Sunday, April 19, 2020

The Eyes

I may take the time to write more about my journey with the tumor that sent me to the hospital three times within six months. Those of you connected to me on social media may already know about it. Those of you close to me, have been there with me since the mass was discovered. But today, what is it that has inspired the break in my five years of silence on this blog? These lines written by a stranger, his name is Jason Hill. I believe he’s a doctor in NYC working with Covid-19 patients. He wrote, “The eyes stay with you…It’s brief, and you’re busy, and time is essential, but you find a few seconds to share this final breath. That stare lasts a moment. That stare lasts a lifetime. And the eyes stay with you.”

Each time I went to the hospital for a tumor-related procedure (one failed attempt), I was intubated. Covid-19 patients are intubated when they need support breathing. When they are at their last breath. Some of them live to be taken off of their ventilators, some of them don’t.

I was intubated, the first time for maybe 30 minutes until my surgeon realized the intended procedure wasn’t going to work. The second time, I was intubated for almost six hours, when he successfully removed my tumor and installed a temporary ileostomy on my abdomen. The third time, the happy surgery, I was intubated for about an hour, when the ileostomy was reversed. I was in the hospital for my ileostomy reversal the day the coronavirus was declared a pandemic. I was in the hospital on the last day that they did elective surgeries so that they could open up space in preparation for the flood of Covid patients that were to come. I was no longer intubated and I could go home. There are so many who will not go home.

Each time when I went to the hospital in preparation for a procedure, I would shift into what I now call my “medical mind.” It’s a procedural frame of mind, logistical, pragmatic. It’s a mind that says, “Yes, I’ll wait here.” “Yes, I’ll clean my body with these sanitation wipes.” “Yes, I’ll put this paper gown on and nothing else.” “Yes, you can stick me to take blood.” “Yes, you can stick me for an iv.” “Yes, I’ll swab my nose with a gel-iodine, for 10 seconds each nostril.” “Yes, I understand the procedure.” “Yes, I understand I will be under general anesthesia.” “Yes, I understand I will be intubated and machines will breathe for me.”

Before each intubation, there was at least one nurse, anesthesiologist, anesthetist, or doctor who paused. They paused, maybe placed a hand on my shoulder or arm, and looked at me, right in the eye. They saw me. I saw them. They said they would take good care of me. They looked deeply into my eyes. My eyes. Their eyes. Eyes. A glance between strangers, so deep and intimate. The eyes, a window into our souls. The moment of this locking of eyes is when I could no longer stay in my medical mind and I softened. I opened. And I began to cry. Harder one time than the others, I can’t remember which time was which now. But I cried. I was afraid. I was grateful for all the things the tumor wasn’t. It wasn’t cancerous. It wasn’t so big. It wasn’t hard to reach. I felt power and healing in crying in that moment, in the opening and softening, it allowed me to be more fully human. The eyes of those strangers, our connection, to be seen in such a way, if even for just a moment, was powerful in a way that I fear even my words here and now cannot convey.

My takeaway? Humanity. Humanity at the core. Our collective humanity is powerful, connecting and healing. Our individual humanity is inherent and sacred.

May we soften. May we open. May we connect. May we be human.

May we see and be seen.




Inspiration credit: https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=10102407690695372&id=3112789

Photo credit: Frame and eyes woman - Photo by jan valle from Pexels

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