Not a restful place

When someone asks me to put them in the hospital to “get some rest” I know they must be desperate. Hospitals aren’t the filthy warehouses of the nearly-dead they once were, but they aren’t quiet. No matter what’s wrong, you’re likely to have tubes going somewhere. People will come and go, tending to those tubes, often ignoring the flesh these tubes penetrate.

They will wake you up every hour, to check vitals, to give medication, or to ask you how you’re sleeping. Before dawn doctors start wandering in, students, residents, attendings, ducklings in white coats quacking out anwsers to questions about you. You will not be asked these questions.

There is an exception. When it’s clear that you are dying, it’s as if an air lock opened in deep space, all life sucked out of the room. The parade of professionals and visitors whooshes away. You’d have more attention if you had Ebola or some other interesting infection.

There are exceptions, those who tend to the dying, who medicate them, pray with them, or simply do crossword puzzles. These people walk into the rooms others run from. They carry hope for comfort, but no illusions. They know you probably won’t get much rest, but they will take away the tubes, bring ice water, and ask you how you feel while caring how you answer.

Death is inevitable, loneliness is not.