The Intensive Care Unit is a surreal space. Mercy hospital in Des Moines has done a wonderful job of making it a humane, compassionate space. Nevertheless, it is a space of grief, anxiety, and uncertainty. As I waited with Sara, I became aware of the strangers on the journey with me.
During Sara's stay the foyer was filled with Amish. Apparently, two girls had been injured in a freak accident between a buggy and a semi in southern Iowa. Women in plain dresses and men in beards huddled, waiting for news. A father and his son waited for news about his wife. A family reunion sprouted while waiting for news about a beloved patriarch. Many of us slept in our clothes in pullout couches and armchairs, looking disheveled, disoriented, and distraught. Despite the human touches - private, keypad-protected waiting rooms; a shower; linens; computers and wireless access - it felt a little too public.
Some of our journeys had happy endings. Like Sara, the Amish girls showed resilience and were transferred out of Intensive Care. The elder girl's arm was in a sling, but remained in good spirits. For others, the journey ended in ICU. The patriarch's 88-year-old heart stopped beating.
I give thanks to everyone who cared intensively for us during Sara's time in ICU and I pray for the strangers whose journeys have brought them to that place. May they find comfort and peace.
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