To my mom, who does good deeds big and small All. The. Time.

I've had, what I consider to be, more than my fair share of experience with hospitals.  Each time I've stayed in a hospital, there has been some nurse, personal care assistant, or doctor, whose care was so beneficial to me, that even though I can't remember their names--their faces, their caring gestures and their kind touches are dear memories to me.

One caregiver will be especially remembered.  While in the hospital in July of 2011, I was recovering from a painful surgery.  I use the word recovering very loosely.  In fact, the word is, perhaps, altogether inappropriate.  I found myself, in my post-surgical state, enduring great pain, moving very little, eating and drinking almost nothing, and wishing that I could be anywhere other than where I was.  I was so far from recovery that I could not even imagine getting from the point I was at to the point where I knew I wanted to be.  That realization was depressing and debilitating.  

The first day after surgery I was feeling very sorry for myself.  My personal care assistant came into my room to check my stats, take care of my comfort needs, and assess my situation.  After the temperature and blood pressure measuring, she suggested that I get out of bed and clean up in a nice warm shower.  I don't know what my sick face looked like at this suggestion, but I can imagine.  The only place I'd moved to in the last twenty four hours was the bathroom, and only when that was absolutely necessary, and it was not to use the shower if you catch my drift.  And those moments where I  had to move felt brutal.  Putting my feet on the floor from my hospital bed took all the effort, and bracing and securing of my arms that I could manage so that I limited, as much as possible, the twisting of my repaired abdomen.  And the idea of putting myself into a shower seemed so far removed from my current capabilities that I would have reacted no differently to the idea of running a 5K than to the idea of taking a shower.  I was nice, but firm, as I replied, no, thank you. Maybe tomorrow she said?

The next morning, in came PCA again.  I hoped that she'd forget her promise to try to get me in the shower, but my resistance had worked the day before, so when she again suggested that I try to get myself into the shower, I thought that my simple "no" would buy me yet another day before facing that obstacle.  My "no" brought further encouragement though!  She kindly persuaded, and promised (I was not a believer) that a shower would be just the thing.  I continued to reject her idea.  However, she was unwilling to take my "no" for an answer. 

Before I knew what was happening, my feet were over the bed, I was leaning as much of my weight on her left arm as I could, both my hands gripping it, as she supported my back with her right arm.  Even though I was moving one slow step at a time toward the bathroom, my head was fighting the very idea violently.  I was moving, but there was no way that I could do what she was asking of me. 

But then, I started thinking about this woman at my side.  In a way, I think I felt sorry for her.  She wasn't young, she must have worked so hard, this was such a physically demanding task, and I knew that at home she probably had children and grandchildren who were awaiting her presence, and being there probably didn't mean rest but more work in her day.  And here she was dealing with me.  I also remember feeling impressed with her.  Her soft arm was incredibly strong.  It was an arm I could trust, with strength that was specialized for a task such as this.  With these thoughts I became completely compliant.  I cooperated as she helped me get ready for the shower.  A shower seat awaited me in the white tiled stall, and there I sat as she then carefully assisted me.  She got the water to temperature, and then lifted the nozzle so that the warm water washed over my head.  She helped me scrub my hair and shoulders, and I lifted my arms and washed what I could.  Carefully, but intently, we washed the wounds on my abdomen.  And then, for a while, she let me just sit under the warm water of the shower.  

I've been in desperate needs of showers many times in my life.  After days camping where the sweat and dirt and campfire smells seemed soaked into my skin--after a day at the beach when sunscreen and sand and saltwater were all so crusted on me that licking my lips brought a taste of all those things to my tongue--after a day of working in my house in the dirt and grime of a remodel, when my eyes were exposed to so much dirt that they became crusty with it and my hands and arms were so filthy that wiping the sweat from my brow meant leaving a streak of black across my face.  But, never was I so in need of a shower as I was this sick day in that hospital room.

That necessary shower marked the beginning of my recovery.  The warm water washing over me was literally rinsing away almost a week of pain and suffering.  To clean my surgical wound and to look at it and face the facts that not only was it was there, but that it could be cared for, and knowing that it would heal was more therapeutic than any measure of professional therapy that the whole staff of the hospital could have offered to me.  And the warm shower gave me something to look forward to--the next day, when I would get up and get in the shower again.  And beyond that, the idea of life going on again, including holding my two week old baby who, when he was five days old, I had to leave at home to go back into the hospital.  How could I have been so resistant to the idea of that shower? But how could I have known that I needed it so desperately?  I will be forever grateful for the woman who did recognize how critical it was for me to start that recovery.

I wish I could tell her of my gratitude in person.  Perhaps her name is buried somewhere in my hospital charts, but most likely, I will never find it.  However, what I do know, is that there are others who play critical roles in desperate times.  I see these kinds of acts around me on a regular basis.  Sometimes, those performances are minimal--watching someone's kids so that they can have time to catch up on life, or to rest or to have a much needed date when they can't afford a babysitter.  Sometimes they are minisule--a smile and a hug.  And sometimes, those acts are monumental--like spending your week caring for a sick friend or lending money to someone even when it's a sacrifice to do it.  And even though these acts are sometimes something that a person is paid to do, or obligated to do because of a position or calling that they've been assigned to, they have trained, prepared and worked to gain the skill necessary to provide care, comfort and love. And so, for the desperate who have been helped, I send my thanks into the universe in hope that any woman who has ever played that critical role and thereby facilitated recovery of any kind will somehow receive it. Thank you, thank you, thank you!