeteria. At times I would walk to the end of the hall, passing closed doors and open doors where I could see a microcosm of worry, hope, pain, relief, and despair. There are between two and three beds in each room. Two or three stories of illness and interrupted lives taking time off to dispell sickness.
There are the better stories, like ours, where a brief intervention needed twenty-four hours of observation and then we could say good-bye to that place. Then there are others' stories, like that of an acquaintance I saw in the hallway during the afternoon, whose 90-year-old grandfather is fighting the last battle against the pain of a hungry tumor eating up his insides. Too many stories are unsolvable.
One of the worst apects of hospitalization in Spain is that a family member is usually expected to stay with the patient, even at night. There are armchairs that fold out but only encourage a fitful, unproductive sleep that leaves one only more tired. That's a holdover from a time when the familiy had to look out for whomever was sick and even bring food. That custom has been fostered so as to keep the number of nurses down, probably, by involving the family in patient care. To me it should be optional and not the norm. Families are increasingly smaller and most members have jobs they simply can't leave for an indefinite amount of time.
This morning I couldn't leave the place soon enough. I am grateful for modern medicine and how it has saved so many lives that would otherwise have been lost, but I prefer to try to stay as healthy and as far away from a hospital as possible.
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