Tue the 05th of May – Open Sesame

Mar hasn’t eaten in 5 days. If by tomorrow the nausea hasn’t subsided then she will have to be fed through a tube inserted into her nose. The prospect far from excites her and so she fervently hopes she will feel better by then. On a positive note, after 6 days, the chemo ends today. Hurrrrraaaaaayyyyyy!!!!!!

Dad and I still struggle with visiting hours. Although official “opening times” are between 3 and 3.30pm, we are told there is more flexibility for family members. What they conveniently omit to mention is that this flexibility very much depends on the nurses on duty…And these seem to rotate every hour! Let me explain how it works. You come into the waiting room. You ring the doorbell. You wait/pray for someone to answer the intercom. You state your name. You wait/pray for someone to unlock the only door to the ward. There is only ONE key to open that ONE door. How I fantasize about getting hold of that key! It’s more exclusive then a Secret Society. Soon there will be a secret code or a handshake. If you’re lucky it won’t take more than 5 minutes. If you’re not, you may be looking at a good 2 hours. Today is not my lucky day. I come in and politely ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. I patiently wait thinking they must be very busy in there. After 30 minutes I ring again. No answer. Another 20 minutes go by. An old lady, the mother of a patient, walks in and rings. Within a few minutes a nurse opens the door to let her in. I take advantage of that moment and with my sweetest smile, I gently inform the nurse of my presence. She mumbles something and practically slams the door. My mood takes a turn for the worse. I am fuming. I want to shout and yell and gesture and throw things. I won’t though. I’m half Dutch. So I sit down again and wait. To vent my frustration, I sms my Dad a couple of times with status updates. In disbelief, he comes up and still finds me waiting. After another eternity, a nurse peers through the door and lets another relative in. Again, I walk up and again I am told to wait. At that moment my father explodes. Short of throwing things, he shouts and yells and gestures. He can. He’s Italian. Instantly, magically the door opens and I am admitted by an apologetic nurse. It’s sad that we must resort to such drama to get things moving. All I want is to hold my sister’s hand while she is sick and I just lost two precious hours waiting in the room next door. The irony.

What valuable lessons can I draw from this experience?
Lesson 1: My finger will be on that doorbell more times than a bee on honey
Lesson 2: I will be more Italian and practice shouting, yelling and gesturing. Friends, beware!
Lesson 3 (perhaps less realistic): Must make a copy of that key

In the room, Mar tries to sleep. Emphasis on “tries to” because between her bathroom visits and the nurses walking in and out, it’s very challenging. A whole delegation of nurses marches in. One to take her temperature, the other to take her blood pressure, the last to administer vitamin K. Her arms are the stars of this show and from her bed, a sleepy Mara ever so slowly, raises them both extended, palms upwards, as if to surrender. She does this so automatically and with such grace that it makes the nurses smile. Princess Mara. Why not. After all, she is a VIP in this joint!

I pride myself in being practical and organized at work. This may sound arrogant but sometimes I have low tolerance for those that aren’t. Especially not at work. Today I illustrate with an example. Nurse A walks in to inventorize the medical supplies in Mar’s cabinet. Even though Mara is sleeping, she turns on the very bright neon light. This rudely awakens Mara who squints at the light and tries to shield her eyes from it. A couple of minutes after her departure, Nurse B walks in. Guess what. She’s here to check on the supplies too. Again, lights on. I tell her Nurse A was here not a moment ago and I demonstratively stand up to switch off the light. 2 minutes later, Nurse A walks back in to restock the cabinet. Lights on again. Guess who walks in not 2 minutes later…You got it! It occurs to me: what if they’re also double dosing the chemo? Noooooo. It reminds me of a joke. Something about Italians and organization…Must banish that thought. They may be a little disorganized but so far they have been very competent and in our eyes that’s how they’ll stay.