The nurse’s comments got me thinking about
the essence of advocacy.
“Wow.
You really know a lot of people,” she said, as she directed my husband,
still in his hospital bed thirty hours after bypass surgery,
from the surgical intensive care unit to the cardiac surveillance unit
one floor up. She and her partner
had transfered the oxygen to a portable unit, hooked the IV bags to a pole
attached to the bed post, and tucked the tubes feeding the fluid bags away from
the floor. I nestled his
small black bag at the end of the bed, and found room in my own tote for the electronics. On the way out of the
room, I saluted the nurses at the station with a wave and a general thank
you. Their shift would end in an
hour or so, and I wouldn’t see them again. A small part of me was sorry to leave this group of dedicated professionals who had taken such extraordinary care of my husband. Passing by
the other rooms, I spied nurse Ryan attending to another patient. He had been there the day before, surgery day, and I called out his name as I waved. As we moved toward the exit, a person I didn’t know waved
good-bye from the last room.
We didn’t really “know” these people, not
in the deep, complicit way you would know a family member, a friend, or a
co-worker, their mannerisms, gifts, or idiosyncracies. We had met, them, though, and, yes, we
had taken the time to chat with them.
Elmer’s recovery was in their hands, and we meant to let them know we expected only the very best care. The nurse’s comments reminded me that
inasmuch as our conversations were sincere, they were also intentional. They enabled us to advocate
for Elmer and for ourselves.
As I mulled over the concept, I came to
understand that our advocacy took other forms as well.
We were present. For the
surgery day, as well as the day before and after, the children and I made
ourselves comfortable in the unit waiting rooms. We had books, board games, drinks, and food, and we were
ready for the long haul.
Someone was with Elmer for every moment the rules allowed.
We respected
protocol. If the rules said
only two visitors, we went two at a time.
When I stayed through the night on surgery day, the rules said one hour
in the room and two hours away. No
problem. We were there to support
Elmer, not to get in the way of the staff doing their job. (Today, in fact, the Saskatchewan
government announced that, by Christmas, patients’ families will be able to
visit at any time!)
We smiled
and laughed a lot. In
that way, we supported each other and Elmer through a tense time. He said afterward that our upbeat
attitude helped him manage the stress.
Maybe it helped the staff
feel comfortable as well. At the very least, it took the edge off.
We engaged
with the staff. We wanted
them to know that we honored their work and the expertise and experience they
brought to it. Conversation was our tool, and the staff
took the time to reciprocate.
We asked
questions—about their work and families, about the procedures, about
Elmer’s progress, about timelines and prognosis. As Elmer regained his strength, he, too, chatted up the
staff about their countries of origin, their experiences, and their interests.
We said
Thank You. On the first day, I
mentioned to nurse Ruth how much I appreciated the timely flow of
information. She anticipated the details we would need and the moment they would be most valuable. As a result, we didn’t have to pull teeth to find out what was happening. At those words, she stopped for a
second. A smile transformed her
face, and she glowed. I wondered
how such ordinary words could have such a dramatic effect. But then, as a teacher, I know how much
any recognition of my efforts meant to me in my work.
What we had done, it became clear, was
advocate through our actions, not our words. One smile, one hello, one good morning, one
story, one laugh, one remark at a time, we had communicated positive energy
that buoyed not only ourselves and Elmer, but Elmer’s caregivers as well.
Actions unleash forces that either enhance
our experience or make events we face more difficult. Small, incremental gestures colour how people respond to
us. Whether we are intentional
about those actions or whether we are oblivious to their effect, they impact
the events of our lives. Much
better, then, to be conscious of the power of our actions in situations over
which we might not have a lot of control.
As the Chinese the poet Lao Tzu writes in a
text I found just this morning, “[The
Wise Man] teaches not by speech but by accomplishment.” Actions convey messages, and those
messages have power. Best,
then, to make them positive and intentional, and watch them, say, help someone recover from surgery or
sustain his family or lighten the load of his caregivers.
A dragonfly swoops into the patio,
