Vital Signs

I took Sean to the emergency room last week. His outpatient surgery a couple days earlier, although defined as minor, was the kind that leaves a mark and after almost 72 hours of following at-home medical instructions to the letter, I thought we were through the worst of it. Until we weren’t. As these things tend to do, a curve-ball was thrown our way and had us concerned enough to seek medical attention. And so it was we found ourselves walking through the sliding doors of the ER just a little before 1 am….

         Solely focused on Sean who was clearly feeling off, my assessment of the moment, much like our surroundings, was unremarkable. We checked in, explained the reason for our visit and were very quickly guided into a side room where a nurse threw on a pressure cuff and began rattling off a list of questions. For many familiar with this process you’ll recognize this moment which serves as a precursor to almost every medical visit, the measurement of vital signs.

       Once established Sean was in fact experiencing something of concern, we were whisked down the hall and tucked away into the first room on the left. Room # 111 was like all the others. Clearly built with only efficiency in mind it was devoid of anything that could be called warm or inviting. Its white painted walls and baseboards were covered in various marks and dents, scars serving as proof of the many different lives that had visited this space.

       The flurry all around us continued as more questions were asked, blood was taken, EKG lines were attached and body fluids sampled. A bag of saline was hooked up to Sean’s arm while we waited for the lab results. And through all of this, not for a single moment did anything strike me as odd….

   …. Until the door closed…

      It’s often explained that grief can strike at any moment, often on a whim and with no rhyme or reason. The sudden onset part is certainly true but the scientific minded side of me constantly searches for and can almost always find a direct link. Machines beeping, fluids dropping into lines, as my husband’s body begins to finally relax, his eyes becoming heavy with sleep, I was suddenly forced to examine my surroundings. Although I’d never been to this specific medical facility, there was an odd familiarity about it. And as the sudden and all too common rush of emotion starts to descend, it hits me. This is, in fact, a world I know intimately.

     Left with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, the memories began their onslaught: Londyn not breathing at birth, a bark from the delivery doctor directed at Sean to “cut the cord now!” quickly followed by a flood of doctors rushing in to assess and revive her. Londyn at only 2 weeks old being poked with a needle, every cell in my body ready to pounce on the poor nurse trying desperately to find a vein in her tiny little bird arms in an effort to assess her jaundice. My sweet girl being rushed to Dallas children’s hospital after lodging a penny down her windpipe, another visit after a face-first fall onto a corner step nearly took out her eye but luckily only cost us a chunk of her facial tissue instead, this bringing with it memories of Londyn gripping my hand tight as I told her how bravely she was handling the stitching up of her cheek. The many, many late night trips taken her first two years of life to seek medical help for yet another bout of RSV. And later, visits made for strep throat, something that for a while became an annual occurrence. Her symptoms so severe it would often spike her fever to concerning levels, one such visit resulting in one of our favorite shared memories, the time we were subjected to a never-ending marathon of annoying Cat Dog cartoons.

      But it’s our last ER visit that especially hits me in this moment. It suddenly occurs to me as the tears begin to pool, this planet of negative color and off-tune melodies, playing like an old song long forgotten but serving as a transport back in time the moment its notes are heard, is reviving long buried memories I haven’t allowed myself to sit with in quite some time. Two years and 17 days to be exact. But unlike rooms where vitals are measured, broken bones get mended and reassurance is in endless supply, these memories bring me back to a different kind of room. One instead filled with a chaplain …and the doctor whose job it was to deliver the news that would forever break our world apart.

      Grief leaves very few options of comfort once one has been admitted into its wings and like those left on our hospital wall, we too carry marks. Serving as proof of their existence these represent moments in time, capturing the many precious memories of those we were lucky to call ours and love, even if just for a little while. And with no discharge papers to anticipate we are left with few choices. So it is, like a nurse with a pressure cuff we find ourselves taking measurements when life is ushered in. As we search for meaning from our seemingly cold and uninviting room we are reminded there are moments of joy still to be had. That life’s vital signs can still be found if we simply pause for just a moment to take its pulse….

        The glimpse of a unique sunrise, the first whiff of fall air. The sounds of a large crowd singing in tandem to a favorite song. An unexpected hug from a stranger. The feel of rain on your face at the end of a hot day. A moment in time watching your child living their dream and being there to witness it. A really really bad joke that randomly hits just right and makes you laugh until it hurts. All of these signs charted on our brain like the lines of an EKG print-out, we hold tight to their proof. Proof that moments like these are still possible. Moments where, if examined closely enough, we often find our loved ones threaded within. Proof their vital signs are still very present and a gentle reminder we are not alone.