Ten sheets of pre-op instructions in a slick folder included such gems as: “Bathe before coming to the hospital and wear clean clothing.”  We followed all the particulars and reported as directed to the hospital’s Outpatient Surgery Department at 5am. The intake process was efficient and friendly:  information gleaned, repeated, documented. His clean clothes exchanged for a clean hospital gown, vertical shifted to horizontal, freedom traded for an IV tether. So far so good. A quick kiss and smile and casual ‘See you in a bit’ covered that unspoken bit of anxiety felt any time a loved one disappears around the corner of the corridor headed for La La Land in the O.R.

I located the outpatient surgery waiting room to do my part: sit, wait, pray, and avoid thinking. The volunteer informant at the desk, a lovely senior citizen, managed the room like a seasoned teacher manages anxious first graders in September. Peppered with questions, she offered what she could to antsy families. The identifying code I was given soon appeared on the electronic board and moved through the stages as expected: Holding, Procedure, Recovery (everyone’s favorite) and Discharge.

Ahh—that last one is aptly named. In the Discharge area, they are there to discharge! Otherwise, it might have been named the Knocked-out and Cut So We Should Assist You area or Stitched, Bleeding and Feeling Awful area. 

Two hours later I could be with my husband. The Semi-private room in Discharge consisted of two beds, one bath, two chairs, and one window. It was not even half private. On the half that was not assigned to us lay one snoring patient with two noisy visitors. They talked constantly and answered cell phone calls to update a myriad of people that “He’s sleeping, and we’ll call you later.”  I inched the divider curtain a little farther along its track as I sat in the chair next to the bed. When the nurse tended the other patient, her shape bulged the curtain onto our half of the room.  No wasted space in Discharge!

Once my husband awoke, the offerings were saltine crackers and apple juice —standard but questionable choices considering the already binding effects of anesthesia and pain medication! As my patient nibbled the crackers, the roommate awakened and found his call button. He announced that he needed to go to the bathroom, and that he might throw up. When the nurse arrived for those events, I asked her to pull our part of the magic curtain all the way around my husband’s bed. They then wheeled the guy past us and gave him detailed instructions as to how he should proceed once inside the loo. (Misery does not always love company-the audio version was more than enough.) The two female visitors continued their running commentary including some stage whispering about me. “I think that’s his wife sitting in that chair. I’ll just stand.”  Our half had the bathroom, so did that entitle them to both chairs?

In the meantime, the RN assigned to us came in and asked the other nurse why the curtain was drawn. “They wanted it closed while the other patient went to the bathroom.”  Surely this was a fly in the ointment of Discharge, but thanks to that curtain, I was spared the rolling of the eyes. I also slowed the process with two follow-up care questions to which the responses were literally: “You could.” and “Whatever you want to do.” Like a taxi, the meter was clicking, but advancing by hundreds of dollars. I helped my wobbly woozy husband dress and we left with a scribbled half sheet of instructions to seek real care…at home.

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and a teacher. Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.