My husband was in the hospital last week. Like most hospital visits, it caught us off guard. A solo evening mountain bike ride on a favorite trail led to a minor fall, which although painful and messy, didn’t break anything but skin. We thought the wound was a little too big to let it go unstitched, so the whole operation went to Urgent Care. At Urgent Care, the wound was thoroughly and painfully washed and stitched up. The good doctors there gave my husband a tetanus booster and a prescription for antibiotics.
The next day, my husband woke up achy and his elbow hurt. This seemed normal… After all, he had lots of scrapes and bruising and he did just have a tetanus shot. But it was getting worse. Between the swelling and redness, my husband decided to go back to Urgent Care. They gave him a shot and more antibiotics and sent him on his way.
That night, it was just too much. Too much pain, too much swelling, too much redness and too much bodily discomfort. We headed to the ER.
Anyone who has spent time in the ER will tell you just how uncomfortable it is. This is understandable, I guess—they are there to save lives, not to make people comfortable. Staffing shortages push comfort even further down the list of priorities. The good doctors there opened up his wound to allow it to drain. As the stitches were cut out and the would was pried open with tweezers, the good doctor said, “Let me know if this is too uncomfortable for you.” I thought that was pretty funny, but a real time saver!
I left my husband there around 3am and drove home to take care of the kids. He was admitted around 7am.
He spent 4 days in the hospital trying to get the infection to respond to antibiotics. Fortunately, friends and family were willing magically fill in to do all the mothering with the kids, so I was able to spend long stretches of time there with him.
There were lots of bags of vancomycin dripped into my husband’s veins before the swelling and redness receded. He had his IV moved a few times because of blockages and irritation. Turns out vancomycin does a number on your veins. There was one conversation about the possibility of sepsis and moving to the ICU to get more fluids. I wasn’t there for that conversation, but it sure got my husband’s attention.
He got better! He was discharged and is home and is getting back to himself.
Why on earth would this experience make me think about the power and importance of family? After all, the people who did lots of the heavy lifting in helping us weather the storm were unrelated—friends and neighbors!
(Kindly hold my rootbeer while I climb back on this box.)
Well, this account started as a way to update our family on our situation. Not dire, but scary. A lot of family members reached out to express their concern, love and hopes for a quick and full recovery. There are so many of us that I thought it would be best to do a single write up. So many of us. And I’m so glad.
I’ve just been thinking about the way being in a family binds us to other people. These are not people we choose. There is a lot of talk about choosing your own family and lots of people who estrange themselves instead of being caught up in (often) generational messes and disfunction. But for lots of us, we stay.
In my case, that means I have known a lot of people all my life. I have witnessed people grow into themselves or transform into someone that that they themself might not recognize. The gift of family is perspective and diversity.
Perspective is something that I hope all of us gain over time. The more you see, the more you know.
Some families may look homogenous but may be hiding lots of differences. In fact, dare I say—in every seemingly homogenous group, there is diversity. How silly of us to think that just because a group is gathered under one roof, they are the same? From tastes to beliefs, to personal experiences, to traumas and hidden hopes and strengths. We are all different.
My experience with my own family has me bumping shoulders with people I disagree with, with people I don’t understand, and with people who straight up are on the other side of the tug-of-war rope. If I stay, shared experiences and conversations can foster understanding and love.
Join hands with me here.
Let us gather round into a circle of brotherhood and sisterhood and sing.
Let us sing “Kumbaya.”
Did you folks know that “Kumbaya” is Gullah? It means “Come by here.”
Come by here, Lord. Come by here.
Does it hit different now, “Kumbaya?”
If I'm lucky enough to call you friend or family, thank you. I'm grateful for you. I'm betting I think of YOU more than you know.
