The Icelandic Canadian - 01.04.2001, Blaðsíða 31

Vol. 56 #2
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
69
Silence on the Seventh Floor
by Evelyn K. Thorvaldson
Not a sound. People, yes. The odd sniffle
—the odd snore. But, more often, not a sound.
In silence, everyone in the lounge on the
7th floor waits for the news on his or her fam-
ily member/friend from the operating room.
The anticipation of the words from the
Doctor. Was it successful? Was it not?
Personal experience of life threatening
emergency surgery can bring one to reality in
a very short time. It can remind you that life is
not to be taken for granted. It can end in a
moment. It can bring about a lifestyle that is a
stranger. It can make you—it can break you.
It is yours to deal with.
Thoughts! So many thoughts run through
the mind. And—the silence.
Nearly three years ago, I was one of those
people on the seventh floor lounge at the
Health Sciences Centre in Winnipeg. My hus-
band Gordon, then aged 61 years, suffered a
ruptured aneurysm on the aorta as the medical
team was preparing him for surgery. Only
with the expertise and talent that was avail-
able to us did he survive The first 24 hours
were crucial—then on to the next 48 hours. A
respiratory system was in place and keeping
him alive. The intensive care unit (SICU) was
the comforting area in terms of his struggle—
and in terms of my faith. All around me were
families watching their clergy delivering the
last rites—praying and making that incredible
decision to remove all apparatus called life
support. Meanwhile, Gordon kept the moni-
tors showing that he was still with us.
Complications were bountiful—but seemed
to be addressed with confidence by the med-
ical staff. There appeared to be a solution for
each problem that arose. Each time, the treat-
ment was a success. The medical staff was
amazed, as was I. This was indeed a man with
a will to live, given the chance.
Five weeks of intensive care—and five
weeks of silence on the seventh floor. I came
to feel very familiar with the events and the
sound of the silence. Families were waiting
for the ultimate answer about their loved one.
Some came out the operating room and direct-
ly to the recovery unit. Others did not. The
message was clear. But, there was always the
silence that followed the news.
The volunteers of the HSC White Cross
Guild became familiar. They would make
fresh coffee throughout the day. They would
offer a pillow and a blanket to any of us that
tried to sleep between surgeries and visits.
They were most comforting and seemed to
understand and respect the silence. A young
hospital Chaplain would quietly survey the
lounge. She seemed to know when it was time
to make contact. Her ability to open the con-
versation was incredible. Her ability to listen
was even more amazing. She was there at the
most opportune times.
It never ceased to amaze me how the
medical staff could be so professional and yet
so gentle. Several times, during the first nine
hour surgery that Gordon endured, one of the
Doctors, a nurse—and at one time, the anes-
thetists came to the waiting room to advise me
on the progress and the process they were
attempting to save Gordon’s life. The diagno-
sis—and the prognosis were dim. Chances of
survival was minimal. And yet, this Viking
beat the odds.
I recall the peace—and a chance to rest in
the visitors lounge on the seventh floor.
There were couches—long enough to stretch
out and on occasion, have a power nap.
Those were lengthy periods between the vis-
its in the SICU area. Periods of silence.
Periods that gave one a chance to console
someone else. Periods to listen to words of
wisdom. Periods to get closer to our families
—and cherish every moment. People became
aware of each other—some were even able to
reach out in comfort. There was absolutely no
place to run in order to shed tears or re-group
following bad times or bad news from the
ICU. There was a stairwell. Many of us went
there on occasion. There was also a “Family