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Whenever my husband Ralph is admitted into the hospital, those of us who take care of him go a little crazy. And Ralph’s current visit to Oakland Kaiser has almost done us in. Now in his forty-second day in Room 335 of the intensive care unit, we are growing cranky and impatient. 

Ralph wants to go home. Although he cannot speak or move any part of his body except for his head and neck, he has very clearly indicated that he wants out of ICU. Everyday when I arrive at his bedside he confronts me silently with the same question, “When can I go home?”  

“I don’t know,” I answer. “You have to get better. You can’t come home on a ventilator because we won’t be able to take care of you. You must be patient.” 

But none of us is patient, and with each day we grow crabbier. 

Three of us share in the responsibilities of looking after Ralph. One of those people lives in our home and the other resides down the street. The tasks involved in keeping Ralph alive are intimate, awkward, and not always pleasant. It takes a special person to help with Ralph’s care, someone who is empathetic and practical, strong mentally and physically. It helps to have a sense of humor. We have been lucky these past 10 years to have been surrounded by many compassionate, down to earth, streetwise caregivers. 

But no one is without fault and when Ralph goes into the hospital for a long stay, as he seems to do regularly these days, those of us left back home on Dover Street tend to fall apart. Although we are of different ethnicities, social and educational backgrounds we all exhibit signs of worry and stress. The individual who has been our focus of attention is gone. We are without direction, purpose, or a schedule. We become slovenly and lazy, but just beneath the surface we are anxious and depressed. 

We all worry about Ralph, how he is faring in the hospital and how we will deal with his infirmities if and when he comes home. We fret about money. This is something we stress over even when Ralph is at home, but when he is in intensive care the worries intensify.  

We may share emotions but we’ve all got our own coping mechanisms. I become angry and I take that anger out on many things: dishes, glassware, weeds in the garden, our dog and the Kaiser bureaucracy. When Ralph’s tracheotomy was postponed for a second time in a week, though we’d been told it was imperative that it be completed as soon as possible, I went ballistic. And I got some results: A gap in the schedule suddenly appeared and the operation was performed in a timely manner. When we found out there was a VCR available for Ralph’s use, I went crazy looking for it, and when no one could locate it, I purchased one and set it up in his room. That got us some attention: a resounding reprimand from the nursing staff and engineering department. Miraculously, the lost hospital-issued VCR was found and became available to us.  

The people who help me take care of Ralph vent their stresses in other ways. While I sometimes have a drink or two to let off steam, Ralph’s caregivers seek out a different, not-so-legal kind of high. I can purchase my drug of choice at a liquor store on almost any corner in my neighborhood. They can buy their high on the corner too, but it’s not without risk. And that is why while I am able to continue to pay my bills and go to and from Ralph’s hospital room freely, one of our employees is sick and destitute, and the other is in jail. “Why don’t you try anger and alcohol?” I ask. “One is free, the other is cheap and both are legal.”  

“You’ll never understand,” they say from their bed and jail cell. And yet, in some ways, I think I do.