The Gift of Hearos

(Before we begin, let me assure you that the word "Hearos" in the title both is and is not a typo. Explanation to follow.)

Last Tuesday (the day of my surgery) and the following Wednesday were two of the most miserable days I have ever spent. I don't blame the hospital or my care-givers this, but that's the case. It went like this:

In those 48 hours, my only food intake was two small forkfuls of scrambled eggs and an equal amount of gelatin. I simply couldn't interest my body in eating the food it was craving. I was woozy and exhausted from the surgery and the variety of drugs administered before, during, and afterwards. I was pinned to my bed by the saline drip coming into my right arm and the two drains installed in the left side of my neck. I desperately needed sleep, but was continually awakened by medical staff and passers-by in the hallway who seemed to have forgotten that there were sick people nearby. (My roommate turned on his television, until he determined it was a problem for me, and then switched to earphones. God bless him...)

In short, I was hungry and couldn't eat. I wanted to get up and move around for old time's sake and couldn't budge. I wanted to sleep but was continually reawakened with testing for vital signs, questions about how I felt and chatter from the hallway.

Things finally calmed down after midnight. There was silence from the hallway and a greatly reduced traffic through the room. At this point, though, the most exasperating and unexpected annoyance came into play: my automated drip-control machine. This device deliverdd a controlled amount of saline solution and dextrose plus whatever antibiotics and/or steroids my care called for at the time. Down out of the hanging plastic bags, through the machine, then into my arm. You've seen this on medical TV shows, right?

The machine had a ten-second cycle of "whirrr....click" on and on through the night -- thereby assuring that I would not get any sleep at all. During the day, the machine's noise had been masked by all the other noises going on, but now in the relative peace and quiet, its monotonous "whirrr....click" song seemed to get louder as the night wore on.

Now, I'm into ear plugs in a big way. Never travel without them and even use them for sleeping at home. But the foam-style plugs that I brought with me didn't baffle any of the "whirrr....click" noise in the slightest. Wrong acoustic frequency, I suppose. Knowing this, I had called Deb earlier that evening and asked her to purchase and bring over some Flent's Ear Stopples -- the ultimate in noise blocking ear plugs -- which I had always felt would shut out the sound of an F-18 fighter plane taking off. But the Flent's Ear Stopples did not reduce the "whirrr....click" noise at all either. Didn't touch it.

This infernal machine was located maybe two feet from my head and, consequently, two feet from my uselessly plugged ears. I found myself counting "whirrr....click's." I started timing the cadence. I began examining the machine's control panel and asking myself "would I survive until the morning if I just turned this off for a few hours and didn't tell anyone?" (I decided against pursuing this idea -- but it was tempting...)

The control panel had a "Silence" button. I took a chance and pressed it. The machine responded with yet another "whirrr....click." I asked the night nurse if there was a trick to silencing the "whirrr....click" using the button. She seemed surprised: "Oh, goodness no. That button only turns off the alarm. It doesn't affect the 'whirrr....click' at all." Silly me.

(Two things to note at this point in the narrative. First, dear reader, do not expect to get any rest in a hospital bed. It might happen. Eventually. But get yourself fully rested before you're scheduled for a hospital stay. And feel free to write and thank me for this advice when you get home!! Second, I was later told that the steroids that I was taking intravenously tend to make one more jittery and sensitive than normal. And maybe this was a large part of my problem with the "whirrr....click" machine. I hope never to be able to test this theory, as I hope never to meet another "whirrr....click" machine in this lifetime or any other.)

Around 4:00 AM, I asked the nurse if she could push the machine around the corner towards the bathroom by stretching out the tubes that connected the machine to my arm. Get it away from my head. And ears. She said of course she could -- and then did so. She then wrapped a towel around the machine which -- will wonders never cease? -- silenced the "whirrr....click"!! The silence was complete and oh-so-welcome. And oh-so-short. Along about 6:00 AM, the day's regular routine started up again and the chance for an extended sleep was gone.

A remarkable number of people that next day decided that the door to my room needed to be open for a remarkable number of reasons. My roommate's bed had some sort of problem, and there were maintenance guys lifting things and pounding things and climbing ladders and comparing notes about what was wrong with the bed. Nurses and doctors drifted in and out -- and several of them woke me up to introduce themselves. Meals that I couldn't bear looking at were delivered and taken away. A hospital volunteer woke me to ask if I wanted a newspaper to read -- and how was my stay going? A lady with a clipboard stopped in to ask if I wanted to continue my television service. (I said no.) I signed papers that were thrust in front of me. I have no idea what the papers were about, but I hoped that by signing away anything or everything I own that I might be left alone for a couple of hours' rest. It didn't work.

For hours, I kept pressing my "Nurse Call" button and asking whoever answered to please come and close the door. Again. Please. Soemone always came and closed the door, but someone else would show up 10 minutes later, do something in the room and leave without shutting the door behind them. Again. This may be hospital regulations. I don't know.

Once when calling yet again to have the door closed, the nurse asked if was there a problem. I nearly sobbed as I said, "Please, I'm just trying to get a little sleep here."

Okay, here come the Hearos.

My roommate was visited often by (I guess) his wife, and the two of them were as thoughtful as one could possibly hope for. Like Deb, she had focused her day on taking care of her husband and doing whatever she could to make him comfortable. Like Deb, this involved staying for an hour or so, then leaving, then coming back a few hours later.

Some time after my sobbing plea to the nurse, my roommate's wife came back into the room after running a few errands. And she stopped by my bed just long enough to drop off a package of ear plugs. Ear plugs!! The package had 14 pairs of ear plugs. Brand name? Hearos. She dropped them off and gave me this wonderful look of compassion, as if to say: "I know you're hurting, and I wish I could do more. But I hope these help."

Between that time and my discharge from the hospital there were other challenges and difficulties, but somehow, the edge had been taken off. The world had become a softer, gentler place. I kept looking at my package of Hearos -- and relaxing a bit more.

Now it's understood that the lady's Hearo ear plugs were no better at stopping sound than the pairs I had brought or the Ear Stopples that Deb had purchased for me. But that didn't matter in the slightest. What mattered was that another human being -- one with whom I had no previous dealings and who didn't owe me anything -- had heard my distress and had taken it on herself to do something about it.

Dear friends, it's the small kindnesses we offer to each other that can mean so much -- and it may not be given to you to know just how much. So when you have a chance to offer such a kindness, please don't let the opportunity slide by. Do the kind thing. It's what makes us truly human.