Small Acts

3AM. Night 8 of my daughter’s hospitalization for new onset headache. Status migrainosus, by its official name.

“Here’s a summary of all the doses she’s had so far.” 

I accepted the blue sticky note from the nursing student with a groggy thank you. Sometime earlier in the night – was it only just an hour before? – I had wondered aloud with her and my daughter’s night nurse if the dosing already given of an intravenous medication was sufficient. The side effects were nasty. Maybe it was time to stop the brutal med. Had she reached the maximum of 12mg? A short time later I was presented with a gift in response to my informal query: a three inch square of information. 

No, there was more to this gift than information. There was the timeliness of  its delivery, the caring and quiet manner in which the young nurse had tracked down what I needed and handed it to me. There was kindness. The young woman knew this data was important to me. She understood, without my saying so, that I had no chance of sleep, despite my feigned effort of closed eyes. In the dim light of the heart monitor, she handed me the sticky note with a certain reverence.

We all know that health care is not just expertise and efficiency. Those characteristics of care are important, to be sure. But they are insufficient – at least from the perspective of the person and family receiving the care. The simplicity of basic human interaction and the gentleness associated with gestures of thoughtful kindness are as much a part of healing as the decision-making behind and promptness of the medical interventions.

Intentionality is key. It is spontaneous, natural. It helps a person feel witnessed, seen.

Hospitals are busy places. Gone are the days when people stay long enough in them to recover strength, energy, and purpose.  Patients are hospitalized just enough days for diagnosis and stabilization. The goal is discharge, from the moment of admission. This isn’t necessarily bad; hospitals are places where drug-resistant bacteria loiter and medication mistakes may manifest. Improvement systems and safety checks are implemented to minimize risks. But the risks are there because the acuity of patient conditions is significantly higher than in years past. Hospitals are to be avoided, if possible. Once in one, a person and family do well to seek the sanctity of home.

It’s been years, decades even, since I’ve spent so much time in a busy hospital. Sure, when I was a hospital administrator, I walked the halls of a different hospital daily, visiting the inpatient units as much as possible. Not since my residency training, however, have I spent so many continuous hours inside one of those units. Never have I spent so many continuous hours inside a single patient room. 

And never have I been so reminded of the crucial importance of the kindness of strangers. 

It was all around us. The nurses were busy; that didn’t stop them from showing an interest in my daughter, my wife, and me. The support staff on the unit, the people working at the various administrative desks, the physician staff, the residents, even employees working in food service and the lobby Starbucks – they made a difference through the smallest of smiles, hellos, nods, and recognitions. They all made an invaluable contribution to my daughter’s treatment and our family’s recovery.

“You’re here all the time!” I said to the young barista at the hospital lobby Starbucks. A string of unlit holiday lights was wrapped about her hair.

“It’s fun!” she replied.

“Well, we’re getting out of here today,” I quietly shared. “I hope I don’t have to see you again.”

“Come on by when you’re next here,” she said. “Visiting. As part of the follow-up.”

We definitely will. We may even stop by to say hello and thank you to that nursing student and some of the other people who gave more of themselves than protocols and best practices demand. They saw us when we needed to be seen. We saw them too. 

Small acts of kindness. Intentionally offered. They can change the world.