The Monster (Part IV)

There are three other parts that have to be viewed first in order to appreciate the whole story...please scroll down

ICU

Nights in an intensive care ward are dark. The ward I was in was a series of glass enclosures, very modern in appearance, and very small. The life monitoring equipment dominates the room. The bed with the patient is darn near an afterthought to the technology surrounding it. The nursing staff is crack, and on top of their game at all times. But even with the knowledge that your care is technologically and personally as good as you can receive, the nights are long and lonely.

The lights are kept very low in the ICU. Even outside at the nurses station where the staff can visually monitor each glass cubicle, the lights are lower than normal. There is the ever-present glow of the LED's on each of the electronic pieces monitoring the patient, to include the IV that is in your arm. Everything has a system attached to it, attached to you the patient, and tied in to a set of monitors at the nurses station. Nothing is left to chance, and nothing should be.

Even with all these "eyes" on you, the feeling of being alone is overwhelming. My family had been there all day, and they were now at home and hopefully sleeping. Relatives had been alerted, and all was now eerily quiet, save for the steady and silent hum of power to machinery. Every once in a while, someone would come in and check my blood, for they had me on a blood thinner known as Heparin to ward off any potential return of the monster. They would come in at odd hours, stick me with a needle, and take what they needed. Damn Vampires. Others would come in and perform ultra-sound tests on my legs and carotid arteries (they're on each side of your neck), and leave when they were finished. Sometimes I would be awake...sometimes not. It's amazing how pitiful I was, totally reliant on everyone else I came into contact with. I couldn't do anything without assistance. After whoever came and went, it was just me again...alone with my thoughts, unable to speak to convey my feelings, unable to move anything from the top of my head to the tip of my toes on the right side. Depression was my enemy at night, and quite a few times in the first few weeks depression won the battle. "Stay positive" was my mantra, but the fact of the matter was I didn't have as much faith in my own beliefs as I tried to tell myself and others. I cried a quite a bit those nights in the ICU, though until now I've never publicly admitted it. I felt sorry for myself and I couldn't shake it. Twice I had a serious anxiety meltdown, frantically hitting the call button while hyperventilating and thrashing about. Each time it was the same nurse who was on shift, and each time she rolled me onto my side, rubbed my back softly, and spoke words of encouragement and empathy until the anxiety passed.

I can't remember her name any more, but she deserves a medal of some sort. She certainly has my life-long thankfulness, and I hope she is doing well.