A Window of Good

After eight days of luxury living at Boston's finest, Mia and Valentina have come to break me out.

This post goes out to all of you who know hospital life a little too well. Just when you think you've finally made it out, breathing fresh air and reclaiming your freedom, you're back between sterile white walls, DoorDashing Sweetgreen (or, really, anything that doesn't come from the inpatient cafeteria menu).

Last Wednesday, I went into the ED with some of the worst pain I've ever experienced: pain in my right hip and groin that traveled all the way down my leg. As someone who rarely rates their pain above an eight, this was a twelve out of ten. Apparently, we've decided to expand the pain scale.

The emergency department didn't resolve my pain, but it did provide me with twenty-four hours of hell on Earth and enough trauma to keep me awake at night. (Longer essays to come in Reflections.)

Once I made it to the inpatient floors (one of three rooms I would eventually occupy), it was business as usual. My palliative care team remains my little guardian angels, complete with wings of morphine and OxyContin. In all seriousness, I would be lost without their care. Many of the nurses who looked after me also helped restore some of the trust I'd lost in nursing after the horrors of that first morning in the ED.

And to the nurses who include me in their coffee runs and save me from the bitter dumpster fire that is the inpatient cafeteria's brew: thank you for your service. You are the real MVPs.

Fast-forward to today. I'm writing from the back seat of my sister's blue Kia sedan. I missed Valentina too much to settle for the passenger seat, so here I am, happily wedged beside my thirty-pound Goldendoodle.

Leaves of red and orange interrupt the sidewalk's otherwise gray monochromatic streak. Passersby walk through transient mountains of vivid vegetation, crunching their way through autumn. I don't typically roll down car windows in the city, where fuel odors and a cacophony of noises tend to overwhelm the senses. But today, I lower the glass in celebration. I'm free. I can roll down the windows if I want to. I can smell the air if I want to. I can feel the breeze against my cheeks and my balding head.

It's a small thing, really. But after eight days in the hospital, even the simple act of opening a car window feels like an extravagant privilege.

I remember one of my doctors saying, "Let's get you out of here while we're in this window of good health, so we can optimize your time at home." She knew I'd likely be back soon enough. We all did. So I took the opportunity to break out while I could.

Here's to taking advantage of windows of good.

I suppose it's no different from how I'm trying to approach life day to day. These days, I don't have many windows of good health. The stretches of time when my pain is manageable, my energy is somewhat cooperative, and I can actually do the things I enjoy are becoming increasingly unpredictable. Even writing this right now is a feat.

But when a window opens, I want to climb right through it. I want to write, see my friends, spend time with Valentina, go outside, and occasionally do absolutely nothing without feeling guilty about it. I want to take advantage of the moments when my body gives me a little breathing room.

Maybe that's what I'm learning: I don't always get to decide when the windows open, how long they'll stay open, or when they'll slam shut. But when they do open, I can make an effort to notice. I can stop waiting for a better time, a healthier day, or a more convenient set of circumstances.

For now, the window is down. The air is coming in. Valentina is beside me.

And I'm home.