Vignette: Mary's Story

Mary's Story

Late one Halloween evening as I got ready for bed, I got indigestion. I was unable to lie down, sit down, or standup with any comfort. I hurt. Nothing helped.

By morning, I called the doctor and made an appointment. I went by cab. Once there, I threw up. The doctor told me to go the hospital and asked how was I getting there. "Cab," I said but, at that moment, a neighbor stuck her head in the door and offered to drive me. She had followed me to the doctor’s.

After an agonizing ride and entrance interview that I moaned and stumbled through, I was taken up to a room. Surrounded by doctors, nurses, interns, and residents who kept asking questions, I rolled on the bed unable to lie down. Eventually, I faded out of consciousness, vaguely aware they were attempting to hookup an IV and were having trouble inserting the needle.

Time blurred.

I moaned and groaned my way in and out of a fever. I heard indecision above me about what was the true nature of my illness. I buried myself in blankets, levered myself up to a sitting position, and rocked between sleep and consciousness. I dreamt in purples and greens, and somewhere in the middle of it all, a woman in the next bed moaned and groaned, too.

Gradually, I became aware I had a roommate, Mary. She and I agreed to moan together. As I lay there drifting in and out, between the doctors and nurses who kept telling me I was seriously ill, Mary told me about her family, a living horror story, and I remember thinking this is too much.

Here's a woman next to me with her whole body out of whack and a family from hell. She had worked two jobs to support her fatherless family, buy a home and literally with every ounce of her soul, her energy, and her body, she supported countless people who gave her nothing in return. She had more stamina than I could ever dream of.

I fell asleep thinking I would die with her life's story in my ears. I thought it an irony as my consciousness faded. As I regained consciousness again, my inside voice said, "you can be positive or negative about this, you make the choice."

I woke up laughing.

I joked with the nurses and doctors, said please and thank you, and tried not to complain. Eventually an exploratory procedure found the blocked bile duct and it was cleaned out.

Nothing in my life helped me understand what was happening to Mary. I listened as she told me of generations that pulled away, each generation less supportive, less warm. Now there were grown children who had forgotten what it meant to be human.
I heard of beatings, theft, vandalism, drinking, unwanted children, abandoned pets, and fights. I heard of her attempts to hide food and money from her children because they took everything. I heard of her attempts to shield her aging father from her children's physical abuse, going so far as to put a lock on his door.

What advice could I offer her after all her years of doing? I had no children. Silly me, I tried to teach her meditation exercises to reduce stress. I remember lying there trying to describe, in an unpracticed voice, mountains, ocean beaches and forests, wishing for some comfort in her life.

When I visited the hospital chapel, I thought this Mary's story and that her survival was a miracle, her strength a wonder, so much without joyous fruition.

As medications began to make me feel better, Mary and I became "the pajama party" on the floor. Mary joked constantly. We laughed and teased the interns, technicians, nurses, and doctors. We had IV contests to see whose IV needle would stay in the longest. I lost.

All day and all night, she worked her phone managing her home and family from her bed, paying bills and instructing family members to care for her aging father left at home. By the end of the week, he, too, was admitted to a hospital.

Then, it came time for surgery. After I was prepped, moved onto a gurney and rolled out of the room, Mary came up to me and wished me luck.

The last face I saw before going into surgery was that of the Indian resident. He was beautiful. I could not have asked for a better last vision. I smiled and thanked God.

After surgery, it was pain big time and, of course, they wanted me to get up and walk immediately. I did and Mary and I called it the gall bladder slide as I shuffled my feet and pushed my IV along the floor.

I had not eaten in a week. When they brought my first meal, I could not even eat a pea. My mouth just would not accept it. Great way to diet, I thought. For the rest of my stay, I gave most of my food to Mary. She either saved it in plastic baggies she brought with her or feed her family when they came to visit.

When any of her children entered the room, darkness descended as they stood like large, grim, silent shadows against the wall. No words of affection or concern. No smiles. Pain from low self-esteem like beaten dogs emanated from them.

Once Mary sighed and said she wished her family had sent her flowers. When they came to take Mary for her procedure, I went to her side, squeezed her hand and wished her well.

As we both began to get better, we talked more. I was eager to return to my life. I do not think Mary was. She had been hospitalized many times for an odd digestive aliment I did not understand. Her throat, her stomach and most of her digestive organs were scarred and ulcerated. I think her hospital stays were a respite from her life.

The time we spent together in that room was intense. She was more comfort to me than I was to her but we had a good time. When I started roaming the hospital floors, I ventured downstairs to the gift shop and bought Mary flowers and a teddy bear. I got a nurse to help me surprise her. She was. I wanted give her something to take home.