I never tuned into ER or Greys Anatomy but when multiple friends including our babysitter recommended The Pitt, I gave in.
People praise the HBO show for its medical accuracy. In my case, the hyper-realism pushed me away. I wasn’t ready. I lived it.
Earlier this year I watched my Mom transfer from the ER, to the ICU to Hospice within a week’s time.
I’m still sorting through the loss and accompanied trauma of how quickly things unraveled. I physically left the hospital but the emotional toll still follows me.
Visiting our childhood home was strange without her. Nearly every postcard I sent Mom & Dad was displayed on their fridge. Framed photos captured her vibrancy. Seeing the mundane everyday things strewn throughout the house stung more than the things I thought would affect me most. Her favorite snacks on the kitchen counter. Piles of laundry in the bedroom. Her shoes near the door. Signs with her every intention of returning presented a heartache different from at the hospital but they hit just as deep. I experienced a conflicting mix of wanting to preserve things as they were and wanting to clean up. Anything to feel helpful or give an illusion of control. Dad has now moved out. The house we grew up in sits empty and officially has new owners.
April is my month of check ups. I made them with the specialists I often push off for another day, another year. On the calendar are appointments with the optometrist, the dermatologist, the hematologist. A mammogram will be next. My Mom was always proactive when it came to her health. She never missed an appointment or treatment even when they ate up most of her free time towards the end. I’m left with underlying nerves as the patient now that I’m on the other side.
My medical anxiety is a more recent thing. It grew alongside my pregnant belly at a time when so many things were out of my control and has only increased since my Mom’s death. As smooth a pregnancy and delivery I had, I gave birth 4 weeks early. Everything was bliss until the newborn bubble burst. 48 hours after his birth, we rushed our baby to the Children’s Emergency hospital. His temperature at the pediatricians was concerningly low and falling under the range of hypothermia. As a new parent, it didn’t occur to me that he was more lethargic and sleepy than an average newborn should be. About a dozen Dr’s towered over him while Jordan and I helplessly watched in tears. They were all moving quickly yelling stats and code words just like they do on tv. At one point they asked us to step out of the room so they could perform a spinal tap on his 5 pound body. They ran tests and gave him fluids while I learned how to pump and nurse on an uncomfortable hosptial room recliner. His IV line and monitor wires were attached as I held him. I just wanted to be home together. The pipeline from ER to NICU to the stable pediatrics floor for observation was an emotional rollercoaster— one we made out of together. I was grateful and traumatized then. I’m grateful and traumatized now. My baby turns one in Summer. A therapy session really should be next on the checklist.
The NICU and the ICU are places I never imagined to grow familiar with—let alone within a year span. I’ve learned you can’t bring flowers inside of them because it poses too much of a risk of infection. Intellectually I understand the reasoning but something about my Mom being unable to enjoy orchids one last time still makes me inexplicably sad.
Grief sometimes looks like sitting out on a show everyone is talking about. Or proactively scheduling all the Dr’s appointments scared. Grief is also having the best day with family while feeling myself again only to wake up the next morning in tears remembering I can’t call up Mom to tell her about it.
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