The family in the waiting room was a woman in her mid-thirties, rapidly thumbing the keypad on her phone, texting. I told her who I was and asked her to tell me what was going on. She was the daughter of the patient in the cubicle, and she began to tell me a story of pain and suffering.
The patient and his wife were homeless. For the past month they have been living on the streets, occasionally spending a night with friends. The daughter had been fortunate enough to be able to live with her aunt in a small apartment, and her parents had been able to keep some of their possessions in the apartment's storage unit. The daughter also had a 9-year-old son. Autistic. The aunt had recently passed away, so she had to move out of the apartment. She had, with considerable effort, located a shelter in another town where she, her son, and her parents were scheduled to move tomorrow. "And now this."
I went back to the cubicle to check on the patient's progress. The patient's wife was slumped on a chair just outside the debacle. She looked tired. Not just "lack of sleep" tired but a deep down tired-out-by-life kind of tired. The patient had lived hard -- lots of tobacco and alcohol -- and was now possibly paying the price. He had a history of heart problems in the past. Chest compressions had been going on for about twenty minutes, pausing every now and again for administration of drugs, in an effort to gain a pulse.
I went back to the waiting area to find a man with a hoodie slumped in a chair near the daughter, and beside him an attractive, well-kept woman fingering a rosary. Turns out they were the patient's somewhat estranged son and his girlfriend. The sister and brother did not speak to each other; nor did they make eye contact.
I spent about an hour and a half with this family, back and forth between the cubicle and the waiting room, listening, reporting, supporting. The patient was critically ill; the first goal was to achieve a sustainable pulse so he could be taken to the Cath Lab for further diagnostic. This appeared unlikely, and ultimately he was transferred to the Cardiac Surgery Unit.
But the tension, the stress among the family never seemed to abate. Turns out that the son/brother -- and his 12-year-old daughter of whom he had partial custody -- had recently moved in with the girlfriend and the homeless parents were jealous and resentful that he did not invite them to move in as well.
When the patient was finally ready for transfer and the doctor came out to speak with the wife, it was the same cardiac surgeon who had saved my husband's life nearly seven years ago. I knew the patient was in very good hands. The wife thanked the resident. She thanked the cardiologist.
And as the two of us walked back down the hall to the waiting room, she stopped in her tracks, turned to me and said, "Thank you, Doctor -- that just sounds so inadequate."
