This article has been deidentified to protect the anonymity and confidentiality of the patient in the story. Any matches in names or circumstances to other patients are entirely coincidental.
If, right now, someone asked me what I’d been up to today, I might start with the phrase, “I had dinner.” Then I’d tell them about what exactly I had for dinner, and before that whether my drive home from the lab was notable for any new construction or near-accidents, and all the experiments I went through before then, and then lunch would be too far back to remember exactly what it tasted like, but somehow I would end up in bed at 8 a.m., where the story would end with “I got up.”
One patient, Chuck, was someone who gave a shorter answer. “You came in,” he said. “So I got up.” I believed him. He was lying down when I entered the room. I waited for him to see me. I knew when he did because the bed would start creaking and bending, and after eight-or-so seconds, he was in a sitting position. Then he heaved his left leg over the side of the bed and used his arms to pull his right leg over as well. This is where, sometimes, he took a short break. Afterward, he motioned for his wheelchair, and I brought it to him. Planting his left foot on the ground, he pivoted, finding the arms of his chair without looking before falling into the seat. This is where, always, he took a break.
I was there as a patient visitor, a college student with no prior experience in any clinical setting, and one who could give no advice or physical comfort. I was there to learn about the wards — what the patients ate, what they watched and what they talked about. I was there to carry a conversation, or at least, some semblance of one. I told Chuck once that he didn’t have to sit up. I was just there to talk, and only if he wanted. “Gives me something to do,” he said.
I like to think that if, later, someone else asked Chuck what he did that day, he might mention talking to this college student from the local university. How he told the kid these stories about his youth in Japan and his adult life and his love for it all except Sacramento. And how they ambled through the courtyard, where the breeze was easy and smelled like damp soil. I like to think he would give himself a bit more credit.
But it could be true that, for Chuck, the only thing he thought worth mentioning was that he had gotten himself upright and out of bed — for a time, pushing his body nearly to its capacity. This could have been credit enough. After all, I wasn’t ever allowed to visit late enough for the second part of this ritual. I can only wonder if the climb back into bed was more difficult or if it was eased, even a little bit, by the prospect of a new day. Another one worth getting up for.
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