For several years, I volunteered once or twice a week at an outpatient surgery center, helping patients when they arrived. I met folks from near and far, some from Mexico and some from Canada, with different ethnicities, religions, and a variety of medical issues. Each day I was given a list of patients for the day showing their name, age, gender, and the doctor they were going to see. I never knew what kind of surgery they were having.
My desk sat in the middle of the big room that was used by patients and their drivers. The room seated about fifty people in chairs or on padded benches at the back of the room.
My primary job was to check patients in and take their insurance and photo ID cards to copy. They would wait until an administrator was available to have them sign authorization and insurance papers, then they would stay in the waiting room until a nurse called them back for surgery. The good thing about the surgery center is that it was all elective surgeries and everyone had to be in good health to come. I didn’t contend with sick people or emergency panic.
Every patient was required to have someone with them who was responsible for getting them home. Generally, it was a family member, but many times it was a good friend; occasionally, a hired driver would come when called after surgery. I made notes on the patient list of the name of their designated driver and a contact number for them in case they needed to leave for any reason. Since they sometimes moved around the room and didn’t stay in one place, I always wrote a note about what they were wearing or something to physically identify them. On busy days, it was easy to forget which person went with which patient.
After surgery, the doctor would come to the waiting room and ask me which person to talk to about which patient. They could take the supporter into a private room to discuss the outcome of the procedure. Most often, they stayed to report quietly that the surgery was successful and left it at that. Friends and relatives were invited to go to the recovery area to be with a patient as they came out of anesthesia. When fully awake, the patient was escorted through the back door to the vehicle with their driver. I never saw them leave.
Most surgeries were scheduled for mornings. I worked from 5:00 am to noon. Surgeries didn’t begin until 6:00 am. Some people drove an hour or two to get to the surgery center. During my shift, I could welcome from six to two dozen patients, depending on the type of surgeries scheduled. After the patient was taken to surgery, their drivers/supporters would sometimes take a nap in the comfortable seats at the edge of the room. I gave out pillows and warm blankets for supporters who needed rest or comfort.
Part of my job was to manage the waiting room, which included keeping the coffee station supplied with coffee and tea, cream and sugar. There were strict rules about no food. All surgery patients were required to fast before surgery, so it was rude for people sitting in the room to eat breakfast, sandwiches, or snacks. If a child needed snacks, I asked the mother or father to take them into the hall just outside the room, where there were benches and chairs. Kids ate out there without disturbing patients who were fasting. On occasion, adults would go out for fast food and bring it back to sit in the hall area to eat.
Often family members exhibited anxiety when their person was in surgery, and they asked me questions about a procedure. I tried to be a calm, positive energy in the waiting room. I made sure they knew I was not a medical staff member and could not answer medical questions, but I could sit and listen to their concerns and even ask a nurse or technician a question if they needed an answer.
These notes are a sample of one day in the surgery center:
On this particular day, patients had strangely similar names: Carl, Carla, Carlos (2), Karlie, Charlie, Charles, Carol, and Charlene. I did meet one James and one Denise.
An eighty-four-year-old woman came in with her son, who was in his sixties. He was having shoulder surgery. He was a drywall contractor and hadn’t been able to work because of a shoulder injury. The woman, visibly anxious and shaking, confided to me that she was afraid to take him back home. He had been a street person for several years and only returned to live with her because he couldn’t find work. She said he was an angry man, sometimes on drugs, but all the time angry and she was afraid he might hurt her. He had repeatedly threatened her. She had called the police on him once, which only made him madder. I called the head nurse to talk with the woman. The nurse and a social worker took her into a private room to see if they could arrange an alternative for the man, so he didn’t go back to his mother’s house. Of course, I left at noon and didn’t learn the outcome of the situation. I just said a prayer for the lady and her son.
A woman in her thirties came in with her hand wrapped in a big bandage. She said she was a professional dog trainer and had worked with all breeds of dogs all over the world to train them as medical helpers or for security duties. She told me a dog bit her hand and broke most of the bones. She said it wasn’t the dog’s fault. She knew better than to try to separate two fighting dogs. One of them clamped down on her hand. She removed the bandage and showed me the injury. It was a mangled mess. The doctors were going to try to put it back together so she could have use of it again. They were confident they could help her.
A teen came in with her mother. When the nurse took her back for surgery, her mother told me the girl was a rape victim. She had tried to commit suicide, and the fetus was aborted in the attempt. I don’t know what kind of surgery the doctors were going to do.
An elderly man came in for a procedure. When I checked him in, I noted that he had a beautiful cane — a real work of art, carved and polished to a high shine. He told me it was made from the root of a jungle tree from his home country in Central America. He was very proud of it.
A man in his fifties came in with his wife. After he went into surgery, his wife told me their adult son was schizophrenic and was living with them. She said her in-laws moved in recently too. Their adult daughter was coming back to live at home in a day or two. She was glad to get out of the house, even if it was to the surgery center.
A young man came in with his girlfriend pushing his wheelchair. He had no legs and only one arm. He was there for shoulder surgery. He was an Iraq War veteran who lost his limbs in a roadside bomb. He feared losing the use of his one remaining limb, so he was very nervous. After he was taken back for surgery, I spoke a bit to his girlfriend. I told her I could not imagine how challenging it must be to care for someone who was so disabled. She said they had been together since high school. From her wallet, she took out a picture of him before he left for war. I saw a photo of a tall, handsome young man with a beautiful, strong body proudly standing in his Marine uniform. His girlfriend had tears in her eyes and said, “I was meant to be with him. I couldn’t be anywhere else.”
Over the years, I noticed something similar among Hispanic patients. They were always surrounded by a large group of family and friends, and frequently a priest, sometimes ten people – several adults as well as children collected in one part of the waiting room, often taking a lot of space. They were respectful of others; the children were well-behaved. They spoke in Spanish while waiting for their loved one; a quiet hum with an occasional burst of laughter. I was touched by the strength of their united support.
Another family, not Hispanic, appeared to be just as close when they came in with a young woman. Her boyfriend, father, and mother walked with her all the way into the prep center. When the family came back to the waiting room, they hovered near the door. It seemed they were ready to dash in if she needed them. Much to the relief of her family, the surgery was short, and she was released within an hour.
One woman, in her thirties, came in for breast augmentation. As she waited alone, she told me six people in her family died less than two weeks ago – both her parents, her in-laws, plus her brother and brother-in-law. She didn’t disclose how they died, but it sounded like they were all together, so I assumed it was some kind of accident. They had lived on the East Coast. Two traumatized children of the family had arrived from Boston the day before to stay with her. She gave me the number of a friend who would come pick her up when her procedure finished.
An eighty-nine-year-old woman came in with an attendant, Joe, from a local retirement center. She said her husband died seven years ago. She said the food was terrible and the service was worse, not at all like the resort atmosphere portrayed on TV about retirement centers. She said the therapy sessions at the rehab were pretty good and they mostly left her alone to heal. She had been a professor of anatomy and physiology at the University of Illinois until she retired nearly forty years ago.
A mother came into the surgery center with her son. He came to my desk to check in. When I looked up, I saw an angel. He was slender, about 5’5”. He had the most beautiful face like the angels in a Raphael painting – bright blue eyes framed by long dark lashes, clear, smooth porcelain skin, full lips, and a killer smile. A small, neatly trimmed dark beard ran along his jawline. I took his driver’s ID, which was vertical, not horizontal, indicating a minor – he was 17. He and his mom sat in a corner of the waiting room. When he was called back for prep, I looked over at her. She was crying. I went to her to ask if she wanted some water, coffee, a warm blanket, or what I could do to help. She asked me to sit with her. Between sobs, she took my hand and looked at me intently.
“This has been the worst year of my life. It is worse than any hell I can imagine,” she said.
“I’m so sorry. I hope your son is helped by this procedure.” I was totally in the dark about his surgery.
“That is my daughter,” she said. A new round of sobs escaped her.
I sat silently, trying to process what she said.
“My daughter decided she wanted to be a man last year. We took her to therapy and doctor after doctor, but she insisted she was a man in a woman’s body. She has gone through months of chemical, hormonal therapy to give her the outward appearance of a man. She is here for a mastectomy to cut off her breasts. That is the first of the surgeries meant to permanently transform her.”
She paused, trying to collect herself. I brought her some water.
“I have a son at home,” she continued. “He is only six, and he is so confused by what has been happening. It’s impossible to explain to a six-year-old. My husband is my son’s father, and he is also my rock. My daughter’s father hasn’t been in her life since she was three when we divorced. I raised her as a single parent for five years before I remarried.”
I was speechless. I could feel the anguish of this mother as she watched her child go through a radical transformation and her uncertainty about her child’s future. Since the child was a minor, the mother had to consent to the procedures. The woman told me they tried everything to urge her daughter to wait for a few years. She said her daughter was adamant, clearly stating an intention to live an authentic life. The child threatened suicide and even made an attempt, so they chose to give permission rather than see her die.
The mother’s story stands out in my mind. All I knew of her child was a face at my desk and a vertical driver’s license. I can only hope that there is healing, both physical and emotional, in that family.
Every week brought stories of people we may pass daily yet not really see. My short interactions with these individuals reminded me how little we know of the burdens carried by people around us. For a few hours, our lives intersected. I will never know the outcome of any of those stories. Many of them remain in my memory, and some are still in my prayers.
