“Do they think this is Burger King?” I grumbled to the charge nurse, who rolled her eyes knowingly. We both averted our gaze from the family member hovering in the doorway to Room 5. This was one of my pet peeves. We were busy, completely under-staffed, just trying to keep everyone alive. And they want us to hurry up? I already had more tasks to complete than could possibly fit into the rest of the shift. I took my usual approach and steered clear of the room.
At least, that used to be my usual approach. This winter, my dad suffered a traumatic SDH after a head-on collision on his way home from church. As he was being wheeled to the OR for a craniotomy, my mom asked the surgeon nervously how long the procedure would take. “About an hour, give or take.” Four hours later, my family members and I were taking turns pacing the hospital room, sitting back down, checking the clock on the wall, checking the clock on our phones, then standing to pace the room again. I held my breath each time there was an overhead announcement, bracing myself for a “code blue” or “rapid response.” There was a pressure building in my chest. Finally, I walked out to the nursing station, where I had a hard time catching anyone’s eye. “Excuse, me,” I politely called to one of the nurses, “I hate to be a bother, but it’s been much longer than expected and we’re wondering if everything is ok with my dad?” The nurse replied, “Like we told your family member a few minutes ago, he’s still in the procedure.” She turned back to her charting and I retreated to the room to start another lap. I didn’t blame her for being abrupt. I knew how the conversation would go if she interrupted the OR team to ask for an update. They were busy, completely under-staffed, just trying to keep everyone alive.
As it turned out, my dad is doing great. His procedure was uncomplicated; it had just been postponed a few hours. Updating us on the delay was the last thing on anyone’s mind as they tended to the immediate needs of their patients – just as it’s the last thing on my mind during a busy ER shift. But lately, I’ve stopped steering clear of family members hovering in the doorway. Are they just being impatient? Sometimes. More often, though, they’re terrified or unsure what to expect. I try to remind myself how that feels. I’ve been surprised by the visible relief on their faces after a simple update.
We derive great fulfillment from resuscitating an unstable patient or expertly placing a central line. But I get the feeling that from our patients’ perspective, the real meaning is found in those few moments we take to be human, recognize their suffering and offer a word of reassurance.