While Ken has been totaling up our medical expenses, I’ve been counting debt of a different kind.
The night Geneva was born, four doctors attended to me, along with countless nurses and other medical support personnel. Several of them visited me in the SICU, but I was too sick to understand then what had transpired. We knew we could never repay them, but there must be a way to thank them.
So on Monday we returned to the hospital for a follow-up appointment, armed with Kirchmayr truffles and pictures of Geneva and me. Our visit with Dr. K, my OB, was predictable: “It was nothing,” he said, shrugging off our gratitude. “I learned in medical school that the best way to stop bleeding is use your hands, so I just held that blood vessel closed until Dr. G arrived.” (A mere hour later.)
In the elevator, we met a nurse in street clothes who exclaimed, “I know who you are—I took care of you!” She went on to explain that she had been one of four nurses who hurriedly prepped me for surgery. And then she said what we have heard many times since February 4, “I can’t believe you’re walking around! And you have color in your cheeks!”
Later, while we waited in the lab to have my hematocrit levels checked, a doctor walked by, retraced his steps, and entered the lab. Leaning toward us, he said, “It is you!” We were unexpectedly face to face with Dr. D—the caring anesthesiologist who comforted me, carefully monitored my levels during the surgery, and encouraged the medical team to let Ken see me after the surgery to reassure him that his wife was indeed alive. We thanked him profusely, showed off Geneva, and hugged him. It was a moment of relief for each of us.
Next, we visited Dr. G, the surgeon called in at the last minute when my bleeding resumed, necessitating a second surgery. He had driven an hour in the snow at 4:00 A.M. to attend. His office staff knew exactly who we were. “Oh, you’re the ones,” they said, nodding sagely. When Dr. G saw us, a huge smile spread across his face, and he said, “This doesn’t happen often, that a patient comes back to thank me.”
Last stop, Unit 26, to thank Myra, my nurse for three days. She prepared us for the physical reality of life at home, helped me keep track of my pain medications when such details seemed overwhelming, and gave me small goals to attain each day: “Today, let’s see if you can walk to the end of the hall three times.” She lit up when she saw Ken and Geneva, glad to hear how we had fared at home.
Many people—even among the hospital staff—were obviously shaken to see that a mother could almost die during childbirth in 2009. Before the delivery, I had not wanted to think about it, though it was the major risk of placenta previa. And yet, in our darkest hour, God met us, surrounding us with caring people who were stubbornly determined to save my life.
To thank them has been the highlight of my week. And it doesn’t feel like repaying a debt at all. It is like receiving a marvelous gift, to be alive to say thank you.