Observations of Life in the ICU

Observation #1

In order to work as a nurse in the Cardiac ICU, here are the following requirements.  You must:

1. Be 25 years old
2. Look like you are 12 years old
3. Be really nice
4. Really love babies
5. Own a pair of clogs or running shoes
6. Have a last name that ends in y.  So far we have worked with Britany, Kasey, Katy, Emily, Lindsay, Mary, Abby, Kelsey, Kristy, Cindy, Mandy, Sidney, another Sidney, and Sarah.  I’m not sure how Sarah got the job.  I guessing either her parents are big donors to Children’s Health or the hospital has a girl-who’s-name-doesn’t-end-in-y quota that they had to fill.

Observation #2

Hospital time is on an accordion-like continuum.  Sometimes things seem within your grasp but end up being really far away.  We thought we would be home by mid-September.  Nope. “This specialist is going to come visit with you any minute now.” Four weeks later, he walks into our room. Sometime things are really far away, then, all of a sudden, they are really close.   We have to wait three months until we can do the nasal passage surgery.  Never mind, we are going to do it next Monday.  We are going to start weaning her meds in a couple of weeks.  It’s like every doctor is Sir Lancelot running to attack the castle in Monty Python and the Holy Grail (Google it).

Observation #3

An extended stay in the hospital magnifies the reality that somebody always has it better than you, and somebody always has it worse than you.   Yesterday in the family break area, a couple was complaining to me that they’ve been here three whole nights.  Cry me a river.  And I’m guessing your team hasn’t won a Super Bowl in three whole years either.  We’ve been here so long I don’t know remember what a normal family life feels like.  How does it feel to have your entire family together in one room? To eat dinner together?  To sit on the couch and watch TV together?  Audrey is two months old, and she hasn’t met her older sister yet.  There have been low points when I wondered if she ever would.

But I’m not complaining.  I’m going to keep thanking God for snot bubbles and poop because I know it could be worse.  I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen a family that never got to bring their baby home.  Spending two months (and counting) in the hospital doesn’t seem so bad now.  In fact, I amend my earlier statement.  If you don’t get to bring your baby home, you can complain that nobody has it worse than you.   And you’d be right.