Lisa. Lisa was a force of nature. It appeared that most thoughts that passed her mind needed to be shared. A steady stream of words about her task of the moment rushed forth. Sometimes in direct conversation style. Other times in a mumbling, thinking-out-loud style. No detail was too small for mention.
The transition from recovery to ICU felt hectic from my horizontal looking-upward perspective. There were many bodies rushing around and leaning over me as they connected various devices. At one point I feared that something was wrong as everyone was moving so quickly. Well, more wrong than having just had your skull drilled open. I looked forward to the quiet and calm I presumed would be coming. The speed of these events was hard to integrate. It was overwhelming to the senses. Almost painful.
One of the recovery room escorts wished me well on her exit and introduced me to Lisa, "She's one of the best ICU nurses. You'll be in good hands." Lisa wasted no time and jumped right in...We'll be giving you dilaudid for pain control. It's a derivative of morphine but differs in that blah, blah, blah, side effect profile, blah, blah, blah. The recitation of dilaudid was delivered at a breath-taking pace that would make an auctioneer envious. She continued now leaning over me...oh, these IV's...they're so large for you...I hate it when they do that...it must have hurt...now this one on your right hand is for blah, blah, blah..it differs from the two on your left in that blah, blah, blah...oh, they didn't do that right either...I wonder if I should redo it or leave it be?
Holy smokes did she not get the email?! I just had brain surgery. Was I supposed to be following this all? Should I be worried about my IV's? Would there be a test on dilaudid and how it differed biochemically from morphine? I stared vacantly at my hands, arms, and tubes pondering these questions. I ached for calm words and a grounded presence next to my being.
A few times I took the bait and began to formulate an answer. However, soon I'd realize that she was several new topics ahead of me and that the questions had likely been rhetorical anyway. And, I'd only look slow and dim, um, like I was at that point. I glanced at my friend Betty who had been a medical-surgical nurse to get a perspective on this circus. Her eyes radiated displeasure at the situation. After an hour or so, I motioned her in close and pleaded in a whisper, “Make her shut the f#$% up!”
I mentioned to Lisa that I was quite sensitive to meds; an outlier on the bell curve. I requested the smallest dose of whatever was necessary. At one point in this whole affair, I gazed down at my IV's that Lisa disapproved of so and watched her inject something into them for what seemed like the umpteenth time. As the substance flowed into my vein a corresponding explanation of it flowed from Lisa. Soon I felt the uncomfortable sensations and the waves of nausea. The pink kidney-shaped thing was thrust at me by someone. I wondered, “Do most people actually hit this thing in their moment of need?” Once I was sick, Lisa went into serious high-gear banging away at the computer, administering more of whatever, and emphatically declaring, “Wow, you’re really sensitive!” Sigh. Yes, I think I mentioned that.
Somewhere in this all I thought to myself, "This is the ultimate loss of control." Having reflected on these moments many times since, I realize that it was far from it. It's just how it felt in the moment. It would have been a much greater loss of control if I’d been incapacitated and in the care of someone unfeeling, or worse. No, Lisa cared. It’s just that her style was, uh, a bit rambunctious and verbose for the occasion.
The next morning I woke feeling better and clearer in the head. Although I recall a visit from my surgeon sporting a navy suit jacket over his scrubs, my first meal of cooked rice cereal, and a wee stroll I took, I have no recollection of the ICU nurse that day. Once on the neuro ward, the nurses seemed to be mostly a blur of benign middle-aged women of varying proportions who appeared decidedly detached about it all. I recall a sweet voice one night administering meds, another slightly crunchy nurse at discharge, and another one who took out my catheter. But nobody really memorable. Definitely no one like Lisa.
Lisa. Yeah, Lisa was a force of nature.
Part IV: The Click
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