Stories Matter- Part 2

I was laying there strapped to the hospital bed. I wasn’t actually detained, but there were so many tubes coming out of me that they may as well have strapped me down. When the nurses came to try and get me up to walk, I’m pretty sure we spent five times the calories and time trying to get me untangled and out of bed than we did walking 15 feet down the hall and back.

They used the edge of the sheets to lift me to a sitting position. Then they moved this tube over here and that tube over there. They would try to turn me, and my leg would get stuck on my catheter. While one nurse was holding my bags of bodily liquids, the other was moving my IV hanger and oxygen tank. Once we were somewhat settled, one would have to help me out of the bed while the other gently maneuvered all these things around me. Then we could walk, and getting back into bed was almost as bad.

The reason for the jigsaw tube insanity was because of my bilobectomy.  A surgeon had to slice through my skin tissues, my nerves, and my muscles, spread my ribs apart, and remove two lobes of my right lung (and the tumor too). To say I was feeling under the weather was an understatement. I was in my mid twenties, loved to run, incredibly active, and I could barely breathe on my own, let alone move.

On the particular morning I am writing about I was pretty blue. They were going to be removing my chest tube. I should have been elated to get rid of one of the tubes; however, there were many people who decided to enlighten me on their horrific chest tube removal stories. Instead of being happy, I was scared to death. (For anyone who doesn’t know me, I’m the biggest wimp in the world). To make matters worse, my husband was supposed to be there to hold my hand during this torturous event and instead found himself lost in Indy.

While I was in the midst of trying to give myself pep talks to face the day, I heard a knock on my door.  It swung open and in stepped three of my beautiful sisters. They had brought a book with them- an Edgar Allen Poe book.

I know what you are thinking- she’s miserable, she’s alone in her room, and she’s in the hospital… isn’t Edgar Allen Poe a little creepy, a little depressing, and ahem, a little psychotic for her to handle? And didn’t she just write that she’s the biggest wimp in the world?

If I hadn’t had been feeling so bad, I would have laughed my head off when they explained they were at a bookstore and found a collection of Poe’s writing and bought it to read to me at the hospital. The story still makes me laugh today. I wonder what Poe would think if he knew someone had read his stories to bring comfort to a hospital patient?

The fact is that my sisters know me well. I love Poe, and one of my favorite stories of his is called The Spectacles. Without spoiling it, I will just tell you it is a hoot. Unbeknownst to many, Poe writes with humor too.

 My sweet sister Emma held my hand as they removed the chest tube. Then my sisters crowded around my bed. We didn’t talk about my pain. They didn’t make me move around (thank goodness). We didn’t have awkward conversations or silence trying to talk about cancer. Instead, we shared a story together. At a time when I was hurting, it was the ultimate form of comfort. They took turns passing the book around and I was pulled into another time and another place. For a few moments I forgot about my pain and my cancer, and got to listen to a tale that made me smile.

The fact is that when you’re sick at the hospital there isn’t much to do. It is easy to get down and it is easy to not know what to say, but something as simple as a story can change that. They can bring people together, can coax a grin, and can take your mind away from yourself. There is nothing more soothing than being tucked in close to someone and listening to their voice lull through the air as they take the time to tell you a story.