The hospital stays, they haven't been all bad. There was one bright spark that happened in both hospital stays that did something for me, that re-affirmed my faith in people, that made me feel like this is one long damn journey but there are people you meet on the road who will show you something that stays with you long after you've left the path. I guess it's hard to see what good can come out of a hospital stay, but here it is.

Last week when I was walking Angus to the door - visiting hours were over, and it was time for him to go, and as the ward is protected by security doors I like to walk there with him to get the last few moments of company we can - I passed the night shift of midwives coming in. One woman I recognized right away, and it was clear she recognized me, too. But as she was coming in and I was walking Angus out, we smiled at each other and went about our business.

A little while later, a midwife came in and asked me for a urine sample, presenting me with a reinforced cardboard hat to wee in and bring back to her. I did so, then went looking for the midwife. I found out she'd since gone home, but was pointed to her replacement.

It was India.

India, the midwife I'd recognized in the hallway earlier.

Her face broke into a huge smile, as did mine.

"Helen!" she cried, reaching an arm out and hugging my shoulders to her.

"Hello, India," I said, grinning ear to ear.

"I'm so happy to see you," she said. "Or I'm not, because you being here means you're not well, but it's nice to see you anyway."

India was one of my midwives during my hospital visit in July. An older, grandmotherly figure who comes from the country of her name, she is short, always smiling, has the kindest eyes, and has beautiful brown skin that makes me envious. She moved to the UK from India many years ago and still has a small, uplifting trace of an accent.

"Same problem?" she asked.

"Same problem," I replied, confirming I was there due to infection.

She smiled at me. "Well, I'm glad to see you again, anyway," she said.

"It's nice to see you too," I laughed. "I even brought you a present!" I announce, holding out my cardboard urine hat.

She smiles and takes it. "I can't believe you wrote that letter," she said. "You made me cry."

"You earned it." I reply, and I mean it.

Last July I'd had a tough time of it. Not like the August visit was a funhouse or anything, but at least I knew what to expect of the hospital visit the second time around. The maternity and ante-natal wards are set up in what I understand is the usual NHS style-there are 6 women to a very large room, 3 beds to each side, with long curtains that we can draw around the beds for privacy and for exams. There are two toilets opposite every room in the hallway, along with a bathtub room and a shower room that is equipped with two showers. From time to time you see a small room off to the side, and these rooms are individual rooms for new mothers with insurance, or with problem babies, or special circumstances. Apparently, once the Lemonheads arrive I stand a good chance of getting one of these rooms as twins are often relegated to them (I also have insurance and am not afraid to use it).

In July the rooms were always full-I had a woman with severe anemia across from me. A woman with breathing problems was next to her. Beside me was a woman who'd been trying to give birth for 4 days but was going in to a C-section the next day for relief. The two beds by the windows were a revolving door for women coming in, going in to labor, and leaving. In general, we didn't talk and we kept our curtains drawn (although in August we tended to leave our curtains open and we all talked to each other).

So one night last July, I was having a particularly tough night. I hadn't slept in days. The antibiotics hadn't kicked in yet so I was still not only in pain but suffering from the inability to wee. It was the middle of the night and my room was quiet-the overhead lights were all off. The hallway, bright and alive, threw a few shadows around. I was in agony, trooping off to the toilet every 10 minutes convinced that now, now would be the time that my bladder would drain, only to be disappointed every time.

Finally, I couldnt' take any more.

Wheeling my IV stand to the midwife station, I met up with India.

"Are you ok, dear?" she asked, looking at my face.

"India," I started crying. "I just can't go to the toilet and I really need to go."

She comes up and puts her arm on my arm. "I think the best thing to try is a catheter. It won't be comfortable, but it may give you some relief," she says kindly. "Go lay down, I'll be right there."

I nod. I go back to my bed, and in no time India shows up with plastic packages of kit.

"I'm so sorry," I gulp. "I'm sure you think I'm such a baby, crying like this when there are women going in to labor on this ward."

"Not at all, you're very uncomfortable, I can see that," she replied. She gloves up and gets ready. "The catheter will be very uncomfortable, I'm afraid."

"I don't care," I croak. "Do whatever you can. I'll give you a baby if you can help me pee."

She laughs. "I'll take the little girl then. I have a daughter, I don't think I'd know how to raise a son."

I laugh back.

She was right-the catheter was uncomfortable. It did drain a bit off the bladder, although not as much as we would have liked. "I think your bladder is just full of infection, dear," she says, removing the catheter. "It's just sore and swollen."

I hold my hands over my eyes. "I can't do this," I whimper. I am pathetic. I should get a fucking grip on myself.

There is the sound of rustling, as she takes the gloves off and uses antibiotic gel. The bed light over me is harsh and pierces the darkness in an unkind way. My eyes burn, my insides burn, everything burns. Suddenly I feel a hand on my forehead. Her hands, worn down from years of washing and of alcohol gel and holding newly delivered babies, are like strong smooth velvet, and they shine from their constant polishing. "It's ok, Helen," she says soothingly. "It's going to be ok."

And I feel, more than anything, that I have not so much the comfort of a midwife, but the soothing hands of a mother on my side.

"Just rest, dear," she says kindly. "I'm here all night and will keep checking on you." And she stayed by my bed a little while longer, until I had calmed down.

Remarkably, even though the pain didn't go away, something about the catheterization did seem to help (or maybe it was just timing) - I was able to start peeing after that, and although it was uncomfortable, at least it was possible.

When I was discharged from the hospital, India's calm reassurance stayed with me. I thought back to that night when she talked me down and calmed me. I felt that I owed her something profound, because even though she was just doing her job, she had a kindness and care about her that shouldn't be lost.

So I wrote a letter to the head of the hospital and the board of trustees, thanking the entire antenatal unit, but above all thanking her.

In August, India's eyes started to tear up. "Your letter made me cry," she said. "I got called in to the head man's office. I was so scared! I had never been called to his office before. And I go in, worried I was in trouble, and instead he thanked me and showed me your letter! It was so wonderful, thank you! They gave me a copy and they also posted it on the wall at the midwive's station. And I got another letter from the head man, thanking me! I have both letters at home, and I showed my family. They were so proud of me."

I smile. "You should've hit the head man up for a pay raise then."

She looks at me. "I've been a midwife for 35 years, and no one's ever written a letter like that before. I just go about and do my job and take care of you ladies and your babies, this is what I do."

"That's exactly why I wanted to write you a letter," I reply.

And that August night, even though I didn't need a catheter and I managed to mostly sleep through the night, she came and checked on me and the rest of her brood in our little room. It was an ordinary shift for her on an ordinary day. And while I absolutely think that the hospital I go to is a great hospital with fantastic (overworked and underpaid) staff, and I am thankful for all of them, but I am especially grateful to a midwife who made me feel, for a moment, that there is comfort and solace in a little corner of a curtained world. She was extraordinary, and that saved me.

And that's why I wanted to thank her. I wanted to thank her for reminding me that I wasn't alone, that everything wasn't fruitless, that there was someone who cared and understood, someone who had impacted me, someone who didn't expect or demand thanks, but who deserved it. I owe her so much for that.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:22 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
Post contains 1707 words, total size 9 kb.

1 I didn't even read the letter and I got all teary!

Posted by: justme at September 05, 2007 09:54 AM (VrkEX)

2 i love this story of india, she seems indeed like a very sweet and caring woman. the fine thing about this story is that you're also just one of these persons who make me believe that there are still fantastic people running around (because you had the wonderfull idea of writing that letter and you did it!)

Posted by: roxane at September 05, 2007 10:12 AM (BP9K+)

3 Wow. Ditto on "justme". I would love to think there are many more India's in the world.

Posted by: Angela at September 05, 2007 11:22 AM (DGWM7)

4 I think that there are more people like India in the world than we notice. We're just too wrapped up in ourselves to see them. That you took the time to write the letter of acknowledgment is awesome. I'm actually kind of glad she got tot see you again, even though the circumstances sucked.

Posted by: ~Easy at September 05, 2007 11:27 AM (WdRDV)

5 You reminded us all that we need to stop and appreciate the kindnesses (big and little) that are directed our way. How thoughtful and kind of you to write a letter.

Posted by: amelia at September 05, 2007 12:00 PM (L2+hh)

6 Thank you India for taking care of Helen. Thank you Helen for taking care of India. That is how the world should work.

Posted by: Laura at September 05, 2007 12:48 PM (U1yF0)

7 What an amazing, uplifting, faith-affirming post. Many thanks to India, and also to you for sharing your story of her. My coffee is now all salty from fat, sappy tears plopping into it.

Posted by: Lisa at September 05, 2007 01:16 PM (e8V7B)

8 Now you made me cry. I wish more people in the world were like you and India-it would be such a better place.

Posted by: Teresa at September 05, 2007 02:16 PM (p4ooY)

9 Just another reason I love you. I think when people do something wonderful they should be rewarded, heaven knows when someone screws up everyone seems to hear about it! What a lovely thing you did... and a wonderful thing India did. Sometimes it is hard to find someone that actually cares.

Posted by: sue at September 05, 2007 02:36 PM (WbfZD)

10 Of all the doctors and medical students assisting me in my natural delivery last year it was only a kind and cheerful midwife who's encouragement saw me through. The midwives seem to be the least celebrated people involved in birthing. Three cheers to all the wonderful midwives out there.

Posted by: Priya at September 05, 2007 04:11 PM (8AhYq)

11 God bless India - and all who are like her. The ones that take the time to be human. And God bless you, my dear, for letting her know how much it meant to you. It's like she said: extremely rare.

Posted by: Margi at September 05, 2007 04:22 PM (je15T)

12 A bit of a theme here but my eyes were leaking a lot too. You are so caring, you proved it today when you offered me the '5 day survival package'. Thanks for being there.

Posted by: Becks at September 05, 2007 04:26 PM (nA/Sh)

13

Posted by: The other Amber at September 05, 2007 04:36 PM (zQE5D)

14 For the most part, when people land in the hospital it's not their fault (unless they drug over dose and then that's their own damn fault). I'm so glad there are India types out there that get recognized by patient's like you. Working in healthcare I know all too well the types that go into the job thinking it's just a paycheck, and it flames me to no end. I've not had a letter written about me, but while in Target one afternoon I was standing with my mother in the check-out and some woman ran up to me and said "you were my father's angel of death". I shrank back, my mother was horrified and it took me a moment to connect where I knew her from. Turns out she was the daughter of a patient who had West Nile, who ended up on a vent and ultimatly died. The kicker was I was there when we put the tube into his lungs and put him on the vent and I was the one who took him off the vent and removed the tube to allow him to go. It was a long angonizing few weeks for the family. But I was there every shift I worked. So they knew me. I see so many patients on ventilators that sometimes I have a hard time connecting family faces to the patient. There are just way too many to remember. But once I realized who she was, she slung her arms around my neck and hugged me so hard, and was thanking me over and over for taking care of her Dad. I realized she was grateful for all that we did for her Dad. And it made me feel good that I stuck out in some way in her mind as a compassionate person who was there for them. Anyway, the point is, India showed selfless compassion, and it really is hard to comeby sometimes with an over worked healthcare staff. And, Helen, I'm so glad she was there for you when you needed reassurance and support.

Posted by: Heidi at September 05, 2007 05:12 PM (IlSaL)

15 *sniff* What a lovely kind woman. Just exactly what a nurse should be.

Posted by: caltechgirl at September 05, 2007 06:40 PM (/vgMZ)

16 I love that you both just did what you thought needed doing. She helped you feel cared for, you in turn said thank you. Both small acts alone but you both made huge impacts on eachothers lives. Good thing for us to all read, you lead by example dear Helen. THIS is why we praise you and tell you that your going to rock as a parent to the Lemonheads-- and that you already do with Melissa and Jeff. You do what needs doing, but you do it with heart and its not unnoticed!

Posted by: Christina at September 05, 2007 07:51 PM (FXxJ1)

17 Now India is what a nurse should be all about. Doing far more than dispensing medication and getting the bedpan, going above the call of duty and actually comforting those that desperately need it, like you obviously did that night. A caring attitude can do wonders for easing someone's discomfort, even more than a bagful of morphine or Demorol. Too bad loving spirits like her are becoming increasingly rare, particularly in the US, no thanks to a busted health care system.

Posted by: diamond dave at September 05, 2007 09:34 PM (G575r)

18 Heidi said much of what I was thinking. It is unfortunate that everyone isn't caring and kind. I try to remember that as I take care of people and realize that I might be the person who makes their very crappy day just a little bit better. I wrote a post not too long ago that I felt like a patient saying I was kind was the biggest compliment I could get. I'm so glad that she was there for you--and thanks for letting her know how much it meant.

Posted by: sophie at September 05, 2007 09:36 PM (AY+fk)

19 I read this with tears in my eyes. She was an angel to you and you returned it with your letter. That was a wonderful thing to do. When mr. kenju comes home from his hospital stay, I am also going to write a letter to the staff at his hospital. They could not have been nicer to us.

Posted by: kenju at September 06, 2007 02:51 AM (TiGru)

20 I love that you wrote a letter to the hospital about your wonderful experience with India. So often people are only singled out when they are doing something wrong - when they are singled out for something great it is a special thing.

Posted by: Michele at September 06, 2007 03:30 PM (h1vml)

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