In “First Call,” I wrote about an exhausting 14-hour stay in hospital, waiting to find out if I was to receive a lifesaving lung transplant. It was a long day filled with anxiety, boredom, hunger and thirst, punctuated by occasional short visits from doctors and nurses who had tasks to perform. In the end I was told I would not have the surgery yet and sent home.
The stress and tedium of that day were very familiar to me. During my many years with chronic illnesses, I’ve spent far more time waiting for healthcare than actually receiving it. It’s always nerve-wracking. I never know how long I’ll be hanging around; it could be anywhere from minutes to hours. I fret over whether to go to the bathroom before or after an appointment, afraid I’ll miss my turn if I’m not there when they call me in. And of course, I worry about what I’ll hear when I finally get attended to; I’ve received lots of bad news over the years.
In “Waiting,” palliative care doctor Shireen Heidari writes about caring for a patient hovering between life and death. Heidari had anticipated her patient would soon move on, but so far, she is lingering in that liminal zone between life and death. She and her colleagues huddle in hallways, worrying they’ve given up on the dying woman too soon. What could be keeping her tied to life, they wonder? Does she need something to happen first? They are stumped, concerned.
As I read this story, I was struck that the providers were waiting for the patient, not vice versa. I confess I’d never considered such a scenario before. Even after I read it, I couldn’t imagine such a circumstance in my life, at least not so far. Maybe not till I, too, am dying (so hopefully not any time soon). I’ve gone to great lengths to survive, and I’ll continue to do so as long as I can, no matter how many hours I have to spend biding my time in a sterile institutional setting. It’s always traumatic, but it’s the price I must pay. Just don’t be surprised if I sometimes bridle at being labelled a “patient.” I endure the wait, but I’m not patient at all.
Nancy Lewis, who recently published a personal essay in Trash Panda Literary, has co-authored eleven health-focused academic articles. She earned a PhD in anthropology, worked in equity-based health policy and travelled extensively, living six years in Asia. She was diagnosed with several chronic progressive diseases in 2007 and learned to find joy and contentment in spite of deteriorating health. She received a life-transforming double lung transplant in 2022. Now reveling in her second chance at life, Lewis pursues her passions: writing, cooking (and eating) and photography. She lives in Toronto with her husband and two cats.