waiting room

For those of you who haven't been following my entire blog, you may want to look back at my early entries for background info. Wednesday I spent the day at Emory hospital. No, I wasn't a patient. No, I wasn't a nursing student. I was a family member, waiting in the surgery waiting room with my mom and dad. Mom was having brain surgery to remove the deep brain stimulator she had implanted a year and a half ago. When she had it put in, I wasn't able to come home from CA, so this was a new experience for me. We had to be there at 9:30am, though her surgery wasn't scheduled until 4pm. They told us she would go sooner if an OR became available. So we showed up, only to wait in anticipation. I brought homework because I knew it would be a long day and I had a paper due on Friday. So I tried to write my paper, talked with my parents, and tried not to be distracted by the many people, noises, and smells of the waiting room.
I guess it was a good experience. I mean, I have the philosophy that the more that I have experienced of what my patients have to go through, the better I will be at my job. I was impressed that mom's neurologist and psychiatrist came and found us in the waiting room to check in with us, even though it was her neurosurgeon who would be putting her under the knife. The patient relations guy updated us several times during the day to let us know approximately when surgery would take place. Mom ended up going in at 3:30, only 30 minutes early. Dad went back with her to surgical prep; I waited in the waiting room. I knew that removing the stimulator would be less invasive than putting it in, but I was just as concerned if not more so this time because I was actually present for all the action, minus actually being in the OR.
Dad came back and said that they were wheeling her into the OR when he left. Surgery was supposed to take only 30 minutes, but it was at least an hour before the surgeon came to the waiting room to give report. Dad talked to him and came back to say that all went well and mom was in recovery, but that it would be at least an hour before we could see her. Dad and I went to one of the campus food courts to eat. It was good to get out of the hospital for a little while and hang out with him.
When we got back to the waiting room, a nurse came to get us a little while later, saying that my mom was extremely anxious. She needed a CT scan, but the nurse wanted us to come see her before she went so we could hopefully calm her down. When we got into the recovery room, mom was very emotional. She complained that her head really hurt (rightly so since she has a semi-circular row of staples holding her scalp together). She was really concerned that she was hurting worse this time than last time and that something wasn't right. Dad was a champ, calm as ever, and tried to soothe her. She calmed down enough to go to CT scan. We went back to the waiting room. A little while later another nurse told us we could go be with her in her recovery room. Dad and I went to the area for patients that didn't need to be in the acute recovery area, but weren't ready to leave yet. The room didn't have a bed- just a chair that mom was sitting in. I have to say that my mom is so blunt, witty, and tell it like it is when she's doped up. I mean, I don't think she's ever been funnier. I think it's a glimpse of what she would be like if she weren't depressed, which makes the laughter that I try to conceal so she doesn't think I'm laughing at her actually sad. I wish that mom could always be that way. Not carefree, but uninhibited.
She was pretty nauseous, which is normal for my mom post-anesthesia. Dad and I talked with her for a while and she kept asking if she should try to go to the bathroom because besides the CT scan being read, all she needed to do was pee in order to be discharged. She finally made the trip to the bathroom, dad helping to lead her and me trailing with her IV pole. Somehow she got her hospital gown in the toilet so I went to get her a new one. The nurse said she could get dressed in her clothes because the doctor had called saying the CT was fine and that she could go home. So we dressed her. She still had the IV in, which I wanted to remove, but I felt like I couldn't play nurse or I'd get in trouble. So we had to wait for her nurse to make her way in and take it out. Then dad went down to get the car from the lot and bring it to the front of the hospital. The nurse said she'd come back in 5 minutes with a wheel chair. Probably 20 minutes later mom said she just didn't think she could fight the nausea anymore and she wanted to throw up, so I helped her to the bathroom. She wouldn't let me go in with her because she knows how I don't do well with throwing up. But it was really hard for me to stand outside the bathroom, listening to her puke what stomach acid she did have, worrying that she wouldn't be steady on her feet and would fall. So I went in to help her. Finally I had the opportunity to rub her back and hold her up while she tried to get rid of the rest of her stomach contents- something she's done so many more times for me. Mom's so thin right now; it was so hard to watch.
We cleaned her up and sat back down and waited at least another 20 minutes. I walked out a few times, looking for a wheel chair, but none were in sight. I asked the secretary for one and she said the nurse would help me. So we waited. A little while later the nurse walked past our door, noticed we were still there, and realized she had forgotten us. Not apologetic, she didn't hurry to get a wheel chair, and explained that she couldn't leave the floor with us because she was the only nurse on duty. I told her that I would be just fine in getting my mom down to the entrance of the hospital- I'm a nursing student and I know my way out. She looked relieved. I felt sorry for her- that she was the only nurse caring for at least 4 post-op patients. At the same time, I was so glad that I had been there for my mom. Who knows what kind of care she would have received had I not been.
It was really hard not being my mom's nurse. I wanted to care for her. I wanted to gently remove her IV instead of pulling the tape off her arm so roughly that my mom winced. I wanted to give her the discharge information so that instead of just glazing over the important parts, I could make sure she and my dad understood and their questions were answered. I wanted to set her at ease about the pain she was feeling. I know that nurses have heavy loads. I know that many nurses are burnt out. But it was my mom they were caring for, and I know the job they're supposed to do. It gives me greater resolve to really care for the person and not just do my job as a nurse.
Mom's ok. She's home recovering. Today she says she doesn't remember much of the time after surgery until the morning after. She said she's sad that dad said she was herself when we were in the room with her. She doesn't believe the real her exists anymore, which I think is the hardest part of it all for me. I didn't cry at all on the day of surgery. But yesterday I talked about it and lost it. I guess I didn't realize how much emotion I was holding back in order to be strong for her. I'm glad she's fine, but man, I wish we were out of the waiting room of her depression. It would be nice to know the report of her condition. It would be nice to have a prognosis. I'm not sure how much longer any of us can wait.