Alana Smith
I am covered from head to toe in protective gear. As I exhale, my glasses fog over from breathing into this mask. I am standing in the ICU, at the head of my patient’s bed, staring down at this 40-something, average Joe with a beard. He is struggling to breathe, as his lungs just won’t cooperate anymore. Sometimes we aren’t sure what the culprit is at this point — pneumonia, Covid, flu, heart failure — a host of things that could make it impossible to breathe.
I put the oxygen mask on his face, and tell him what is going to happen. He looks up at me with panic in his eyes. I may be the last person he sees, if things don’t go as planned, so I have to be one of comfort. He has been working to breathe for so many hours today, that he is tired, and is grateful not to struggle any longer. Usually. I tell him I am going to give him medicine, and then I’ll help him breathe. He shakes his head in defeated acceptance. I don’t tell him my real worries, that he may not come off this ventilator.
As I begin to put him to sleep, it shocks me at how much he looks like my own husband. I stop and ask a nurse, “Has he seen his wife?” At a time when he needs her the most, she is unable to come into this room.
As I finish my work and the ventilator takes over, I pull off my gloves and gown, and head to the sink. I scrub my hands, and listen as the nurses work in his room. Alarms beep. Masked people come and go. My job is done, so I walk to the waiting room. It is oddly empty, except for one, tired woman.
“Hi. I was with your husband, and the breathing tube is now in. They are taking good care of him. I’m so sorry you are here.” She exhales and runs her hands over her face.
I don’t always talk to the family. That’s a job left to the doctors, usually. But I knew this woman had to feel like she was drowning in the waiting room alone. As I leave, I thank my lucky stars that my husband isn’t the one in that bed.
Sometimes on my drive home, after a bad shift at work, I can feel a wave of thankfulness come over me. Maybe it’s God’s way of helping us cope — a glimmer of light when the day has been dark. My blessings are brought front and center in my mind. My family, health, home, and job. A full belly. Transportation. And then I think of things that we take for granted, like breathing. I am so grateful that I am able to live another day. When I get home, I stare at my husband a little longer than usual.
We never know what the future holds. And sometimes I fear that someone I love will be gone too soon. I think that’s a fair worry, especially with what we’ve endured the past few years. But I encourage you to take a step back. Take a deep breath and fill your lungs with air. Tell your people that you love them. Love yourself. Think of the many blessings that fill your life, big and small, and bask in the glow of them.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.
Alana is a nurse anesthetist, writer and boy mom (ages 7 and 2), who lives in north Shelby County with her husband, kids and Boxer, Sam. When she’s not writing or chasing little humans, she can usually be found in the aisles of Target. She shares her writings at Holy Moly Motherhood (on Facebook and Instagram), where she takes on all things motherhood and marriage.
